After a time, he bent forward and rested his upper body upon the bed, holding her small hand within his as he faded to sleep.
When he awoke, her fingers were in his hair, petting him softly. He raised his head and blinked at her. There was some color in her cheeks. “How do you feel?”
She stared at him, her blue eyes filled with emotion. “I love you madly, you know. Always have, even when I ran away. I came home to marry you because I couldn’t bear to see you marry another. Not again. I wanted you for myself.”
“Yes. I know. Your father had the right of it when he told me he suspected as much.”
He drew in a breath, deciding now was the time, but before he could speak another word, she whispered, “It all seems so small now, Michael, so ridiculous in the face of death and the end of it all. I realize you don’t feel the need for forgiveness, but I feel the need to give it, and there, you have it. I don’t dislike you at all, no matter that you’re an autocrat. It appears you’ll ever do wrongheaded things with the very best intentions, and I’d be an ungrateful wretch to hold it against you.” She smiled weakly. “It also occurs to me, you never had a father, not really, and perhaps what you did was an unconscious attempt to establish a kinship with Sherbourne. You clearly think much of him, and why not? He’s a marvelous man, a tremendous father. How selfish I would be not to share.”
Great God, his eyes filled with tears again. He dropped his head back to the bed and did not speak for a very long while. When finally he had his emotions under control, he looked at her, lying there, pale and wan, smiling at him with her heart in her gaze. “Ah, Jane,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded rough and raw to his ears, “it’s so like you to steal my thunder. Have you any notion how long I’ve plotted and planned the best way to tell you how very sorry I am for hurting you, and how deeply I love you? Now, here you are just from death’s door, forgiving me before I’ve asked, offering a gift of such magnitude, nothing I can offer could compare. You’re a termagant, a hoyden, and simply wonderful. I love you so, you’ve no idea.”
Her fingers were still in his hair. “I’ve some idea, but perhaps, if you work very hard, you can convince me just how much.”
He moved up to stretch out upon the bed and gather her close, holding her carefully, gently to his breast. “I will, Jane. After all, hard work—”
“—is its own reward,” she finished for him. After a while, she said, “In retrospect, that’s a singularly ridiculous statement. One doesn’t work hard but for a certain outcome to the work. Why ever would anyone work hard, simply to work, with no end of toil, no result for the effort? If I didn’t anticipate the fruits of labor, I would become like the lazy cat, fed too much smoked trout for its own good, and lie about doing nothing all day and all night.”
“Nothing, Jane?”
“Well,” she said after a moment, “I suppose I’d do something, but that can hardly be called work.” She paused. “Although in some respects, it is work to you, is it not? You’ve got the short end of it, now I think on it. Why, you’re made to be most athletic in the endeavor, while I’m merely required to enjoy myself. Hmm, I believe in future, I may need to exert myself a bit more, and take some of the strain off of you. It seems only fair and—”
“Oh, no, Jane. You may shoot your pistols and ride neck-or-nothing and extol the wonders of crossbreeding sheep, but a man has to draw the line somewhere, and this is mine. You must allow me my masculine pride.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t mind having to exert most of the effort?”
He held her a bit tighter and smiled with such happiness, with such love for her, he thought he’d fair die of it. “It’s part and parcel of what gives me such pleasure with you. Your satisfaction, and those delightful cries you make, are the fruits of my labor, and it is sweet fruit, indeed.” He stroked her lovely dark hair and sighed. “I’ll ring for breakfast now, and insist you eat every bite, that you’ll be back in good health as soon as possible.”
“So you can get back to work?”
“Hmm. That too, but I was speaking of returning to London. Yesterday, I received a letter from Wrotham. MacDougal has accepted his invitation and is expected to arrive a week from tomorrow.”
***
Sherbourne was late to bed, remaining in the library with Wrotham several hours after Miss North and her parents departed and Lucy had retired. It had been a while since he’d had a long conversation with Wrotham, and he felt he owed it to his old friend. Thus far, Wrotham had declined invitations to dinner, undoubtedly avoiding him because of his discomfiture over the scandal surrounding Jane, but perhaps also because he wished to escape Lucy’s matchmaking. She’d declared him in need of a wife and appointed herself the task of finding him one, posthaste. Wrotham was alarmed, but Sherbourne told him he may as well play along. His wife would have her way, hell or high water.