Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

He stepped behind her and tossed the frothy light blue skirts up to reveal her bare arse. Her whimper betrayed excitement and fear.

His heart pounded like a bass drum as he stared down at that luscious rump. White, smooth, perfectly curved. Her legs were splayed, ready for him to plunge inside and spend himself in shame and yearning and irresistible need. He watched her tense to accept him, and she dipped her head, so the angle of her bum became even more brazen.

Even as his hands went to the fastenings of his breeches, he knew this wasn’t what he wanted.

If he went ahead and did this now—and again and again until they made a child—he’d corrupt something precious and irreplaceable. And each time, he’d chip a little bit more off Jane’s soul. What he was about to do debased the memory of the transcendent intimacies they’d shared during their first few weeks, however hellishly askew things had gone since.

God help him, he couldn’t do it.

Gritting his teeth against the agonizing weight in his balls, he threw Jane’s skirts down to cover her. He stepped back on shaking legs. “Stand up,” he said, his voice as flat as the Fens.

For a moment, she didn’t move, and he wondered whether he would in fact be able to resist taking her. She pushed herself up and turned, looking bewildered.

Her gaze focused on his face. He suspected he looked like thunder. Then she glanced toward the bed. “Shall I lie down?”

“No.”

Her eyes widened. “Is there some other—”

With a violent gesture, he retreated a further step out of temptation’s reach. “No. No other way. Not again.”

Misery and confusion darkened her eyes to pewter. “I don’t understand.”

He hardly understood either. But he knew to the depths of his being that what they did in this room would only lead to utter devastation. “I want a wife. I want a marriage. I want a life with you. I don’t want these crumbs from your table, Jane. This miserly spending of what should be gold, while we go ahead and turn everything between us into base metal. I want the whole loaf or nothing.”

She spread her hands. Her expression said she thought he was losing his mind. “But what about a child?”

He bit back a string of profanities. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn anymore. The bloody estate can crumble into the sea, as far I’m concerned. Someone will inherit it. I’ll be dead so I won’t care.”

“You married me to have an heir.”

“And you married me to gain a home,” he said with a weariness that penetrated to his bones. “If you can change your mind about what you want, why can’t I?”

“So you won’t…”

“No, I won’t. This is my last visit to the Beeches, Jane.” He folded his arms and regarded her with burning eyes. “Come home, or go your own way. It’s all or nothing.”

She still looked completely befuddled. “But you don’t love me.”

“I honor you. I want you. I believe we can create something worthwhile between us. You have to decide if that’s enough.” He saw her flinch, but couldn’t dam the torrent of words that had been building up since the day she left him. “If not, I’ll make arrangements for a generous allowance. I won’t have you relying on Anthony bloody Townsend’s bounty for the food you eat.” The way she’d turned to the Townsends with her troubles continued to rankle. “You’re free to decide your future. But hear this—if you return to me, it’s forever. No compromises, no keeping yourself from me, no half measures. You decide to be my wife, and you never waver.”

She linked shaking hands at her waist. “You’re asking a lot.”

“I’m asking everything,” he said in a flinty voice. He prowled over to collect his hat and gloves. “I await word on your decision.”

He stalked away without a backward glance, even as a small voice in the corner of his mind whispered that he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

*

Chapter Thirty-Seven

*

On his long ride back to London, Garson hardly registered a single mile or the inns where he stopped to change horses. All he saw was Jane’s pale, shocked features as he delivered his ultimatum. An ultimatum that could result in never seeing her again.

Brilliant move, old man.

After a day and a half in the saddle, it was well after midnight when he stamped back into the house at Half Moon Street. Despite his aching exhaustion, he spent the rest of the night sitting in his library and gazing into the dark abyss of his future. He chose the brandy decanter for company, but barely touched the one glass he poured. As eyes scratchy with tiredness watched the dawn come up over London, he asked himself two questions.