Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,97

of that.” And what of my proposal?

“After London,” she said, pushing his waistcoat off, “you and I shall travel to Lancashire, see this land, and speak to the people there.”

When she smoothed her hand over his clammy shirt, his privy counsellor stirred mightily.

“George, I must ask: did you tell Fitz to give me power over Artie’s affairs because you planned to offer marriage and get control anyway?”

“No. Yes—that is, I had—have—no idea whether you will say yes.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “No. I’ve said I’ll be completely honest. I’d planned to wait to ask for your hand. To give you time to take charge of your responsibilities—and they will be your responsibilities, though I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I’d hoped to have time to convince you of my love, and that our marriage would be different to your marriage with Glanford. Money will perhaps be tight while you rebuild the estate and I build the railway, but we can make our own fortune, together, as well as see to Artie’s and Ben’s futures.” He touched the warm, silky skin of her bare arms, drinking her in. “I’d planned to wait, but I learned tonight someone else intended to offer for you.”

“There are only Fitz and…oh heavens.”

Sophie howled and clapped a hand over her mouth, and his heart lifted.

“Cartwright is far richer than I am. I can’t offer you a house in town and a country estate—”

“We have a country estate, at least until Artie marries, and then I’ll persuade him to give us use of the dower house.”

Yes. She was saying yes.

Before he could kiss her, her palm flattened against his chest. “Since we are being completely honest…” She reached for a garment he hadn’t noticed and handed it to him.

“Stays.”

A husky laugh rippled out of her. “The look on your face, George—let me get scissors.”

He fingered the lumpy boning and yellowing fabric, still warm with her heat and her scent, and followed her to the table.

“Feel this.” She dragged his finger along the nubby ridge of boning.

“You must order new ones in town. Surely these are paining you.”

“It’s a reassuring discomfort.” She snipped a hole and reached into the casing, drawing out an inch of gold chain.

Gold chain…lumps…Sophie had hidden her jewels.

“I’m not entirely penniless. I know a jeweler in the East End, an old friend of my father’s. I shall visit him first thing in London.”

She moved the candle closer. Light twinkled and shimmered on one stone, and another, and then another, and a whole string of diamonds until George lost count. “These were my father’s gift on the news that I was increasing, that I had fulfilled the Clark commitment to the marriage contract. I hid them from Glanford, and later from creditors, and from the steward. Only Willa knows of them. I would keep them a secret from Fitz, as well.”

“Whatever you wish. They are yours.”

“There are two more strands like this one. I separated the chains when I hid them. They might bring enough to pay off the loans Fitz is holding.”

He squeezed her hand. She’d spared these for so long, he couldn’t ask her to part with them now. “We’ll work out a payment scheme with Fitz. I’d much rather see you wearing these.”

“That might raise a few questions from him,” she teased. “As well as from a host of others who settled Glanford’s debts for less than they were owed.”

“Would you wear them for me in private then?” He picked up the strand and held it to her neck watching her breasts move up and down with sudden emotion, teasing the soft skin with his thumbs. “May we move onto another matter of business?”

“That being?”

“Will you agree to marry by Special License?”

“I…” She swallowed.

“In London?”

“London?”

“This week?”

“George, I—”

Setting the jewels aside, he drew her in for a kiss, one hand holding her, the other loosening the drawstring on her chemise and finally, finally cupping her bare breast.

He would wait, he could wait. If he must. But if he could convince her that sooner was better…

The heat of the room was nothing to the fire unleashed within her.

And yet…

Her chemise eased down, and George bent to suckle her, his hand traveling to her rucked-up hem, muddling her mind.

Marry? Next week? In London?

Her first vows had come posthaste, by common license in a church full of strangers, a mere ten days after her compromise. The repenting had gone on for ten years.

She pushed him away and stood, gathering her bodice