To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(88)
She had made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in marriage—or in anything that implied permanence, sentiment, attachment. Surely if he were married, she’d never suspect that he’d actually fallen in love with her. And if she didn’t suspect that, she wouldn’t be frightened away.
He watched her with a fair amount of trepidation—he was a bit afraid she’d shy at this hint of his desire to continue their affair—but he was still unprepared for the flash of rage that crossed her face, just as quickly suppressed and replaced by her usual cool mask.
“That’s a lovely plan, Willingham,” she said, her use of his title akin to a slap across the face; he was surprised he didn’t physically recoil. “I suppose now that you’ve experienced one evening in the bedroom in which you were absolutely certain the lady was genuinely enjoying herself, you thought, Well, I’ve learned it all. Better find my next mistress posthaste.”
“That’s not—”
“But of course,” Diana continued, “you wouldn’t want your next lover to get any ideas about where she stood with you, and how better to achieve that than by racing to the altar first? Just to ensure that the lady understood how she ranked, of course.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“And, of course, who better to marry than a woman who is guaranteed never to expect much of anything at all from you? Isn’t that what you want, after all? For no one to expect much from you?”
“Yes, it bloody is,” Jeremy said heatedly, his mouth racing ahead of his mind by several measures, and he unable to give much of a damn about it. “Because I don’t have anything to offer! It’s best that everyone knows where we stand when we begin.” He sprang to his feet, unable to remain seated for one moment longer. “I’m not fit to be any sort of husband to anyone, so why not marry someone who doesn’t want a husband at all?”
Diana did not join him on his feet, instead remaining almost eerily still, her gaze on him unblinking. “And those future mistresses?”
“I wasn’t thinking about any goddamned future mistresses!” he burst out, frustrated. “I was only thinking about you!”
His words fell heavily into the silence between them, like rocks dropped into a still pond. He didn’t even wish them unspoken—it was an enormous relief to have them out in the open rather than at the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out each time he spoke to her.
“Am I supposed to be flattered?” she asked quietly after the silence had dragged out to a length that could only be classified as excruciating. Her face was pale, and her eyes glittered. “Am I supposed to swoon at your feet with the knowledge that you wish only to bed me for the immediate future, even as you plan to woo and wed another woman?”
“Only so that I could still be with you!” he said heatedly, his mouth now apparently operating entirely independently of the rest of his body—a novel occurrence, to say the least. “You’re the one who has made such a point of the fact that you never wish to remarry, that you value your independence above all else—and all I am doing is coming up with a solution that allows us to be together without asking you to sacrifice that!”
“Is that supposed to be romantic?” she asked incredulously, unfolding her legs and rising to her feet at last. “Do you think you’re making some sort of grand gesture by not asking anything of me, ever?”
“I’m trying to give you what you want!” He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. She was standing very close to him, and even through his anger he was unable to help noticing the becoming flush that had replaced the paleness of her cheeks a few moments before. It was probably inappropriate to react to a woman’s anger with desire. He assumed. He didn’t think asking Diana’s opinion on the matter would yield positive results at the moment—which was, in and of itself, perhaps an answer to his question.
“But what do you want?” she asked, pressing closer to him, and he was instantly distracted by the heat emanating from her skin, the subtle scent of her, the smattering of freckles across her nose with which he feared he was becoming perversely obsessed.
“That doesn’t matter,” he managed to say, tearing his eyes from those accursed freckles with great effort. Logically, he understood they were mere dark spots on her nose; illogically, he wondered if they possessed some sort of peculiar, trance-creating witchcraft.
“It should,” she said, her face suddenly erased of all expression, as if by magic—and if it was magic, then it was a sort of magic he absolutely despised. “I had a plan for this evening, you know. I planned to be honest with you—to tell you that I have…” She trailed off; he held his breath. “I have feelings for you. No, I think I love you—or at least I hope I do, because if anything less than love is causing me this degree of emotional turmoil, then I assure you I have no interest in the real thing.”
He was vaguely aware that she was still speaking, but his mind was stuck on a single word: love. She loved him. At least, he was fairly certain that was what she was saying.
“You love me?” he croaked. He’d like to have imagined some more dashing, romantic way of describing the sound of his voice at that precise moment, but strict honesty compelled him to admit that croak was really the most accurate word.
“That isn’t the point,” she snapped. Her assertion seemed a trifle unfair to him—it was a very rare situation in which someone declared their love for another person and it wasn’t at least somewhat the point. “I don’t know what I was thinking! I can’t imagine why I possibly thought this was a good idea!”