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Except there was no such thing as a marriage in everything but name. Without the blessing of the Church and the sanction of the Law, any other arrangement was illicit. He could not appear in public with her and she would have none of the rights and privileges conferred upon a spouse.

“For what it’s worth, I love you,” he said, not knowing whether it was enough to make up for everything he didn’t offer her. “And I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

She looked away. “You asked me to leave, so I have made plans. And now you change your mind and ask me to abandon my plans. How do I know you will not regret this in a few weeks, when gossip reaches everyone’s ears and your respectability tarnishes?”

“Because the tarnishing of my respectability is nothing compared to the pain of losing you,” he said. “I will deal with the consequences as they come—I can bear almost anything, as long as we are together.”

She pressed her lips together. “I really don’t want to say yes.”

His heart floated on clouds. “But you will?”

She didn’t answer directly. “You look terrible,” she said.

“Middle-aged and lonely,” he answered. “We’ve wasted ten good years.”

She was silent for an entire minute. “We have, haven’t we?” she said.

And he knew then that she’d said yes. And it scarcely mattered at all that his good name would be bandied about and laughed at all over London, perhaps all over the country. Let the gossips have their day. They could not take away his happiness.

He had to relinquish her at the end of the dance. He danced next with Mrs. Robbins, and then with his other female employees, even the youngest scullery maid who hardly came up to his middle—a few minutes of personal contact to make up for the rest of the year, during which their existence would register only most tenuously among the demands of his daily life.

And in between the dancing he ate, solidly, almost lecherously. And the hunger in his heart, too, was fed and fed well.

She also danced and ate. She was born to dance; her gracefulness made Prior’s stiff steps look fluid, and even Simmons’s duckish lead look dashing. And she flirted, not so much with Prior, the two of them maintaining the dignity of a pair of uppers but with everyone else—the footmen, the undergardeners, the groundskeepers, even the stable hands.

He kept his distance, until he’d danced once with all the women present. Then, in true genteel fashion, he made known his preference by dancing with her another time, cutting in during her second dance with Simmons. “May I?”

Simmons bowed with Elizabethan flourish and yielded his place.

“He told me that Bertie used to pay him to weasel madeleines out of me. I was just debating whether to tell him that you kept his galoshes on an altar for ten years.” She smiled, speaking in a coquettish, French-accented English, flirting with
him
now.

“And hullo yourself, Cinderella,” he murmured. “You never told me she was a flirt.”

“Oh, she’s an awful tart, that one. Messieurs Grimms almost exhausted their household’s supply of washing soda scouring her story clean.”

He chuckled. “And did the Fairy Godmother come for a visit today?”

“I wish. Then I wouldn’t have had to spend an extra hour letting out all the seams so I could get into my frock.”

“It’s a beautiful gown.”

“This ratty old rag? Why, thank you. I had it made for eating out in Paris with Bertie.”

“Sounds like it was a fun affair.”

“It was, while it lasted.”

He felt inadequate. “I’m not as much fun as Bertie.”

“Maybe not—I don’t know yet—so you’d better love me more.”

“I will.” It was an easy promise to make.

They had the floor to themselves now. The other servants watched them dance, with varying degrees of curiosity and astonishment on their faces.

“But what about Miss Bessler?” she asked.

“I will speak with Miss Bessler.”

“What changed your mind?” she asked. “Earlier you were adamant about not derailing your engagement.”

“Once I realized that I couldn’t live without you, all other things fell into their proper places.”

She glanced down a second. “Will Miss Bessler be all right?”

“I don’t know yet. But she is better off knowing everything in the open. Then she can decide for herself what she wants.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking such trouble on my behalf.”

“On our behalf.”

“Our behalf, I like the sound of it.” She gazed into his eyes. “Shall I come to your apartment tonight?”

“I wish you could. But I’ve spoken to Bumbry just now and he is readying a carriage for me. I will take the late train and go back to London tonight.”

“Why such a hurry?”

“So I may reach Lyndhurst Hall first thing tomorrow morning and—”

She stopped abruptly. It was a few seconds before they could find the beat of the music again. “I’m sorry. You said you were going to Lyndhurst Hall. What for?”

“To speak to Miss Bessler. She and her father are there as the Arlingtons’ guests—Mr. Bessler and the late duke were close friends. In fact, I’ve been invited to spend Christmas there myself, but I much prefer spending it with you.”

“Would the Dowager Duchess of Arlington let you?” she asked, her voice tight again.

It was an odd question. Then again it had been equally odd for the Dowager Duchess of Arlington to have exhibited the degree of interest she had in Verity Durant. But he did not believe that the dowager duchess would actively interfere in his private life.

Before he could reassure Verity, however, Michael cut in, and whisked her away.

Chapter Twenty-one

I
’m fine, Papa,” Lizzy said to her father.

Mr. Bessler was studying her yet again for signs of listlessness and apathy—for him, the specter of her melancholia always hovered in the background. She was ashamed to still be worrying him at her age, when she should be providing him with the comfort and joy of a daughter well settled. “Truly, I am, Papa.”

