Page 77 of The Lady is Trouble
“I can’t. Not right now. Not when…” He shoved his hand in his pocket and fingered her hairclip, sending her lovely visage cascading through him. He’d known as he held her lifeless body in his arms what he was going to do. Not what he had to do, but what hewantedto do. With her blood streaking his skin, time had fluttered like the pages of a book until he was fifteen years old and stepping from the earl’s carriage and into her life.
Remembrance of that moment had pierced his skin and let joy flow in. He wanted that feeling back, wanted it every morning when he woke next to her.
He’d been a fool to think he could deny her.
Deny himself.
Humphrey took one look at his face and threw himself to the settee, his large body overwhelming the tiny fixture. “She’ll have my head on a platter when she finds you’ve hightailed it to London, and I didn’t try to stop you.”
“The storm won’t last long because I’m going—” Julian thumped the portmanteau to the floor, swallowed, and tried again, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I need something from my safe in Mayfair to do it. Also, a brief meeting with my solicitor to secure a special license is in order. Keep her occupied; I’ll be back before two days have passed. Call me a coward, but I need a moment to gather my resources before facing her.”
Julian glanced over to find Humphrey—for the first time in memory—stunned to silence.
“Shocking, Rey, that you have no supplementary advice upon hearing this declaration.”
Humphrey gave one hard blink, and then a slow smile cracked his lips. “If you’d followed my advice, you would’ve been married to Scamp for a while now. Can’t ignore her healing when she’s in your bed every night, now can you?”
Julian bumped back against his desk, this point the one compromise with himself he had yet to account for. He still thought his gift was ruinous, his future bleak.
But he loved her.
Too much to let them go on like this. In a quasi-state of inseparability, profound intimacy the likes of which he’d never imagined, even with her. He’d begun to think a balance may lie in the positive aspects of their union outweighing the negative.
She needed him, too, and if she weren’t consumed with getting him to admit he loved her, maybe she’d start accepting his counsel.
Occasionally, anyway.
Was he insane to think marriage could settle down Scandalous Scott—without killing Julian Alexander in the process?
“You look like you’re plotting a war campaign over there. It’s downright frightening but makes me feel, sure to my bones, that you’ve found your match in that hellion.”
Julian wrapped his hand around Piper’s hairclip and released a breath that came out sounding horribly sentimental. “What if she says no? What will I do then?”
Humphrey threw his head back, laughter rolling from his throat. “You are one sad duck, Jule. It’s tough to watch. I prefer Scamp’s take-no-prisoners method.”
Julian could only hang his head in agreement, hoping what was hidden away in his safe in Mayfair would convince Piper to share her future.
He had left for London without a word. A note. An explanation.
Piper digested this information as she rested against her bay’s flank, the cottage Julian was forcing upon her sitting at the end of the pebbled footpath. Brook Cottage, to be exact. A bequest from the Earl of Montclaire to his cherished granddaughter, a delightful abode where she would follow expectation and live an undignified life with an undignified maid and ten screeching cats.
She kicked at a rock that had snuck beneath her boot. In truth, she was not overly fond of cats.
And, Julian might be surprised, but the damsel in distress was no longer up to the chase.
Drawing her ire like a shawl about her, she inhaled a breath scented with myrrh, musk, and tea rose. Regrettably, she understood Julian better than he understood himself. This insight allowed her to see both sides, even if she only wanted to see one.
Hers.
Julian tried to do the right thing, always—and she knew it. She supposed she loved him for his scrupulousness even when it got in her way.
Looping the reins around a fence post, she crossed to the babbling brook giving the cottage its name. The ivy-covered dwelling was constructed of the chalk brick in such favor in Oxfordshire; the window frames painted a splendidly contrasting blue. Gardens, modest but undeniably lovely, surrounded her. The manor was adorable, and she loved it on sight. Halting in a thicket of rose bushes, she popped a pale pink bloom from its stem, wondering what in heaven’s name she was going to do now.
As she stood there, peeling the flower like an onion, at a home Julian had chosen for her, very personally now that she had a look at it, a feeling similar to being enfolded in his arms overtook her.
The gift of Brook Cottage was a loving embrace.
Anda kick in the backside.