“I’m not your responsibility, Sherbourne, now, or ever. It doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh, but it does. Suppose you’ve conceived? If you lay with another, there will be a question of paternity. I assure you, if I have got a child on you, it will be raised by me, and no other. Have you learned nothing of me? Do you not see I place my family above all else, that any child of mine, and especially were he to be a child of yours, would bring me the greatest joy, and you couldn’t run from me, couldn’t find completion in another man’s arms without ensuring his immediate death?” He couldn’t help himself from grasping her slender shoulders and moving just behind her, pressing his belly against her back. “Lucy,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “please, God, don’t do this.” Sweet Christ, he was going to cry. He’d not done so since he buried dear Connie. “I shall die, truly.”
“Oh? Why is that, Sherbourne? Is the thought of me finding pleasure with another man’s cock inside of me bothersome to you?”
His hands squeezed her shoulders and he couldn’t stop his eyes watering. “Bothersome is far too small a word to express the depth of my anguish.” He would kill him. Whoever this man was, he would have to kill him.
“You fail to see the problem, my lord. You deny me yourself, but you would deny me all others, as well. We’ve now considered every unmarried man in London, and even some beyond, in absentia, and none have lived up to your exacting specifications. Indeed, it would appear you’ve discarded any possible match for me, and in the end, there is only you. Yet, you will not have me.”
So focused on his Lucy, her petite, feminine form, her lovely scent, her warmth beneath his hands, he forgot the humiliation of weeping and allowed a tear to roll down his cheek, unchecked. “You deserve so much more than me. I love you, Lucy, truly I do, and it’s because I love you that I won’t see you widowed again. You deserve a young man who will stay and grow old with you.”
“I deserve to be happy, and I won’t be happy without you, but I may, at least, find some outlet for my carnality in another man, and I’ve decided to begin tonight.”
He couldn’t speak. Instead, he could only force an odd sound from his constricted throat, one of pain so great, he was dizzy with it. He’d felt thus only once before in his life, and that was the day Constance died.
Her shoulders relaxed a bit and she sighed. “Ah, Sherbourne, you are a foolish man. You won’t believe that it doesn’t matter to me if I have you by my side for thirty years, or only thirty days. You won’t see what even a blind man could see, that the erotic side to our friendship is but a part of the bigger picture. You won’t trust me enough to know my own heart and mind.” At last, she turned, and slid her arms about his middle. “Does it not occur to you that I am wildly, insanely, completely, helplessly, hopelessly in love with you? That even the mere thought of another’s hands upon me is out of the question? Do you really believe I’d invite another into my bed?”
He blinked in confusion before the reality of what she’d just done smacked him in the face with the force of a slap. “Well, you are scrupulously honest. What choice do I have but to believe you?” He gathered her close, bent his head and kissed her deeply, uncaring who saw, what they thought, whether it was right, or wrong. When at last he raised his lips from hers, he mumbled, “It was the very devil of a practical joke, Luce. I may never recover. I began to cry, for God’s sake. I believe my bollocks have shriveled to prunes.”
“It occurs to me that a practical joke can sometimes be the best method of pointing out another’s decidedly ridiculous, wrong-headed notions. I’m sorry it wasn’t humorous, but I’m a novice, and didn’t know any way to go about it that would be funny. I felt I had to force the issue because I’m so impatient to begin a life with you that doesn’t require you dressing up as a matron, or attending to my pretend illness as a humpbacked, bespectacled physician. You’ll soon have to resort to climbing the ivy, or sliding down the chimney. I want you in my bed without risk to your life, Sherbourne. I want you there all the night through. I’m bereft after you leave me, and don’t wish to be without you, ever again. Besides, I wish to see if your boast of making love to me morning, noon and night is true.” She gazed up at him, expectantly. “Well?”
His arms tightened convulsively, and he clasped her to him, the thought of losing her bringing yet another prick of tears to his eyes. “Marry me, Lucy,” he murmured, heart pounding, “and I’ll try not to leave you too soon, will be a good father to William, will give you more babies and live to raise them, and love you deeply, madly, until there’s no breath left in my body.” He kissed her again, uncaring of the audience they’d gained at the other end of the terrace. Looking down into her beautiful eyes, he solemnly said, “Please, marry me. I do love you so.”