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“Kiss me.”

She wanted to. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the air around them.

He leaned down, closer…but not enough so their lips touched. “Kiss me,” he said, one last time.

She rose on her toes. She moved nothing else—her hands did not come up to caress him, she did not lean in, allowing her body to rest against his. She just rose on her toes until her lips brushed his.

And then she backed away.

“Jack?” she whispered.

“I—” He almost said it. The words were right there, on his lips. I love you.

But somehow he knew—he had no idea how, just that he did—if he said it then, if he gave voice to what he was certain she knew in her heart, it would scare her away.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. He was through being noble. The current Duke of Wyndham could spend his life doing nothing but the right thing, but he could not be so unselfish.

He kissed her hand.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered.

He kissed her other hand.

“Oh, Jack.”

He raised them both to his lips, holding them to his face, inhaling her scent.

She looked at the door.

“Stay with me,” he said again. And then he touched her chin, tipped her face gently up, and laid one soft kiss on her lips. “Stay.”

He watched her face, saw the conflicted shadows in her eyes. Her lips trembled, and she turned away from him before she spoke.

“If I—” Her voice was a whisper, shaky and unsure. “If I stay…”

He touched her chin but did not guide her back to face him. He waited until she was ready, until she turned on her own.

“If I stay…” She swallowed, and shut her eyes for a moment, as if summoning courage. “Can you…Is there a way you can make sure there is no baby?”

For a moment he could not speak. Then he nodded, because yes, he could make sure there was no baby. He had spent his adult life making sure there would be no babies.

But that had been with women he did not love, women he did not intend to adore and worship for the rest of their lives. This was Grace, and the idea of making a baby with her suddenly burned within him like a shining, magical dream. He could see them as a family, laughing, teasing. His own childhood had been like that—loud and boisterous, racing across fields with his cousins, fishing in streams and never catching a thing. Meals were never formal affairs; the icy gatherings at Belgrave had been as foreign to him as a Chinese banquet.

He wanted all of that, and he wanted it with Grace. Only he hadn’t realized just how much until this very moment.

“Grace,” he said, holding her hands tightly. “It does not matter. I will marry you. I want to marry you.”

She shook her head, the motion fast and jerky, almost frenzied. “No,” she said. “You can’t. Not if you are the duke.”

“I will.” And then, damn it all, he said it anyway. Some things were too big, too true, to keep inside. “I love you. I love you. I have never said that to another woman, and I never will. I love you, Grace Eversleigh, and I want to marry you.”

She shut her eyes, looking almost pained. “Jack, you can’t—”

“I can. I do. I will.”

“Jack—”

“I am so tired of everyone telling me what I cannot do,” he burst out, letting go of her hands to stalk across the room. “Do you understand that I don’t care? I don’t care about the bloody dukedom and I certainly don’t care about the dowager. I care about you, Grace. You.”