"When I saw this drawing, it felt like, that is, it appeared as if you'd given it the same attention and care you had done your other drawings."
He nodded.
"When I look at it, it gives me hope. Dare I hope that the love with which you create your drawings could mean-"
He put a finger to her lips. "I'm going to stop you there. I know what you're asking me, what you're asking of me." He shook his head. "Know that whatever I have is yours. I can buy you any pretty bauble your heart desires. I can fund any charity you find." He gripped her arms and looked into her eyes. "I can love you with my body. Harriet, if I had a heart to give, it would be yours. I wish that was enough to make you happy."
Her heart crumbled to dust inside her chest. She closed her eyes briefly. "I wish it was, too." With that she turned and left him.
What was she supposed to do now?
…
Damnation!
The look on her face was enough to … what? Make him change his mind? Hell, he would love her if he thought it was at all possible.
She might not think what they had was enough for her, but he'd prove her wrong. Every time he touched her he nearly forgot all of it-the poverty, his father's betrayal, the accident, his damned leg. Being near her did that to him, for him. Certainly he could provide the same for her.
Passion might not be the same thing as love, but in the midst of it, perhaps it would ease the ache of her wanting more from him. Wanting something he couldn't give her.
What he could give her was enough. He'd show her that.
He stepped into the hall and heard the unmistakable sound of the pump room. Someone was using the shower.
With determined steps, he made his way to the room he'd designed much like a miniature Roman bath.
The sound of her muffled sobs nearly did him in. Water poured over her, washing away her tears. He couldn't comfort her if his life depended on it, but he could make her forget. He made quick work of removing his clothes and stepped onto the marbled floor.
Her back was to him. Her curves beckoned him, a ship to a lighthouse. The smoothness of her back, the indention of her waist and her perfectly round ass that begged for him to bite it. His erection grew even harder. His want for her nearly stole his breath. She'd unpinned her hair and a cascade of blond corkscrews fell down to her waist. She tilted her head up to the water spray that came from above her, and the sound of her crying melted into the water.
He moved to her then, wrapping one arm around her, across her magnificent breasts, the other lower, so his hand could splay across her stomach.
She gasped at his unexpected touch but said nothing.
He pressed his erection against her. He couldn't say the words she longed to hear, but he could make assurances that she never doubted how much he wanted her. His mouth met her shoulder, her neck, and spread kisses over her. The water came at them from every direction. He was thankful he'd thought to include benches in the design. He cursed his broken body and the fact that he couldn't take her here, push her up against the cold tiled wall and lose himself inside her. But he couldn't hold his own weight up very long without his cane; holding hers, too, would be an impossibility.
For now, though, he could ignore the pain in his leg to hold her a little longer. To enjoy the way her lush curves pressed against him. He kissed her ear, her jaw, moved to her cheek and then her temple, doing his best to kiss away her tears.
He said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He'd wanted her and forced her to marry him and then told her, in no uncertain terms, that he'd never be able to love her. The worst of it, though, was that he wanted her to love him. Craved it like he was lost in an opium den. He was the worst sort of bastard.
He turned her to him, lowered his lips to hers, and slashed them across. Tongues and teeth, urgency and hurt. It was all there, mingling between them. He pulled her with him to the bench and lowered himself down, straddling her atop his lap.
Her eyes, rimmed red, searched his face. He cradled one of her breasts; her breath caught, the shade of her eyes darkened.
Somewhere in the midst of the urgency, something shifted. His touch became softer, more tender. The rush dissolved as his hands explored her every curve. Their mouths explored, teased.
When he could take it no more, he lifted her and slowly lowered her onto him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and didn't move. Being inside her was heaven incarnate. As if she'd been made specifically for him, for his body.
She leaned in to him, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and she wiggled her hips, trying to satiate herself. He allowed himself to move then, to lift her up, nearly off him completely, then lower her again, impaling her onto him. She shuddered, moaned, tried to buck against him faster. He lifted her again and this time when he lowered her, he rubbed the pad of his thumb against that little nub of nerves hidden between her folds.
She cried out. "Yes, Oliver, please don't stop."
Stopping was the last thing on his mind.
She was close. She was going to come apart right here on top of him. Right here where he could see it when it happened. He'd never get enough of her.
"I love you," she whispered. Then she broke apart, her body shook as she rode out her climax. She cried out his name again and again. This time there was no shower to wash away her tears.
…
They'd spent two additional days at Brookhaven, and then returned to London. They hadn't spoken about what had happened in the shower; she secretly hoped she hadn't said it aloud, but she knew she had. She'd declared her love, and it had been as if she had done it in an empty room.
Him not reciprocating her affection didn't change anything. She did love him, painfully so. When he came to her bed, he showered her with affection and pleasure and made her hope anew that someday he'd love her in return. In the meantime, she needed to return to the life she'd left behind. Which meant the Ladies of Virtue.
She was on her way out when Oliver stepped into the corridor.
"Good morning," he said. His eyes were rimmed with darkness and his lips drawn tight. "Could I speak with you for a moment?"
Her stomach plummeted. This was it, the moment she'd known was coming. He'd grown tired of her in his bed, and now they were stuck. She nodded, gave him a weak smile, and followed him into his study.
He sat next to her on the leather sofa. "I owe you an apology," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"No, that's what I'm to say."
She smiled. "Very well, continue."
"I did not listen. When you told me you wanted to marry for love, I could see only our great passion for each other and I know that, in and of itself, is rare. So I forced your hand, took away your choice." He swallowed and shook his head. He took her hands in his. "Sweet Harriet, I am sorry I compromised you. I should have listened when you gave your answer to my proposal."
She hated that tears pricked at her eyes. "Why are you telling me this? There is naught we can do about it now. Unless you have tired of me and wish I'd return to Brookhaven alone." Merely saying the words left her feeling cold and empty. She wouldn't do it. She'd stay in London whether he wanted her or not. He'd made their bed and he'd have to endure it with her. Even if he never touched her again.
"Christ, Harriet, is that what you think I'm saying? That I regret marrying you because I no longer desire you?" He shook his head. "That will never change. I will never stop wanting you. But I fear my desire has made you miserable, and for that I am sorry. I don't regret you being my wife, only that you didn't choose me willingly." He stood. "I wanted you to know that."
"What am I to do with that knowledge, Oliver?" she asked, coming to her feet. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks, and she didn't even give a damn.
"I don't know! Leave, if you must. It is nothing more than I deserve."
She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and left the room. If she waited too much longer, she'd be too late for her meetings. In the meantime, she'd do her best to make sense of her husband's confession and hopefully know what to say to him when she returned home.
Twenty minutes later Harriet waited in the parlor at Lady Somersby's townhome. She'd been here so many times over the last few years. Being a member of the Ladies of Virtue had become her true joy, the main purpose in a life that hadn't gone as she'd expected. At five and twenty she'd thought to have been married with children long before now. But she had to do something about the Ladies of Virtue. She'd already had to compromise on her marriage; she'd be damned if she lost everything important to her. She might have had to give up her dream of having a husband who loved her in return, but she wouldn't give this up.
Lady Somersby swept into the room. "I hear congratulations are in order." She smiled brightly.