To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(96)

“Yes. I—” He hesitated, then nodded at the portrait next to it, which was significantly larger and in a gilt frame. “It was traditional for the heir to be painted on his eighteenth birthday—that’s David’s portrait just there.” He looked at both versions of his brother—the child David, with his arm around Jeremy, and David at eighteen, handsome and proud. The sight of his brother caused a pang of sorrow, but it was made more tolerable by Diana’s presence at his side. “I’ve never been painted since I inherited the title. The idea of the two portraits hanging there, side by side, with us looking so much alike, I just didn’t think—” He broke off, because he had the most curious feeling that if he continued speaking he would begin to weep. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t think I could bear it. A constant reminder that I was here, with the title that should be his, doing the job that should be his, all because he was a bloody idiot who couldn’t say no to a challenge.” His voice darkened with anger, but he didn’t try to suppress it—not here, not with her. For so long, he had been berating himself—not good enough, not deserving enough, to hold his brother’s title. Because if he was angry at himself, then he couldn’t be angry at David.

It was she who had made him realize this—that he could be angry with his brother and not love him any less. She who had given him this gift. He loved her—for this, and for so much else. And now, he knew, she loved him, too. Was he really going to throw that all away?

Diana turned to face him slowly, her eyes wide. He stared back at her, not understanding the cause of her expression, until she said, “You’ve not been painted since David’s death?”

“No,” he said, “not until…” Not until you. He didn’t finish the sentence, but the words hung there in the air, understood by them both.

“Jeremy,” she said, her gaze on him intent, “why did you follow me?”

It was a typically Diana sort of question. Nothing coy or timid about it—simple and straightforward and to the point, as though she valued her own time too much to waste it on niceties.

“Because…” He trailed off. Because he missed her. Because he wanted her. Because he’d ruined everything.

“Because I love you,” he said, the words coming out of him in a rush. “Because you were brave yesterday, and I was an ass, and you deserve better. Because I was afraid to tell you how I felt, I was afraid I couldn’t be the person you think you see in me—but you deserve someone who isn’t afraid. Because I’ve spent the past six years trying not to think about David, about all the ways that I’m not measuring up to him, about all the ways I’m still angry with him—and you’ve made me realize it’s all right. I feel like… like Jeremy again when I’m around you. And it feels like that’s enough.”

He didn’t know quite how it happened, but a moment later, Diana was in his arms—or he was in hers—and his cheek was pressed against her hair and her arms were tight around his waist and one of them was trembling and he had an awful feeling that it wasn’t her.

“I’m sorry,” he said against her hair, his words coming out muffled and indistinct. “I don’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” came her equally muffled reply from where her face was pressed against his chest. “This is long overdue, I think.”

So he didn’t apologize, not for his trembling, not for the overly tight grip with which he held her, not for the occasional kiss he pressed to the top of her head. Not for the tears she was too diplomatic to mention, though she must have felt them, wet and hot against his skin and hers.

When at last he had himself sufficiently under control—though whether a minute or an hour had passed, he couldn’t have said—he drew back slightly, keeping his arms loosely wrapped around her but creating enough space between them for him to peer down into her face.

“I’m sorry for… for last night,” he said again, the words feeling woefully inadequate.

“I’d imagine you are,” she said, sniffing. She raised her nose in the air as she did so, giving the impression of a very haughty rabbit.

A very haughty, very attractive rabbit.

He was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with him.

“I concede now that announcing one’s plans to propose to another woman isn’t the best way to earn a lady’s trust and affection,” he added, and was rewarded with that oh-so-Diana eye roll that he loved so much.

“You don’t say,” she said.

“It’s just—you caught me off guard, and I’d worked out this entire plan—oh God, I can’t believe I was actually planning to propose to Lady Helen Courtenay.” He was suddenly wide-eyed with horror. He seized her elbows. “Have I lost my mind? Is this what love does to a person?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing the past twenty-four hours,” she assured him grimly. “It’s all very alarming.”

“Do you,” he started, then halted, floundering. “That is—I know I bollocksed things up last night, but I’ve never been in love, and I think I just… panicked,” he finished lamely.

“I know,” she interrupted serenely. “That was part of the reason I was angry with you, you see.”