Naughty, and all too eager, she queried from behind him, "Would you like me to tend that for you?"
Why was she doing this? Didn't she realize that he couldn't start up with her again? There was nothing he would love more than to revel in the type of luscious, delectable, and raucous couplings they'd engaged in before they'd been discovered. Yet he couldn't let down his guard, even for a second, because she would work her way into his life when he'd worked so laboriously to insure she was gone.
She was not only a noblewoman, but one of independent means, so—more than ever before—they had no future. For her to dangle herself before him as a kind of sensual prize was cruel and callous. He honestly could not survive a similar tragic interlude, Couldn't abide another spiral to ecstasy that would invariably end in adversity and strife.
"Elizabeth, stop it," he said, staring out the window at the verdant colors in the garden.
"Stop what?"
"Desist with these games."
After a subtle pause, she said, "I'm not playing games."
"Don't pretend; it doesn't become you." He whipped around then, his regard hot and turbulent. Once, he'd been idiotic enough to embark on an affair with her, but he'd suffered severely because of it. How much trauma should he be expected to endure? There was only so much agony and torment one man could bear, and assuredly, he was far past those limits.
"I did everything for you," he bleakly proclaimed.
"I understand that now."
"Yet you toy with me, displaying yourself and taunting me with bits and pieces of what can never be."
"That's not why I'm here."
"Isn't it?" Scathingly, he evaluated her. "Look at you! Sitting there, mocking and teasing me, practically begging me to compromise you, when you know how it will conclude. How many times will you insist that I go through this with you?"
"As many times as it takes."
'Takes to what?" he inquired in a near shout.
"For you to get it through your thick head why I'm here."
"And why is that? To thank me for the money? You already did. To plead with me to have sex with you? I won't." Thoroughly exasperated, he threw his arms up in the air. "What other reason could possibly make you debase yourself so completely?"
"Because... I love you."
"Love! Right!" He waved away her declaration as though it was a noxious odor. "There's no such thing."
"I used to think the same ... until I met you."
Then deliberately ... cautiously ... she extended her hand, beseeching him to grasp it, and it hovered there like a lifeline. She was urging him to save himself, to grab hold and obtain all he'd ever wanted, but he couldn't seize the extraordinary destiny that beckoned at the tips of her fingers.
He was too afraid that her proposal was an illusion, that if he attempted to reach for contentment, her overture would vanish like smoke. He didn't believe in fantasies. Strong emotion never lasted. It was naught but a substitute that masked other, genuine sentiments. Lust or avarice, perhaps. Love was a chimera, espoused by poets to dazzle and mystify the romantically inclined.
Her entreaty was a ruse intended to lure him back into the untenable situation in which they'd been previously enmeshed. How could it be more?
She'd had ample chances to cast her lot with his and hadn't risked it Her upbringing guaranteed that she would perpetually lack the volition for commitment so he would not brave all, could not open his heart only to have his hopes dashed.
"Take my hand, Gabriel." She was peering up at him with affection and empathy, as if she could distinguish the conflicting introspection that had paralyzed him.
"I can't."
"You can," she contended, so damned sure of herself. "I know what you need. No one else does. Only me."
"And what would that be?" he disdainfully asked.
"You need a family of your own. A houseful of children."
Gad, children! How could she be so merciless as to mention the prospect? The concept was so appealing that he felt he could hear their happy chatter, the patter of their tiny feet, that he could see the little blighters wrestling and roughhousing on the floor.
"Children!" he scoffed. "As if I'd have any idea of what to do with them."
"You be a wonderful father. I have no doubt."
"Anything else, Elizabeth?" He was more testy by the second.
"Yes, as a matter of fact."
She tarried—purposely, he was positive—until she had him chafing as to her next comment. Her ploy succeeded.
"What?" he barked.
"You need a wife who loves you. Who will support you in your career and care for you all your days." She shifted up off the pillows so that she could stretch her hand even nearer. "Let me be your wife, Gabriel."
"You want to marry me?" His astonishment was so great that his knees collapsed, and he snatched at a chair, stabilizing himself and sliding into it.
"Of course I do, you ridiculous man. Don't look so surprised."
Totally confused, he struggled to steady his breathing and calm his thundering pulse.
