He set to work on the buttons of her coat, undoing them one at a time. Then he unwound a scarf from about her elegant throat and removed her hat.
“I can do that myself,” she said, catching his hands in her gloved ones. “Stop and listen to me, Graham. There is something I must tell you, and then I shall be on my way.”
Dear God. She was ill. Somehow, the thought of losing her, even when he did not have her—when he had never had her—hit him with the force of a fist to the midsection. His chest hurt. His lungs felt as if they could no longer hold air.
“What is it?” he managed to grind out.
He was still on his knees at her side, and their hands were linked. He tightened his grip on her, as if he could hold her there with him forever. A foolish, instinctive reaction from a man who was foolishly weak when it came to her.
“I am with child.” Her statement was simple.
Shocking.
He felt as if he were about to swoon now.
He rocked back, staring at her. “Mine?”
She compressed her lips, meeting his gaze steadily. “Yours.”
His eyes dropped to her stomach, hidden from his view by the drape of her gown. She did not look as if she were enceinte. It was almost impossible to believe his babe grew within her, a tiny life just beginning from their folly.
She was not ill. She was carrying his child. The consequences of his recklessness.
“My God,” he said, for this changed everything. “We will marry at once, of course.”
She shook her head. “No, Graham. That is not why I sought you out. I have already been entrapped in one unhappy marriage. I will not shackle myself to another.”
He shot to his feet, indignation scoring him from within. Here again was the implication she had not been happy with Fawkesbury. But all he could think of was her refusal to wed him. To shackle herself to him, as she had said.
“You will marry me, and that is final,” he bit out. “I will not allow my child to be born a bastard.”
She stood, but when she swayed on her feet, he was there at her side, hands steadying her, keeping her from toppling over.
“Sit,” he ordered her.
“No,” she argued in stubborn, Hannah fashion. “I am perfectly capable of standing.”
“You nearly toppled over,” he countered. “What would you have done if I were not here to catch you?”
Twin flags of color appeared in her pale cheeks. “I would do precisely what I have been doing for the last two months without you.”
Her words hung in the air between them, a recrimination.
He swallowed down a burst of shame. He had run from her. Had left her behind in Oxfordshire. It was true. He had been a coward, hell-bent upon saving himself. Hell-bent upon maintaining the shreds of pride he yet possessed rather than surrendering them all to her.
But running had not diminished his feelings for her.
Returning to London had not made him love Hannah any less.
“I am sorry I left you,” he forced out. “If I had any inkling, I would have—”
“You would have stayed?” she interrupted, her voice tart, stinging. “What did you think might happen after you had lain with me, Graham? I should hate you for once more discarding me when you have had your fill of me, but I hate myself more for succumbing to you a second time. The first time nearly killed me.”
Tears shimmered in her eyes, and her chin trembled.
Damn and blast, but he hated seeing her upset. Hated knowing he was the cause of it. The full implication of what she had just said settled over him. Once more, he felt as if they were having two different dialogues. Nothing made sense.
He caressed her back through the thickness of her coat, wishing it gone. “What do you mean when you say the first time nearly killed you? What are you talking about, Han?”
A lone droplet spilled down her cheek. “I miscarried five years ago. With the loss of so much blood, the doctor feared I would not survive.”
Five years ago?
Everything in him stilled as he struggled to understand. “I am sorry you lost a child with Fawkesbury, but I fail to see how the fault was mine.”
“It was not the earl’s babe,” she whispered, her expression stricken. “It was yours.”
The roaring in his ears returned. Denial surged. This could not be. She was lying. She had to be.
“If you were carrying my child, why did you not marry me?” he asked. “Damn you, Hannah. Why did you not wait for me? Did you truly care that much for a title that you would pass off my child as another man’s?”
If that were true, she was despicable. He should hate her for what she had done. If only he could.
“How dare you?” She pushed at his chest, shoving herself away from him. “Of course I never cared for a title. I cared for you. I loved you, Graham. But you did not love me. You left the house party without even a word to me. What was I to wait for? To hope for?”
He watched her stalk away from him, dumbfounded. “Of course I loved you, damn it. I wanted to marry you, and I had every intention of doing so. When word arrived of Gervase’s riding accident, I left a note for you. After I arrived at my destination, I sent you more letters, apprising you of the gravity of my brother’s condition. And then, suddenly, you were the Countess of Fawkesbury, and you were hiding away on his estate.”
She swirled about, turning back to face him. “I never received any note or letters. All I knew was that I was ruined and with child and the man I was in love with had left me without a word.”
“My brother was on his deathbed,” he ground out, thinking of Gervase, how he had lingered, pale and unconscious, for a week following his riding accident. Until at last he had succumbed. “I sent word before I left for Wiltshire. If you had but waited for me, you would have had your title.”
She shook her head, going pale once more. “No, that is impossible. I received no note from you. I had not even realized anything was amiss with your brother until word of his death spread. By that point, I had already married Fawkesbury.”
