Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

She frowned. "That rather defeats my purposes."

"Well, you could say you'll marry me, and we'll sort out our problems as we go. All four of us will make a home at the Beeches."

"Oh, Lord…" She raised a hand to her throat as though holding in her consent.

The flash of longing in her eyes took him back to the night's fiery intimacies. He realized that despite her fear, despite her loyalty to her dead husband, she was powerfully tempted.

He'd imagined himself powerless in this war between Fenella's past and a future that she'd never wished for. But he just might have a few weapons of his own.

Recognizing that, he was at last willing to step back. "I'll bring the boys up to London next week. Carey will enjoy seeing the sights. I'll take Brand around, too, then return him to you before we go home. Good enough?"

She looked doubtful. "Can you manage two eleven-year-old boys?"

He pretended to be insulted. "Madam, I'll have you know I captained a crew of Lascars as likely to cut your throat as give you good day—and bent them to my will. In comparison, Brandon and Carey will be a picnic."

Her laugh was rusty and carried the weight of her earlier tears. But he was glad to see her lookin

g happier. He didn't want her carrying away the memory of a dour, difficult conversation—and a dour, difficult suitor.

"If Brand becomes unruly, send him home."

He took her hand again. She was leaving any moment, damn it. "If you need to reach me, send to the Beeches. Otherwise I'll be at the Townsend offices."

She regarded him with such wistfulness that he slung an arm around her and drew her down to rest her head on his shoulder. "It will all work out, Fenella."

"You must think I'm a dreadful witch, making all these conditions," she said in a muffled voice.

His hold tightened. She was worth a few sacrifices. He'd wait, and he'd do it without pestering her, even if it killed him. Which given the imperious, willful, impatient fellow he was, it was very likely to do. "I feel like a prince in a fairytale, set a series of impossible challenges to win the princess."

She smiled up at him. "You're a romantic, Anthony Townsend. Who knew?"

"You've made me one."

She didn't answer, but he supposed the way she pressed closer was response enough. As the light in the room strengthened to full day, they sat together in that undemanding embrace. And gradually a little of the peace he'd found in her arms last night returned to ease his soul.

When at last she raised her golden head and straightened, he itched to bring her back to him. But he'd made a promise, however much it pricked. Already.

Soon it would become purest hell. He never let other people set the agenda.

"I'd like to be on the way before the inn is busy and there's a chance someone might recognize me," she said.

He nodded, a hollow feeling in his gut like he let her go forever, which was absurd. But having found her, his deepest instinct was to keep her near. "Do you want breakfast?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll be in London in a little over an hour. I'll eat there. Please…let me go before I do something foolish."

He bit back a plea for her to stay and be as foolish as she liked. "I'll ring for the carriage."

The quiet scattered into the bustle of dressing, making travel arrangements, giving orders to servants, and Fenella tidying herself in the mirror. Despite Anthony's anguish, it was a joy to watch her perform such intimate and prosaic acts. He yearned for this serene daily life to start, with a lovely woman he cared for and respected. He thirsted to see her grow round with his child. He wanted the years ahead with her at his side.

Yet this perfect future hinged on something as unpredictable as a woman's will. His hopes seemed dangerously frail.

Within what felt like an instant, it was time for Fenella to go. And because he'd go through purgatory without her, even after only a few days, and because he had so few advantages in this battle against unseen forces, he caught her arm before she left. "I know you're going to think about Brandon and Henry, and what can go wrong, and how you cast your bonnet over a windmill, and you're not a lass to go chasing foolish whims and reckless dreams—"

"Anthony—"

Still the words poured from his lips, urgent, ardent, insistent. "But when you're alone at night in your big empty bed, and your sensible self insists that marrying a stranger is all too absurd, and really you suffered a moment's madness, but now you're all safe and back to reality again, I want you to remember this."

Without giving her a chance to protest, he bundled her up against him and sent his mouth crashing down into hers. He offered no gentle preliminaries, no coaxing persuasion. Instead he kissed her with all the fervent passion in his heart, a passion he hadn't come near to slaking last night, however sizzling those hours.