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Fool for Love

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“No one knows—Esme doesn’t know that!”

Her observation didn’t seem pertinent, but he nodded.

“You are correct. I never saw any advantage to advertising my wealth. People assumed that my uncle was making me an allowance. In fact, I supported my uncle for the past five years.”

“In that case, everything is different,” she said slowly. Her chin rose even higher in the air. “I shall inform my stepmother that I am uncompromised, and I shall tell her that I wrote the letter myself. You are right: she will immediately withdraw her demand that you marry me.”

He said nothing for a moment, just looked at her little pointed face. How could someone who looked so delicate be so intrepid? He’d met women who looked like army sergeants, and were as weak as kittens. It was oddly erotic to face a woman who looked like a kitten but had the ruthlessness of a corporal. She rose. “I shall inform her immediately. I offer my apologies, Mr. Darby.”

He didn’t bother to rise, just reached up and pulled her back down on the settee. “You are likely right,” he said. “I am infuriated—but I shall get over it.”

“That is not relevant. It would be an adequate bargain if you had need of my fortune, and I had need of your children. But there is no reason in the world why you should continue with the marriage if you have no need of a fortune. You may find a mother for Josie and Anabel as soon as the season begins, if not sooner. And then, as you say, you may bed your wife.”

“I will strike you another bargain,” he said. “My children for—”

“I have nothing to offer,” Henrietta said quietly. Her hands were clenched in her lap. “I cannot accept an offer in which you would lose so many things you hold important.”

All of a sudden her heart started thudding against her ribs. 220 Eloisa

James

His eyes had darkened again. Danger, she thought. Danger. But it was danger of a different flavor.

Darby reached out one finger, let it run down the clear plane of her forehead, the elegant nose—stopped. Stopped at her lips.

“I think,” he said, and his voice had lost its expressionless quality, “I would go mad married to you, Henrietta.”

She shivered.

His finger moved, a bit unsteadily, over the curve of her lower lip.

“Do you see what I mean?”

She gave a little gasp. The finger tipped up her chin, forced her to meet his eyes. She felt a dark shiver down her spine.

“You can’t feel that—for me,” she said rashly.

“Oh? Why not?”

The finger burned its way down her neck.

“I think you mean to say that I ought not to feel that. And indeed, I ought not.” But he leaned closer. She could smell him, a clean, male scent. Suddenly his hand left her neck and curved around the back of her head.

“You think I should not—why?”

Henrietta’s mouth was open and she spoke breathily, in a way she detested. “Because . . . Because I am lame.”

“True enough.” She was exquisite, untouched, pure. He had to leave her that way.

She was going to be his nursemaid, for God’s sake. He’d never approached a servant.

A weak defense.

She had the most beautiful lips he’d ever seen: curved and plump and begging to be kissed. In fact, the whole of her was begging to be kissed. The devil of it was that he’d just tied himself to her for a century of longing. Actually, centuries of watching his wife, his own wife, with that heightened sense of erotic desire that almost burned as it ran through his veins. Fool for Love