Arm in arm they climbed up the grand staircase. They were spending the week at Lyndhurst Hall and her fiancé, too, would shortly join them.

Lizzy said good night, kissed her father on the cheek, and went to her chamber. Once there, she dismissed her maid almost right away: She wanted only solitude.

Three weeks before her wedding.

She’d not seen either Stuart or Will Marsden in the past fortnight, and it should tell her something that she missed Will far, far more. Indeed, at least once a day she wanted to rush out of wherever she was, find him, and tell him that she would marry him. Right away.

But then she would doubt herself. What if she were indeed as shallow as he feared? Certainly nothing in her recent past indicated the sort of strength of character required in such a situation. And it was not only her own unhappiness she dreaded, but his—she desperately did not want to become an embittered old woman and make him miserable to the end of his days.

Someone knocked at her door. The sound startled her. She looked at the clock: five minutes past midnight. “Who is it?”

A card slid in under her door. She belted her dressing gown and went to pick it up.
Mr. Wm. Marsden
.

Her heart hammered. When had he arrived at Lyndhurst Hall? “How do I know it’s really you?”

Another card slid into the chamber. On it was written
Music hall.

She chuckled despite her nervousness. She opened the door a crack. He slipped in and carefully closed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock—an act that made her heart hammer even harder.

“What are you doing here?” she said in a whisper.

For him to visit her in her chamber at this hour—and for her to permit him entrance—was beyond scandalous. If they were discovered, her reputation would certainly fall into a richly deserved ruin.

“I’m a desperate man,” he said. “And so I’ve decided to resort to desperate tactics.”

“And?”

“And I’m going to seduce you.”

She didn’t think she’d ever been so deliciously offended in her life. “And you think that will make me marry you?”

“I don’t know. You are the most heartless woman,” he said. “If not, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that you will spend the rest of your life wishing you could shag me again.”

“Oh, my. Arrogant, aren’t we?”

“Not humble perhaps, but we speak only the unvarnished truth.”

He came up to her and, without another word, kissed her. Her head spun. Desire invaded like a horde of Mongols. She pulled away, gasping.

“Well, that was most inappropriate of you, sir.” She wasn’t going to give in so easily.

“Really? Then perhaps you’ll like this better.”

He kissed her again and, as he did so, untied her dressing robe and pushed it off her person. She again pulled away and mock-sputtered. “Sir, have you no shame?”

“None at all,” he said. “Watch.”

He undid the tiny hooks on her nightgown one by one, exposing her skin in a long narrow V from throat to belly. “Now watch this,” he said, as he pulled apart the top of the nightgown, exposing her breasts in their entirety.

She stopped breathing. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and slowly exhaled, all the playfulness in his expression gone. And suddenly she was as nervous as she’d ever been. Was she ready for this, for everything it implied?

He sank to one knee in front of her. Her eyes widened. Was he going to propose to her formally? No, he pulled the sash out of her robe. He straightened and placed one end of the sash over her nipples.

“Thank you for thinking of my modesty,” she murmured.

“Say nothing of it,” he said, gazing into her eyes.

He slid the six-foot-long strip of silk across her front. The sensation was indescribable, like being licked, but cooler and smoother. She gasped. He reversed the slide of the sash, and it was that sleek, keen pleasure all over again.

“I always feel such a sense of anticipation when the orchestra tunes up before a symphonic concert,” he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

“You mean it hasn’t started yet?” she managed to say.

“No. But now we proceed to the overture.”

He lifted her and set her bottom on the bed—a bed that was almost as tall as a hedge—lifted her nightgown up by the hem, and kissed her knees and up her thighs. She instinctively clamped her legs together. But he easily pried her open and continued with his upward—inward—exploration.

“This…this is very shocking.” She knew what he intended, but she’d never experienced it, and it seemed wicked even to her rather jaded soul.

He laughed softly. “What? Have you attended only third-rate symphonic concerts in your life, Lizzy?”

And then he put his mouth on her and showed her exactly how one went about giving a first-rate sym-phonic concert. Oh, but he was clever and knowing and adaptable: Within a minute his strokes and nibbles were exactly those that gave her the most scorching pleasure.

She watched him; she couldn’t help herself. She’d never felt so exposed, and yet so queenly and worshipped. She loved what he did to her. But even more than the physical pleasure, she loved the feeling of being so at ease with someone that she could enjoy such a dreadfully intimate act.

And then she could think no more lucid thoughts, but only of what he did to her. Her eyes shut. The sensations—like warm cream poured over her—became hotter and sharper in the darkness behind her eyelids. She writhed. She bit her lower lip to keep quiet. She gripped him by the soft curls of his hair.

She crescendoed like a Beethoven symphony, the kind that roused a whole concert hall of genteelly dozing patrons in the very last minute with its cymbals and percussions.

But he did not stop. With his lips and tongue he reminded her that they were only on the overture, and much was still to come. Her second climax exploded almost right after the first one, and the third on the heel of that.

She pulled him into bed. He was hard and burning against her. But he refused to enter her. “No, it’s too risky. It was a last-minute idea—I don’t have any precautions with me.”