Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

She looked beautiful. She always did. And desperately sad.

That was no surprise. He wasn't exactly on top of the world himself. Despite a night of the best sex he'd ever had.

Anthony wasn't entirely sure how he felt about Fenella vowing her love to another man while she lay in his arms. Probably he should be angry, but she'd never hidden her allegiance. He was definitely hurt. Moving inside Fenella, he'd felt closer to her than to anyone in his life. It was like they shared the same breath.

The sting of discovering he was as prone to romantic illusion as the next man lingered, much as he told himself to grow up and get over it. After all, she'd made no promises, least of all eternal devotion.

The problem was all his, damn it. Because somewhere in the last two days, his immovable, stubborn soul had set itself to win Fenella Deerham.

Who was still in love with a dead man.

And given her steadfast heart, always would be. That left Anthony wanting to rampage around like a wounded bear and break things.

When she looked toward the bed, the ache inside him sharpened to agony.

"You've been crying," he said austerely.

She wiped her cheeks with shaky hands. The childish gesture roused a poignant tenderness he had no idea what to do with. "You're awake."

"Aye." He pushed up against the pillows and regarded her from under lowered brows. "I'm sorry I made you cry."

She shook her head. "I was dreaming of Henry. I often do, but…last night it was like he was with me."

He winced at her honesty. That primitive urge to create mayhem strengthened, but he beat it back. It wasn't Fenella's fault that she wanted someone else. A temper tantrum from a man she saw as a fleeting presence in her life wouldn't change that. "I know."

She looked baffled. "How on earth do you know that?"

He shrugged and stared moodily across the room at the dead fire. What an apt symbol for what lay between him and Fenella.

Except his fire wasn't anything like doused. He still wanted her like the very devil.

"You talk in your sleep."

A blush colored her cheeks so she looked about sixteen instead of like a woman who had married and borne a child and lost her beloved husband. She must have looked like this when she'd married Henry. Lucky dog.

"I'm sorry," she said, with a poor attempt at lightness. "That must break some rule against mentioning former lovers in the presence of your current one."

He didn't respond. It was too excruciating to wonder if she'd ever suspected that the man making love to her in the early morning hours was Anthony and not her husband's ghost. Instead he asked a question, even if he knew the answer. Sod it. "So what happens now?"

To his surprise, she didn't announce her intention to have nowt more to do with that lovelorn lout Anthony Townsend. Instead she settled troubled blue eyes on him. How he hated to see the spiky lashes and pink eyelids. "What would you like to happen now?"

He straightened his legs under the sheets, folded his arms over his bare chest, and spoke words that until now he'd never linked together. "I'd like to marry you."

She paled and recoiled against the windowsill. He supposed that was answer enough. Self-derision tightened his lips as pain stabbed deep.

"That's mad."

He shrugged again, determined to lay his cards on the table, however hopeless his cause. "It might be, but nevertheless it's true. I want you in my life. I want you in my bed. With everything legal and aboveboard. You're not made for romantic intrigue. And we have the boys to consider."

She frowned, not in displeasure he thought, but because his offer puzzled her. "Is it because of my aristocratic connections?"

He laughed without amusement. "Not likely. You're enough of a prize on your own. You're clever and sensible—most of the time. You were reckless in the extreme setting out with a stranger in the middle of the night for parts unknown. But fear had turned your mind. And you're damned decorative. A pretty wife never goes amiss when a man has his way to make."

"Thank you," she said drily.

He straightened the sheet over his hips and wondered how he could sound so calm when such a storm raged inside him. "My interest in you is personal. Believe me, my fortune gains plenty of friends in high places. A stickler or two might object if I wanted to marry one of their daughters, but I'm widely accepted otherwise."

"How do you know about the daughters?" she asked sharply.