She nodded, his words striking hard against an ache that had been building in the pit of her stomach. He hadn’t meant to do that? Hadn’t meant to share pleasure with her, as opposed to visit it upon her unilaterally?

As arousal ebbed and fatigue reasserted itself, Leah’s previous sense of loneliness stirred back to life too. Except it wasn’t as simple as loneliness. Her throat constricted around a sharp ache, and what she felt in that moment was desolation.

Hopelessness.

It made no sense. She was wrapped in Nick’s arms, he’d just shown her more spectacular physical pleasure than she’d known existed, and he was promising her more of that as part of her due as his wife. He had even let himself find pleasure as well.

As the first tear squeezed its way past Leah’s closed eyes, she knew a despair so great that if Nick hadn’t been holding her, she might have physically flown apart. This closeness Nick was willing to settle for, it wasn’t going to be enough. For all Nick’s tenderness and consideration, it was without love, a subversion of the intended purpose of marriage, a parody of the union Leah had longed for.

He did this with many other women, and did more than this too.

Nick shifted carefully, bringing her over his body to sprawl on his chest. “Tell me again that you are all right, lamb.”

He’d felt the heat of tears, no doubt. Leah furtively wiped at her cheeks where she was curled against him.

“Here.” Nick reached out a long arm to the night table and retrieved a linen handkerchief. He dabbed gently at her cheeks, then while she shifted up, mopped at their bellies.

“We’re not quite spotless,” he said, “but the linens are safe. Now come here, let me hold you, and tell me what bothers you.”

“You mean well,” Leah allowed as she eased down against him on a tired sigh. “But you can’t repair my feelings, Nick. I do not believe I will be availing myself of this aspect of your marital offer.”

His hands, which had started stroking her back, went momentarily still, then resumed their steady, gentle caresses.

“You are not all right,” he concluded. “Talk to me, Leah.” He drew the covers up over her back and wrapped his arms more securely around her. “Please, talk to me.”

“I bore Aaron Frommer a son.”

Eleven

Again, Nick’s hands went still on Leah’s back.

“I’m listening,” he said, angling his head to kiss her temple. Those two words were offered in what had to be the gentlest, kindest tone Leah had ever heard, and her resolution faltered.

“Aaron was a good man,” Leah said, “but he had not one tenth your skill with the ladies, Nick. He cared for me, though, and so I was pleased to find I carried his child. He would have been pleased as well.”

Nick apparently divined the argument she was about to make. “While I can’t be pleased to think my child might cost your life.”

“I bore my son easily, Nick. I labored but a few hours, and he was born with a perfect complement of fingers and toes.”

“Where is your child now, Leah?” Nick asked, his hands moving again, more slowly than ever.

“In heaven.” Leah took a shuddery breath. “He caught a fever when he was little past a year. I went into town to fetch the doctor, the midwife, the healer, anybody who might have been able to help. My Italian was far better than my brother’s, and by the time I returned a few hours later, my baby was gone. Darius gave me some time to grieve, but brought me back to England shortly thereafter. My mother was asking for me, and I did very much miss her.”

“I am so sorry.” Nick gathered her close, rolled, and blanketed her with his naked body. “I am so very, very sorry.”

He stayed there, over her, sheltering her and holding her until Leah was holding him in return and letting tears long repressed pour from her. She clung, and cried, and clung some more, until her grief was spent and her body too wrung out to cling anymore.

“I’ll be right back.” Nick kissed her nose and eased from her embrace. He brought her a glass of water, watching while she drained about a quarter of it, then helped himself as well. He set the glass aside and turned serious blue eyes on her.

“You will marry me?” he asked, expression pensive.

“I will. But there won’t be any of this pleasuring, Nicholas.”

“Move over.” He shifted and climbed under the covers with her. When she kept to her own space, Nick flopped to his side, curled his body around hers, and wrapped her in his arms.

“You did not enjoy what we did?” he asked, his cheek resting over her temple.

“My body was very favorably impressed,” Leah said, glad he could not see her face. “I’ve never known such sensations, Nicholas, and for that, I must thank you.”

“You’re thanking me, and now you’re willing to marry me, but you do not want to repeat the experience?”

