“When are we getting married?” he asked, pulling her gently until they were curved like two spoons.
“Six weeks.”
“Two,” he said. “Whatever you have to tell your mother, I don’t care. Get it changed to two, or I’ll haul you off to Gretna.”
Hyacinth nodded, snuggling herself against him, reveling in the feel of him behind her. “Two,” she said, the word practically a sigh. “Maybe even just one.”
“Even better,” he agreed.
They lay together for several minutes, enjoying the silence, and then Hyacinth twisted in his arms, craning her neck so that she could see his face. “Were you going out to Clair House this evening?”
“You didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t think you were going to go again.”
“I promised you I would.”
“Well, yes,” she said, “but I thought you were lying, just to be nice.”
Gareth swore under his breath. “You are going to be the death of me. I can’t believe you didn’t really mean for me to go.”
“Of course I meant for you to go,” she said. “I just didn’t think you would.” And then she sat up, so suddenly that the bed shook. Her eyes widened, and they took on a dangerous glow and sparkle. “Let’s go. Tonight.”
Easy answer. “No.”
“Oh, please. Please. As a wedding gift to me.”
“No,” he said.
“I understand your reluctance—”
“No,” he repeated, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. The sinking feeling that he was going to relent. “No, I don’t think you do.”
“But really,” she said, her eyes bright and convincing, “what do we have to lose? We’re getting married in two weeks—”
He lifted one brow.
“Next week,” she corrected. “Next week, I promise.”
He pondered that. It was tempting.
“Please,” she said. “You know you want to.”
“Why,” he wondered aloud, “do I feel like I am back at university, with the most degenerate of my friends convincing me that I must drink three more glasses of gin?”
“Why would you wish to be friends with a degenerate?” she asked. Then she smiled with wicked curiosity. “And did you do it?”
Gareth pondered the wisdom of answering that; truly, he didn’t wish for her to know the worst of his schoolboy excesses. But it would get her off the topic of the jewels, and—
“Let’s go,” she urged again. “I know you want to.”
“I know what I want to do,” he murmured, curving one hand around her bottom, “and it is not that.”
“Don’t you want the jewels?” she prodded.
He started to stroke her. “Mmm-hmmm.”
“Gareth!” she yelped, trying to squirm away.