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Lyle’s lips twitched. “Not that day. Or at our next meetings. But in a week or so, he took me to a chophouse, and after a couple of bottles of claret, said that he wanted me to marry you.”
“That’s mad,” she said. “Even for Papa.”
“He admitted it was mad. And I laughed and dismissed the outlandish suggestion. Blamed it on the wine. I might be in London to find a wife, but I was more than capable of making my own choice.”
“And you worried that my father had sought your friendship to set you up for the match.”
“Aye, there was that, too.” His smile was rueful. “Nobody likes to feel they’ve been led by the nose.”
“You must have wondered what on earth was wrong with me.”
“Don’t rush me,” he said with a smile, his hold tightening. “And I wondered what was wrong with you, that your father tried to marry you off in such a bizarre fashion. I prepared to tell Sir John that he was barking up the wrong tree, and that he and his vibrant, clever, brave, strong daughter could go straight to Hades.”
“That didn’t stop you setting out to see me.”
His rueful expression deepened. “Och, well, then your papa produced his big guns. He showed me your picture. I took one look, and I was lost.”
She tugged her hand free and opened the case again, staring down at her face. It didn’t seem so remarkable. “This was the reason you turned up here spouting nonsense?”
He shrugged. “I looked at you and had the strangest feeling I saw my future.”
She swallowed, then swallowed again. She felt like she had a boulder stuck in her throat. Stupid to be so moved by this unlikely story, but another embarrassing bout of tears threatened. “It’s only a painting. Pigment on ivory. It mightn’t even have been a good likeness. A lot of portraits aren’t.”
“I told myself I was a fool. After all, no man falls in love with a picture.”
“Yet still you came.”
He spread his hands. “I couldn’t do anything else. I told myself that I couldn’t base the rest of my life on a pretty painting. Not to mention a fellow who I was convinced was a wee bit unbalanced, however entertaining a companion he might be. But everywhere I looked, I saw your face. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t concentrate. All entertainments palled. I was useless to man and beast.”
She smiled faintly, as her heart settled into a steady, confident beat. “I like the idea of you struck down for love.”
He touched her cheek with a tenderness she felt to her toes. “Cruel besom.” He glanced at her lips and she knew he wanted to kiss her.
She raised an unsteady hand to keep him away. “Finish your story first.”
“After a week of moping around London like a sick dog, I decided that the only cure for my humiliating disease was to see you in the flesh and prove that nothing uncanny had taken place when I saw that miniature.”
“And what happened?” she asked, praying for him to say he hadn’t been disappointed. He’d spoken lightly of falling in love, but he was yet to say the words that every inch of her soul longed to hear.
He gave her that smile that always made her silly. “You know precisely what happened. Miss Flora opened the door, and my fate was sealed.”
“Oh,” she said, too stirred up to summon anything more meaningful.
“Straightaway I saw the qualities I’d observed in the picture, the qualities your father had described. They were all there in the lassie who tried to leave me out in the rain.”
“So you thought you’d found the perfect wife.”
He burst out laughing and caught her hand. “My darling Charlotte, you’re bonny, but nobody in their right mind would call you a perfect wife.”
“Is that so?” she asked in a dangerous voice. “I’ll have you know that—”
Her scolding ended in a gasp as he lunged forward and tumbled her back against the rumpled bedding. “Now, before you fly up into the boughs, let me finish. You’re an impatient wee lass, my love.”
She regarded him with sulky displeasure, even as happiness flowed through her veins, turning the cold night to bright summer. The sheet separated their bodies, but she could feel that, like her, he was becoming interested in more than conversation. However fascinating. “It had better be good.”
“It is.” He kissed her with a thoroughness that stole her breath. When he raised his head, they were both panting. “I don’t want perfection, Charlotte. I want a wife who will stand up to me, and make me crazy with wanting her, and set me laughing with joy, and turn every day into an adventure. I doubt we’ll lead a quiet life, but by God, it will be interesting and worthwhile, and purposeful and passionate.”
“And you saw all that in a tiny picture?” she asked drily, even as her heart performed somersaults.