“I do not.”

“Was it… me?”

“Nicholas?”

He shifted, his nose against her nape. “I’ve been told stallions are less vulgarly crafted than I am in my aroused state.”

“God above, Nicholas.” Leah glared at him over her shoulder. “You are the envy of every man, of this I can be sure, and you are the most magnificent dream of any honest woman. But in a sense, it is you that troubles me.”

He huffed out a sigh against her neck. “You want more from me than pleasuring.”

“I have more from you,” Leah reminded him. “You’ve told me I have your respect, your affection, I will have your title, and I do have your protection.”

“So what does that leave? And for the love of God, don’t reply that if I have to ask, you aren’t going to let me know the right answer.”

“I’m not sure,” Leah said, and she wasn’t being coy. “But whatever it is, it is important, and it was missing from this demonstration of your very impressive bedroom skills, Nicholas.”

“And it wasn’t missing with Frommer?” Nick asked, his voice betraying his frustration.

“It very likely was, but I had not the sense or the experience to know it.”

She drifted off to sleep while Nick pondered her words in silence. As sleep tugged at his brain, Nick tried to reason out why he should take a miniscule comfort from her words.

Leah had been willing to settle for Lord Aaron, just to escape her father.

No. Nick backed up and reconsidered.

Leah had been willing to settle for Lord Aaron on Lord Aaron’s terms, he clarified. Eloping, anticipating vows, risking scandal, and more scandal with the duel with Wilton.

She was willing to marry Nick and accept his protection, but not on Nick’s terms. Nick eased into his slumbers with the sure conviction that this somehow put him not just in a different class from the sainted Lord Aaron, but in a better class.

* * *

Nick waited in the Earl of Wilton’s library, his thoughts turned to his upcoming interview with his prospective father-in-law, and the marriage contract drafted and copied for Nick by his solicitors. He tried to mentally rehearse what needed to be said, and how, and his contingency plans, but thoughts of Leah kept interrupting.

Dear God, she’d borne and lost a child, and lived with the secret of her grief for long, silent years.

It explained a lot, Nick reflected as he inspected weighty tomes likely chosen for display rather than the earl’s personal tastes. A mother’s grief illuminated Leah’s reserve, gave ballast to her sadness, and helped explain why putting up with Wilton since her return from Italy had probably been a mere afterthought for her. After losing a child, alone and in a foreign country, Leah Lindsey could survive a great deal. More puzzling was why she’d bothered to survive, and where she’d found the courage to endure what she had.

He paused on that thought, and it occurred to him that refusing to give Leah children was probably the one thing he could have done to most effectively add to her pain.

Jesus on a donkey.

The stinging lash of Nick’s conscience was stilled by the approach of footsteps in the corridor. Nick schooled his features to those of an anxious suitor, one who could be written off as big, slow, and harmless.

“Reston.” Wilton stopped halfway across the room, forcing Nick to come to him.

“My lord.” Nick returned the greeting with what he hoped was a suitably hesitant and hopeful smile.

“Shall we be seated?” Wilton gestured to a pair of padded gilt chairs Nick might easily have snapped into kindling. “The tea tray will be along presently.”

Wilton was a handsome specimen. Tall, lean, and sporting a full head of white hair, about which he was probably vain. His eyes were pale blue, but something about them put Nick in mind of a hungry reptile.

“I must say, Reston, you don’t waste time.”

“I appreciate your directness,” Nick replied, thinking a modicum of civilities would have been appreciated more. “Bellefonte is not enjoying good health, and I’ve made my papa a promise I intend to keep.”

“Never knew your father well,” Wilton mused, smiling at nothing Nick could discern, “but you have my wishes for his speedy recovery.” The smile belied the words, leaving Nick with simmering anger that had to be ruthlessly shoved aside.

“Thank you, my lord.” Nick let his gaze travel around the room, unwilling to launch his campaign until the tea had been brought. “You have a lovely house.”

“It’s comfortable,” Wilton allowed dismissively. “Wilton Acres is far more grand.”

“But your children and grandchildren are ensconced in Town, so you maintain a residence here.”

Wilton shrugged. “Needs must. One has parliamentary obligations.”