A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)

He caught her hand in an uncompromising grip. His level regard indicated that he meant business. No trace of teasing now. His shoulders straightened, then to her amazement, he dropped to one knee, still clutching her hand.

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked breathlessly, sliding back against the windowsill. His touch still set her pulses leaping. More powerfully after days without him.

“Be quiet, Genevieve. For two weeks, I’ve shored up my courage. Your caprices won’t divert me.”

“Caprices?” she repeated on a rising note, then fell silent when she met his gaze. He stared at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. Nervously she raised her free hand to her cheek. “Have I got something on my face?”

The intensity drained from his expression. “No. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful.”

Her heart crashed against her ribs so hard that it must surely shatter. “Stop these mad antics.”

His hand tightened to the verge of pain. “Mad or not, I love you and I can’t live without you. Will you do me the incomparable honor of becoming my wife?”

The breath jammed in her throat and she ripped her hand free. In forbidden dreams, she’d imagined this moment. Now it arrived, she found herself completely flummoxed. All her old fears about dwindling into a wife rose like a wave to swamp her hopes for a future with Richard. She could perhaps conquer those doubts—after all, hadn’t he just demonstrated his wholehearted support for her ambitions? But the prospect of marrying this dazzling creature who watched her so unwaveringly terrified her.

“You never mentioned marriage,” she choked out, her hands fluttering like some nitwit heroine’s in a play. Dear God, every moment proved she lacked the sophistication to become Lady Harmsworth.

“Of course I intend marriage.” He frowned faintly. “When we were in the crypt, I distinctly remember saying that I wanted to marry you.”

“You were joking,” she said miserably. “You’re always joking.”

“Not always. I wasn’t joking when I said that I love you.”

“Two weeks ago.”

His laugh was a dismissive snort. “I know you think me a shallow sod, but I doubt a fortnight would make even the shallowest sod forget the woman he wants to spend his life with.” All amusement evaporated. “Or have you changed? Have you decided you don’t love me?”

She didn’t answer. Admitting her feelings left her too vulnerable when she remained torn and unsure. She recalled the bride of impeccable pedigree. “You have to marry to restore the Harmsworth prestige.”

“I have to marry where I love.”

It was a good answer, but still she wasn’t convinced. “I won’t fit into your world.”

He rose, towering over her, his expression severe. “How do you know?”

“Look at you.” Her quivering anguish was audible. She stood too. She felt too much at a disadvantage sitting. “You’re dressed for a ball at St. James and I’m a bookish frump.”

“I wouldn’t be allowed into a ball wearing breeches. Not done, don’t you know?”

His humor cut her on the raw. She swung away and stared blindly out the window. “Don’t laugh at me.”

She heard him shift closer. Her skin tightened with longing for his touch, even as she braced against slumping into his arms and telling him that she’d take him under any circumstances, as long as he never left. Truly pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I probably should have toned down the clothes, but devil take it, I’m proposing. A man ought to look his best when he asks a woman to marry him. I can’t believe that you’re refusing me because of what I’m wearing.”

Put like that, her objections sounded insane. But she understood her qualms, and she had an inkling he did too. “I haven’t refused you,” she muttered. “Yet.”

She started when his hand slid around her waist, although he made no attempt to coax her closer. “Does that mean there’s hope?”

She sniffed. Curse him, she was crying. “That means I know it’s a mistake to marry you.” She blinked away stinging tears and turned without breaking his hold. “Richard, I know I’m making a muddle of this and that you must think I’m off my head, but I come from humble circumstances and you move in the highest circles. I’m direct and difficult and odd. I’m not the wife Sir Richard Harmsworth deserves.”

To her astonishment, anger turned his blue eyes black. “You’re the only wife I want. You put every other woman into the shade. You’ll have London at your feet within a week. After you’ve given your lecture and your article is published, everyone will wonder what you see in a dunderhead like me.” His expression darkened. “Or have you decided that you can’t bear to marry a bastard?”

She stared at him, too astonished even to cry. “Of course not. I love you. I don’t care who your parents are.”

“And don’t you think I love you, whether you come to me in a pinafore with a hundred pockets, or a silk gown, or a damned hessian sack?” His expression became breathtakingly grave. “Genevieve, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. If I must dress like a farmhand the rest of my days, I’ll do it as long as you become my bride.”

A choked laugh escaped. “Now I know you must love me.”