"You don't mean it," he ultimately muttered.
"Do you think I'm in the habit of degrading myself in this fashion? That I enjoy proposing to an obstinate lout who will never get off his duff and proffer marriage on his own?" Himself, obviously. "It recently occurred to me that if I was idiotic enough to pine away, hoping you would eventually pop the question, I was going to have a very lengthy wait. Probably into my old age and beyond!"
His ruminations were in such a jumble that he couldn't reply, and she grew tired of the delay, "This is where you're supposed to chime in, Gabriel. Feel free."
He massaged his palms over his face, fretting, vexed.
Was she sincere?
She waited, then waited some more, for some small gesture or affirmation that would indicate he was of like mind, but he couldn't provide reassurance. His reflections were too disordered, his puzzlement too ripe.
Finally, she drew her hand away, and her ebullience faded.
"Unless I was wrong," she said quietly. "Perhaps you're not jumping in because you don't have anything to say." Her sense of expectation had been acute, and now that it had been snuffed out, it seemed like a tangible object he'd crushed in his fist, but maddeningly, he stayed silent Her disappointment flowed across the distance dividing them, washing over him and making him ashamed.
What a coward he was!
"I had thought that—" She halted, exhaled a heavy sigh. "I guess it doesn't matter."
She started to rise, and the fear that she might walk out and never come back smothered the misgivings that had kept him immobilized.
Frantically, he reached out, groping blindly, and found her hand, squeezing till he worried that he might snap bone. There was one way to learn if her solicitation was bona fide, one way to box her into a corner from which she couldn't retreat If she wasn't serious, he'd have his answer momentarily.
"Will you marry me, Elizabeth Harcourt?"
"Yes, I will."
Just like that! She'd agreed! No vacillation. No timidity. No indecision.
"Tomorrow?" he pressed.
"Or the next day, if we can't arrange the special license by morning."
Delighted, wary, he dared a tentative smile.
"I'm not an easy man," he pointed out, his voice rough with pent-up emotion.
She chortled. "So I've gathered!"
"You'll have trouble putting up with me."
"I will." She leaned closer and gibed, "Daily."
“I'm driven, passionate about my work. You might not see me for days—or nights—on end. I rant and rave. I'm spoiled and set in my routines."
"You're absolutely correct: You can be a beast."
He had the distinct impression that she was laughing at him. "I'm not joking,
bella.
I'm not like anyone you've ever met. In the best of circumstances, I'm difficult to tolerate. When I'm painting, or in a mood, well—"
"I'll try not to forget your eccentricities."
"What about your father?”
"What about him?”
"He won't be happy."
"I don't imagine he will." She gave an unreadable chuckle.
"He doesn't like me."
"Well, he's not the one marrying you, is he?"
"He'll cut you off. Personally and financially. He might never speak to you again."
"His loss," she airily remarked, then she laid her wrist to her brow and wailed sarcastically, "I'll never see Charlotte, either. Oh, woe is me!"
"You say that now but—"
She swung around and planted her feet on the floor, jabbing a finger at his chest "If you're endeavoring to scare me off, Gabriel Cristofore, you can't. So stop trying."
He studied her appraisingly, men nodded. "I love you."
"Of course you do."
"I always have."
"If I'd ever believed otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
She was so confident, and her optimism was contagious. Perhaps he was a fool, and he'd end up crushed, brokenhearted, and alone, but her sanguinity conferred hope. He simply wanted what she was offering too much to toss it away.
Abashed, rueful, he grumbled, "I'm not much of a catch."
Her ravishing smile lit up the room. "Well, I am."
"I know."
"I have many redeeming qualities,"
"You certainly do."
"They complement yours."
"Aye."
"I'm placid while you're gregarious, serene while you're charismatic, unruffled while you're obsessive."
"Composed to strident."
"Tranquil to tempestuous."
"Don't forget beautiful," he added. "And sexy."
"I'm filthy rich, too."
"Exactly my type!" He assessed her fantastic anatomy, her exquisite countenance, and she glowed under his ardent examination. "You're everything I've ever wanted. And so much more."
"Lucky. You."
She opened her arms and welcomed him home.
THE END