“It will come out to your advantage, you’ll see. We’ll marry before I go back to war, and then you’ll be free to do as you please. You’ll be Lady Rycliff. You can continue your work, but as a countess. It can only help the village’s reputation.” As an offhand addition, he told the desk blotter, “I have money. A good deal of it. You’ll be well provided for.”
“How very practical,” she muttered. It had been many years since Susanna had daydreamed about receiving marriage offers, but she was certain none of those imagined proposals had sounded quite like this.
She moved into his line of sight, standing in front of her father’s desk. She placed both hands on the desk’s carved wood edge and hoisted herself up so that she sat on the desktop, legs dangling.
“I don’t lack money. Nor do I lack social influence. If you go through with this fool plan this morning, however, you may find yourself lacking a pulse.” She raised her hands to shoulder height. “Every room of this house holds lethal weaponry. You do realize, there’s a solid chance my father could kill you.”
If he doesn’t collapse of an apoplexy first.
He shrugged. “If I were him, I’d want to kill me, too.”
“And even if he doesn’t,” she went on, “he could ruin you. Strip you of all your honors and insignia. Have you demoted to the lowest rank of foot soldier.”
He didn’t reply right away. Aha. So that argument made some impression.
“Think of your commission, Bram. And please stop being so dratted chivalrous, or I’ll . . .” She gestured wildly toward the alabaster sarcophagus. “Or I’ll stuff you in that coffin and close the lid.”
His brow quirked. “When you talk like that, you know you only make me want you more.”
He took a step forward, drawing close. Too close.
“This isn’t just chivalry.” His voice was a low, arousing rumble. His hand brushed her calf, and desire forked through her like lightning. “You must know that. What we shared last night? I want to do it again. And again. And again. Hard and fast. Slow and sweet. Every way in between.”
A long, languid sigh escaped her lips. Just those words had her warm and pink all over. How stupid she’d been, to think one taste of passion would satisfy her for a lifetime. She would hunger for this man as long as she lived.
He leaned in for a kiss, but she put a hand to his chest. Keeping some distance between them, but also maintaining contact. Enjoying the strong, male feel of him under her touch.
“Bram,” she said, swallowing hard, “lust isn’t a good reason to marry.”
He paused to reflect. “I think it’s the reason most people marry.”
“We’re not most people.” She felt herself frowning as she searched for a way to make him understand. “This may be silly to say now, after all that’s happened between us, but I . . . I like you.”
His chin ducked in surprise. “You . . . like me.”
“Yes. I do. I’ve come to like you. A great deal, you see. And I respect your deep commitment to your work. Because I feel the same. I wouldn’t want you to destroy your career and reputation. And I hope you wouldn’t want to see mine destroyed. But that’s what could happen, for both of us, if you insist on talking to my father today.”
He stood tall and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to offer for you. I have to offer for you, or I can’t live with myself.”
“You have offered.” Tilting her head, she gestured loosely between them. “In some way that involves no declarations of sentiment or actual posing of questions, you’ve offered to wed me in haste, bed me with enthusiasm, and then leave me alone to deal with speculation and scandal, all so you can go throw yourself in front of another bullet with a clear conscience. Please accept my polite refusal. My lord.”
He shook his head. “It’s the deceit, Susanna. I can’t stomach the lies. Your father has done a great deal for me. He at least deserves my honesty.”
“Hullo. What’s going on here?”
Her father stood in the doorway, still dressed in his work apron.
Susanna smiled, sat tall on the desk, and chirped, “Oh, nothing. Lord Rycliff and I were just having a scandalous, clandestine affair.”
Her father froze.
Susanna kept that smile pasted on her face.
And finally, with the same palpable, atmospheric relief that accompanied a storm breaking, Papa finally burst into wry, disbelieving laughter.
“There,” she whispered, brushing past a stunned Bram as she dismounted the desk. “No more deceit.”
She tapped her chin meaningfully. Taking the hint, he shut his gaping mouth. He shot her a fierce green look, equal parts admiration and annoyance.
Rubbing his hands on his apron, Papa said, still chuckling, “I did wonder why I found myself dining alone last night. Rycliff is lucky I heard about that hubbub in the village last night. If not, I might be testing the new rifle lock on him this morning.” He crossed to the bar and unstoppered a decanter of whiskey. “Well, Bram? Out with it. Let’s keep this brief.”
“Absolutely,” Bram said. “Sir Lewis, I came to discuss an important matter with you. It involves Miss Finch. And a proposal.”
Her stomach plummeted to the floor. Still? He meant to pursue this still? Oh, he was so wretchedly honorable and good.