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He had lied to her by omission by not telling her about the land sale and the debts. Giles pulled himself together with an effort. This was Laurel, his friend, the girl he had been estranged from for far too long, and now she was happy that they were together. She had accepted that this was not a love match, he was not deceiving her about that.
‘Giles?’ The sleepy contentment in her eyes had turned to puzzlement. He needed to keep alert because she could read him too well, even in a sensual haze. Laurel sat up, her hands on his chest, and frowned. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Guilty conscience,’ he admitted. Might as well tell the truth about something. ‘I should never have made love to you.’
And there I go with another half-truth.
‘Your stepmother is going to be furious that we sneaked off together and she will make your life miserable by nagging you about it, I have no doubt.’
‘I thought you were not happy because I had all the pleasure and you have had none.’ Laurel pushed away from him, her hands firm on his chest for a second. Giles looked down, remembering them scratched from blackberry picking, bruised from tree-climbing, muddy from fishing. Now they were the pampered hands of a lady, the lady he had tied himself to for life.
And she is tied to me, my ring will be on that finger soon enough.
‘I had my pleasure in seeing your pleasure, feeling it,’ he told her as he got to his feet and put his clothing in order.
And that at least is the truth.
It had been arousing watching Laurel come apart under his touch. There had been something more than that, although he could not put a name to the emotion.
‘Hmmm.’ She looked at him doubtfully, then smiled, a wicked twist of her lips. ‘I will have to make it up to you when we are married. But we had better get back, or at least be seen rowing about on the lake. Stepmama will not nag me, merely sigh heavily and tell me I will have to behave with decorum when I am a countess. You, of course, may receive a lecture, so be prepared to look suitably repentant.’
She does not suspect that anything is wrong.
Giles pulled on his boots and checked his neckcloth by touch. Hopefully any disorder would be put down to the exertions of rowing, not to disgracefully stripping off to gratify the curiosity of his betrothed.
He led the way down from the summer house to the boat and helped Laurel in, a certain masculine smugness counteracting the guilt. Her expression when she had looked at his naked body, the interest and the frank admiration, the curiosity that hinted at so much delightful sensual exploration, those all promised that their marriage would be satisfactory in the bedchamber at least. But there must be no more lies, no more deceit. Or, given that was probably impossible, no more than absolutely necessary.
* * *
Something was wrong with Giles. Laurel pretended not to notice as she smiled and pointed out dabchicks and water lilies and did her best to ignore the tingling along muscles she had not realised she possessed and the fizzing in her veins that was like too much champagne, only better.
There had been something in his manner that had not been quite right from the beginning. He was hiding something from her, she sensed. Once she would have teased it out of him, or demanded outright to know what it was. But this was no longer the young Giles, this was a man, and presumably his secrets were not the kind to be revealed to avoid persistent teasing or to be tricked out of him by catching him unawares. For all she knew they might be state secrets, military intelligence, or he had seen something in the course of the fighting that had made a profound impression, something he was not yet ready to speak about.
Whatever his secrets were, she had to respect them and certainly not jump to conclusions about them—she had learned her lesson about doing that all too well. But there was something else, something that had happened when he was making love to her. He was regretting having done it, she could tell. For a moment she had wondered if it was her, if he had found her not attractive enough, but the hard evidence of his arousal against her body had not changed—he had wanted her at the beginning and he still wanted her now.
Laurel hid a sudden smile: how very inconvenient for men that their desires were so evident in the fashions of the time. No doubt some vigorous rowing would allow him to have everything under control by the time they got back to the house.
Thinking was not easy with her brain befuddled by the onslaught of unfamiliar sensual pleasures. Perhaps she was analysing too much, worrying that their new-found reconciliation would be wrecked by the perils of marriage where the possibilities for misunderstandings, for hurting each other, were so great. Even so, it nagged at her. What was it that he wanted her to be to him? Would she be able to satisfy that need?
* * *
Stepmama was cool when they returned, but she seemed to accept the explanation that they had gone rowing to take advantage of the breezes on the lake. Even so, Laurel felt herself rebelling at the implied grudging approval. She was not eighteen, nor was she the spinster daughter any longer. She was old enough to know her own mind and, whatever doubts lurked in the shadowy recesses, she wanted to marry Giles.
Now.
‘We have not actually posted any of the invitations, have we, Stepmama?’
‘No. I had intended doing that tomorrow when we have checked over the list one final time with Lord Revesby. I would not like to omit anyone.’ Lady Palgrave ticked off another name on the paper by her side.
‘How long would it take to obtain a special licence?’ Laurel asked Giles.
‘Three days, provided I can find the Archbishop at Lambeth Palace. I believe he is in residence. If I have to go down to Canterbury, then two more days, perhaps.’ He kept his expression perfectly neutral, but there was laughter in his eyes and she guessed he knew exactly how she felt. ‘Or we could elope to the Border, although that is a long journey and would cause talk. A special licence would be tidier and more conventional, shall we say?’
‘A special licence?’ Lady Palgrave dropped her pen, making a large blot in the middle of the invitation list. ‘Laurel! Is there something you should be telling me?’
‘Something...? Oh, my goodness, no. It is just that I suddenly realised that I do not want to get married, I want to be married.’
‘I see. So, I am to pack my bags and take myself off to the Dower House in three days’ time, am I?’
