A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(72)

“What?” Daniel demanded when she did not finish the sentence.
“He wants to cut me,” she said, very quietly.
Daniel let out a vicious curse. It did not matter that he was in the presence of a lady. There was no way he could stop the foul language that spat from his mouth. “I’m going to kill him,” he said.
“No,” Anne said, “you’re not. After what happened with Hugh Prentice—”
“No one would mind if I removed Chervil from the face of this earth,” he cut in. “I have no worries on that score.”
“You will not kill him,” Anne said sternly. “I have already injured him grievously—”
“Surely you do not make excuses for him?”
“No,” she replied, with enough alacrity to set his mind at ease. “But I do think he has paid for what he did to me that night. He will never escape what I did to him.”
“As well he shouldn’t,” Daniel bit off.
“I want this to stop,” she said firmly. “I want to live my life without looking over my shoulder. But I don’t want revenge. I don’t need it.”
Daniel rather thought he might need it, but he knew it was her decision to make. It took him a moment to stuff down his anger, but he managed it, and finally he asked, “How did he explain the injury?”
Anne looked relieved that he had changed the subject. “A riding accident. Charlotte told me no one believed it, but they said that he’d been thrown by his horse and his face had been cut open by the branch of a tree. I don’t think anyone suspected the truth—I’m sure people thought the worst of me when I disappeared so suddenly, but I can’t imagine anyone thought I would stab him in the face.”
Much to his surprise, Daniel felt himself smile. “I’m glad you did.”
She looked at him with surprise.
“You should have cut him somewhere else.”
Her eyes widened, and then she let out a snort of laughter.
“Call me bloodthirsty,” he murmured.
Her expression grew a little bit wicked. “You’ll be pleased to know that tonight, while I was getting away . . .”
“Oh, tell me you kneed him in the balls,” he begged. “Please please please tell me that.”
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh again. “I might have done.”
He tugged her close. “Hard?”
“Not as hard as I kicked him once he was on the ground.”
Daniel kissed one of her hands, and then the other. “May I say that I’m very proud to know you?”
She flushed with pleasure.
“And I’m very very proud to call you mine.” He kissed her, lightly. “But you will never be my mistress.”
She drew back. “Dan—”
He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “I have already announced that I plan to marry you. Would you make me a liar?”
“Daniel, you can’t!”
“I can.”
“No, you—”
“I can,” he said firmly. “And I will.”
Her eyes searched his face with frantic movement. “But George is still out there. And if he hurts you . . .”
“I can take care of the George Chervils of the world,” he assured her, “as long as you can take care of me.”
“But—”
“I love you,” he said, and it felt as if the whole world settled into place when he finally told her. “I love you, and I cannot bear the thought of a moment without you. I want you at my side and in my bed. I want you to bear my children, and I want every bloody person in the world to know that you are mine.”
“Daniel,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she was protesting or giving in. But her eyes had filled with tears, and he knew he was close.
“I won’t be satisfied with anything less than everything,” he whispered. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to marry me.”
Her chin trembled. It might have been a nod. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”
“And . . . ?” he prodded. Because he was going to make her say it.
“Yes,” she said. “If you’re brave enough to want me, I will marry you.”
He pulled her against him, kissing her with all of the passion, and fear, and emotion he’d been holding inside of him for a week. “Bravery has nothing to do with it,” he told her, and he almost laughed, he was so exquisitely happy. “It’s self-preservation.”
Her brow furrowed.
He kissed her again. He couldn’t seem to stop. “I believe I would die without you,” he murmured.
“I think . . . ,” she whispered, but she didn’t finish, at least not right away. “I think that before . . . with George . . . I don’t think it counts.” She lifted her face to his, her eyes shining with love and promise. “Tonight is going to be my first time. With you.”

Chapter Nineteen


And then Anne said one word. Just one.
“Please.”
She didn’t know why she said it; it certainly wasn’t the result of rational thought. It was just that she had spent the last five years of her life reminding people that it never hurt to use good manners and say please for the things one wanted.
And she wanted this very badly.
“Then I,” Daniel murmured, bowing his head in a courtly gesture, “can say only ‘thank you.’ ”
She smiled then, but not the smile of amusement or humor. It was a different thing altogether, the kind of smile that took a body by surprise, that wobbled on the lips until it found its bearing. It was the smile of pure happiness, coming so deep from within that Anne had to remind herself to breathe.