A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(99)

“I’m only five years younger than you. When my mother married, she was seventeen and my father was forty-three.”

“You’re young,” he insisted. “And this week has been tumultuous, to put it mildly. I want to give you some time, back in the normal world, to make sure of your feelings.”

“I am sure of my feelings.”

“You deserve to be courted. You deserve to know you have choices before you go committing your life to anyone—least of all a blighter like me. You deserve a look at Sir Alisdair Kent. He might not be so warty after all.”

She touched his face. “I love you, Colin. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Dear, sweet girl.” He gathered her in his arms and held her imprudently tight.

I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.

Oh, how he wanted to take that bold, unequivocal statement and grasp it as truth. Carve it in stone, tattoo it on his flesh, spell it out in little mosaic tiles embedded in this very floor. The Gospel According to Minerva, never to be doubted. But he’d learned too much—from her, from life—and he knew well how little she’d seen of the world. His jaded soul craved assurance. At least a few months’ worth of it.

Of all people, she ought to understand the value of a scientific test.

“If what you say is true . . .” He pulled back to look her in those dark, beautiful eyes. “Then there’s no harm in waiting, is there?” He caressed her cheek, trying to coax a smile. “I’m no stranger to impulsive decisions. They don’t turn out well. When I marry you, I want everyone to know—and that includes the two of us—that it’s not a rash, impetuous whim. I want to wait until after my birthday, so there’ll be no suspicion that gaining control of my fortune had something to do with it, either.”

“After your birthday? You’re suggesting we live separately, for months?”

He nodded. “I suppose so, yes.”

“What about the nights, Colin? How do you plan to get through all those nights?” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I could stand it if . . .”

He hushed her with a kiss. “The wedding vows must wait. But I swear to you here and now, Minerva”—he took her hand and pressed it to his heart—“so long as I live, I won’t pass a night in any other woman’s arms. I can’t pretend waiting for you will be pleasant, but I’ll muddle through. It’ll be a great deal easier to stand the darkness if you’re the warm, lovely beacon of light at the end of it.”

She looked disappointed, and he hated himself for that. But of all the things he’d ever done in his life, he needed to take care and do this right. If that meant moving at the pace of a sea snail, so be it.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “This is ideal, you’ll see. We do everything backward. It’s just how we are. We began with an elopement. After that, we made love. Next, we’ll progress to courting. When we’re old and silver-haired, perhaps we’ll finally get around to flirtation. We’ll make fond eyes at each other over our mugs of gruel. We’ll be the envy of couples half our age.”

She smiled. “Oh, Colin. If they could see me right now, I’d be the envy of every woman in England.”

“A few in Scotland, too. You forget, I was raised very near the border.”

He made the comment lightly, but its import sent a shiver of excitement through his bones.

Scotland.

The change in Colin was immediate. Minerva watched the expression on his face shift from warm affection to cold determination, in an instant.

She dragged a coy, sensual touch down his chest, hoping to change it back.

It didn’t work.

He pushed to his feet, offering her a hand. “Come, now. Quickly.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll explain on the way upstairs. We’ve no time to lose.”

Bewildered, she accepted his hand. He helped her up, then gathered all their discarded clothes. “By now your rooms will be prepared. They’ll have fetched your trunks from the road. I’ll see you to your suite, then send a maid to help you bathe and dress.”

“In the middle of the night?”

He glanced out the open window. “Dawn will be coming on soon.”

He put a hand to the small of her back and gathered her close, leading her out of the room and to a grand, sweeping staircase. As they rushed up the steps, Minerva tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was tiptoeing barefoot through one of England’s grandest, most historic estates in nothing but Colin’s lawn shirt. Scandal personified.

But then . . . someday she would be this house’s mistress. Perhaps. Assuming the courtship went smoothly.

Lord, she was so confused.

“And while I’m bathing and dressing, where will you be?”

“I’ll be doing likewise,” he said. “Bathing, dressing. And then seeing to the horses.”

“Horses?”

“Yes. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible.” He stopped. “Which door was it . . . ? Aha. Here’s your suite.”

He led her into an exquisite sitting room decorated in ivory and sage green. Minerva could barely spare a glance to admire the carved moldings, or to emit a sigh of pleasure, as her travel-weary toes sank into the plush carpet pile.