He stared at her, a sick sense of understanding dawning.
Hannah had never cared that he was a second son. Her father, however, had. It had been her father who had denied his suit. Her father who had questioned how he would provide for Hannah as a second son of limited means.
Could it be possible that her father had intentionally driven a wedge between them, marrying her off to Fawkesbury instead with as much haste as possible?
“Did your father know you carried my child?” he asked.
He saw the precise moment realization hit her. “Yes. My lady’s maid told him and my mother both… You do not think…”
“That your father intercepted my letters and kept us apart?” He strode toward her, rage quaking through him at the thought of how they had been manipulated. At the thought of how they had lost five years, all because her supercilious bastard of a father had not wanted her to marry a second son. “Yes, Han. That is what I think. Nay, it is what I know. I had every intention of marrying you. When I lost my brother and then you, I was devastated.”
The grief had been crippling. Those had been dark days indeed, when he had not even been certain if he would survive. But somehow, he had pulled himself from the grips of despair.
Her inner struggle to accept the truth was reflected on her beautiful face. “Oh, Graham. I am so sorry.”
He pulled her into his arms where she belonged. Where she had always belonged.
A new, urgent determination pounded through him. “I am so sorry too, my darling. But I am going to make amends for all we have lost.”
And he knew precisely where he needed to begin.
Chapter Twleve
Hannah hesitated on the threshold of her father’s study, dread unfurling within her. Part of her could not bear to take part in the dialogue that was about to happen between them. But another part of her knew she must. If she wanted the truth, she had to go directly to the source.
When he bid her enter, she stepped inside, finding him poring over papers as usual, by the glow of a lone lamp on his desk. He rose at her entrance and offered her a formal bow. The Duke of Linross was a stickler for propriety.
How he must hate that all four of his offspring were wayward, she thought, curtsying in return. “Father.”
“My lady. You look troubled. I trust you are not still ill?” he asked mildly.
Of course he would know she had been retching. She swore her father employed some of the servants as his spies. “I am indeed quite troubled. You see, I paid a call to the Marquess of Haven today.”
Her father stiffened. “What were you doing with that scoundrel, Hannah? Will you never learn your lesson where he is concerned?”
If he only knew.
“It would seem not,” she said. “He told me he asked your permission to marry me. He also told me he sent me missives, and that all of them had been returned to him, unopened. And yet I was under the impression he had left London without ever attempting to reach me.”
She knew her father well enough to read his countenance. Everything Graham had told her had been true. She was certain of it.
“You deserved better than a second son, and one who had the daring to compromise you and get you with child,” he clipped. “I was not about to allow that puppy to have you as his wife. Fawkesbury was a much better choice. You became a countess, Hannah.”
“How dare you decide my future for me?” Her father’s cool explanation infuriated her. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Fawkesbury himself was a scoundrel. All he cared about was drink and gambling.”
“How dare I decide?” he snapped, his voice echoing through the study. “You had shown such excellent judgment, had you not? Allowing Dowling to ruin you. My God, Hannah. You must look at it from my perspective. You were in danger of becoming a pariah. I had to do what I deemed best.”
Of course he would have believed his decision was best for her, all without taking into account what she wanted.
“You had no right to manipulate me, to keep his letters from me,” she countered. “I loved him.”
“You were foolish and naïve. Love is not the foundation of a good marriage.” Her father’s voice was cool. “I saved you from an untenable fate. You were with child. He was mourning Haven. The two of you could not have wed before it was too late.”
“We would have found a way.” Her voice shook. She took another deep breath, forging on. “We will always find a way.”
She believed that with every part of her. Oh, how she believed it. She and Graham were meant to be together. Years later, even after being torn apart, each believing the other guilty of crushing betrayal, they had still come together.
“What are you saying, Hannah?” her father asked sharply.
“I am saying that I am in love with Graham Dowling, and I am going to marry him,” she said, the words filling her with a sense of freedom she had not felt in years. “And there is nothing you can do to stop me this time.”
With that, she turned and walked away.
She had allowed others to keep her from the man she loved for far too long already.
Obtaining a special license had been easy compared to spending the last few years away from the woman he loved, erroneously believing she had been a heartless title-seeking chit. Awaiting her return to Belvedere House at the appointed hour the next day, however, had proven the most difficult wait of his life. A lesson in patience.
And he was not a patient man.
Not when it came to Hannah.
Now that the truth had been revealed, he could not wait to make up for lost time. Could not wait to make her his. To that end, he had scarcely slept the night before. And he was pacing the length of his study now like a madman, checking in with his butler every ten minutes to find out whether or not Lady Fawkesbury had arrived.
It grated, having to call her by that hated name. But soon she would be his wife. His marchioness. The past could not come between them ever again. No one and nothing could.
