They would never forgive him.
And no matter any protestations to the contrary, deep down, in his heart, he would never—could never— forgive her. By making him a party to her deception, she would have ripped from him and put forever beyond his reach the position to which he’d been born, the position she suspected he never even questioned, it was so much a part of him.
She wanted to twist and turn, but with him breathing softly, deeply, beside her, she forced herself to lie still beneath the heavy arm he’d slung across her waist. Dawn was sliding over the rooftops when she finally accepted that she could do nothing to change things—all she could do was move heaven and earth to ensure that no one ever learned her true state.
She glanced at his face on the pillow beside hers. His dark lashes lay, black crescents over his cheekbones; in sleep, his face retained the harsh lines, the austere angularity of nose and jaw. In her mind, she heard his voice dispassionately reciting, describing what the last ten years of his life had been, how they’d been spent, and where; he’d avoided stating in what danger, but she was not so innocent she couldn’t read between his lines. When his mask was off, as now, the evidence of that decade still remained, etched in the lines of his face.
Last night—early this morning—he’d needed her. Wanted her. Taken all she’d given, and yet needed more, a more she’d found it possible to give.
His satisfaction was hers, deep, powerful, and complete. She had never imagined such a connection, that a man such as he would have a need like that, and that she would be able so completely to fulfill it.
Her joy in that discovery was profound.
Lifting a hand, she gently brushed back the heavy lock of black hair that lay rakishly across his brow. He didn’t wake, but stirred. His hand flexed, lightly gripping her side before easing as, reassured, he sank once more into slumber.
For long moments, she looked, silently wondered.
Faced incontrovertible fact.
He now meant more to her, at a deeper, more intensely emotional level, than all else in her life.
Tony left Waverton Street before the sunshine hit the cobbles. The tide of satisfaction that had swept him last night had receded, revealing, to him all too forcefully, the vulnerability beneath.
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose her; he couldn’t even readily stomach the fact she was at risk. Therefore…
Over breakfast that morning, as always efficiently served by Hungerford who, despite knowing full well Tony hadn’t slept in his own bed for the past week and more, remained remarkably cheerful, he made his plans. Those included Hungerford, but his first act was to repair to his study and pen two summonses. The first, to Geoffrey Manningham, took no more than a few minutes; he dispatched it via a footman, then settled to write the second, a communication requiring far more thought.
He was still engaged in searching for the right approach, the right phrases, when Geoffrey arrived. Waving him to the pair of armchairs before the hearth, he joined him.
“News?” Geoffrey asked as he sat.
“No.” Sinking into the other chair, Tony smiled, all teeth. “Plans.”
Geoffrey grinned, equally ferally, back. “You perceive me all ears.”
Tony outlined the basics of what he intended.
Geoffrey concurred. “If you can get everything into place, including your beloved, that would unquestionably be the wisest course.” He met Tony’s gaze. “So what do you want me to do? I presume there’s something.”
“I want you to remove Adriana for the afternoon—or the day, if you prefer.”
Geoffrey widened his eyes. “That all?”
Tony nodded. “Do that, and I’ll manage the rest.”
Just how he would do that last…they sat for ten minutes debating various options, then Geoffrey took himself off to accomplish his assigned task.
Tony remained before the fire for a few minutes more, then, struck by inspiration, returned to his desk and completed his second summons, disguised as a letter to his cousin Miranda, inviting her and her two daughters, Margaret and Constance, to visit him in London, to act as chaperone while the lady he intended to make his viscountess spent a week or so under his roof.
If he knew anything of Miranda, that last would ensure her appearance as soon as he could wish—namely, tomorrow.
The letter dispatched in the care of a groom, he rang for Hungerford.
Dealing with his butler was bliss; Hungerford never questioned, never made difficulties, but could be counted on to ensure that, even if difficulties did arise and his orders no longer fitted the situation, that his intent would be accomplished.
Telling Hungerford that he proposed protecting his intended bride from social and even possibly physical attack by installing her under this roof, within the purlieu of Hungerford’s overall care, was all it took to get everything in Upper Brook Street ready.
He had little notion of what arrangements would be required to prepare the house to receive not only the widowed Miranda and her daughters, ten and twelve years old, but his prospective bride, her family, and her household, but he was sure his staff under Hungerford’s direction would meet the challenge.