He paced back down the length of the study, praying the Duke of Linross would not attempt to intervene once more. Praying Hannah would not change her mind. That she would not swoon when he was not there to catch her…
He raked a hand through his hair, sure he was leaving it standing on end and not giving a damn. When Hannah had come to him and told him she was carrying his babe, all the broken shards inside him had come together. For the first time, his heart was whole.
All he needed was the woman he loved.
His wife.
The mother of his child. He was going to be a father. He still scarcely knew what to do with that beautiful, thrilling knowledge. It was almost impossible to believe that a mere two days ago, he had been hopeless, facing the unwanted prospect of selecting a woman to become his bride. Impossible to believe he had spent the past two months missing Hannah, believing any union between them unattainable because of her past betrayal, when all along she was the one who had been betrayed by her own father.
God, how he hated that she had suffered without him. That they had been torn apart, that they had spent all this time believing the worst of each other—
“Graham!”
At her soft cry, he spun toward the door, heart hammering. She had come to him. At last. And there she stood, everything he had ever wanted. The only woman he had ever loved.
His Han.
He strode toward her as she came running for him, and they met halfway, in the middle of his study. He took her in his arms and claimed her lips with his. It was a kiss of reunion and surrender, a kiss of hope and love and wonderment. Her lips seemed somehow softer than he recalled even from the day before.
They clung to each other, mouths fused. He thought he could kiss her forever. That he could hold her here and now, never let her go. How precious she was. Her sweet scent of lavender and lemons invaded his senses. Her warm, supple curves melted into his body. He could not wait to make love to her for the first time as his marchioness.
To make her his once and for all, just as he should have done the first time. Just as he would have done, had not a tragic series of events and the meddling of others kept them apart.
He ended the kiss at last, reluctantly, and held her face in his hands, simply drinking in the sight of her. “Is this a dream?”
The smile she gave him was soft, tinged with an odd combination of happiness and sadness. “It is the dream I have been longing for, all these years. The dream I have been waiting for.”
“You spoke with your father,” he said, guessing the reason for the sadness. “What did he have to say?”
“You were right about his interference,” she confirmed, her hands going atop his. “I am sorry, Graham, for believing the worst of you. I should have known you better than to believe you would abandon me. All I can offer in my defense is that I was young and frightened. My father told me I must either give up the child or marry a man of his choosing since you did not want me. I—I never wanted to wed Fawkesbury, and had I known you were coming back to me, I would have waited. I would have waited forever to be with you.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “You owe me no apologies. I dishonored you by compromising you. I had no right to be so reckless with you. Not five years ago, and not two months ago. When I am with you, Han, I am mad with wanting you. You are all I can see, think, feel. You absorb all of me. You own my heart now and always. I have loved you from the first moment I met you.”
She bit her lower lip, her gaze searching his. “You love me?”
Curse it, had he not already said the words? In his heart, he had told her a thousand times over. Her name was written on its walls like a prayer. But as he thought back upon their exchange yesterday in the wake of her sudden swoon in
his entryway, he realized he had not told her.
He would tell her now, this day, and every day forward, in as many ways as he could.
“Of course I love you, my darling.” He kissed her again. Chaste this time, not daring to deepen it lest he forget where he was. Lest he forget they were about to marry here in the drawing room at Belvedere House in an hour’s time. “How can I not love you? You have owned my heart all these years, all the time we were apart. When I saw you again in Oxfordshire, it was as if all the distance had fallen away. The rational part of my mind warned me I should not want you, but the rest of me did not listen. And I am heartily glad it did not. I will be forever thankful I followed you into the gardens at that ball. If I had not…”
He did not even want to finish the thought. If he had not followed her, kissed her…if he had not been unable to sleep…if she had not been returning from her sister’s chamber…if they had not crossed paths when they had…if the door down the hall had not creaked open when it had…if he had not followed her into her chamber…
The ifs were endless, a waterfall of them. A reminder of how destined they were to be together. So many events had needed to happen in the precise manner they had in order for them to be standing together now, about to become man and wife.
She rose on her toes then, startling him by capturing his lips in a kiss so possessive and fierce, it stole his breath. In this kiss, she was the aggressor, her tongue sliding inside his mouth first. She caressed his hands as she kissed him deep, and this kiss told him so much more than words could.
Belatedly, it occurred to him that she had not told him she loved him now, even as he had confessed his love to her. Her words of love had been in the past tense.
As if hearing his uncertainty, she broke away from him, gazing up into his eyes with that endless gray gaze. Ensnaring him. “I love you, Graham. I have loved you from the moment my ne’er-do-well brother first introduced me to his Eton friend. I have loved you even when you were gone. I loved you when I suffered through an intolerable marriage. I loved you still when I first saw you across the ballroom at Abingdon House. I loved you as you walked away from me that awful day. And I have spent the last two months loving you. I will never stop.”
Wooed in Winter Page 9
