“Oh, Gray.” She sighed, her fingers curling into the hairs at his nape. “Sometimes I think you truly believe that. But perhaps you love me as much as a man like you is able.”

“Never doubt it,” he said ardently. “I love you more than anything, Em. I always have.” Taking a moment to divest her of the cape, he tossed it aside and carried her to the waiting bed.

As he undressed her with quiet efficiency, he seethed inside. Emily was supposed to have been his bride, but he had gone away on his Grand Tour, and returned to find his childhood love married. She said her heart had been broken when he left, and rumors of his affairs had reached her ears. She had reminded him that he had never written, which led her to believe he had forgotten her.

Gerard knew his mother had helped to plant the seeds of doubt, and then had watered them daily. Emily had not been worthy in the dowager’s eyes. She had wanted him to marry a bride of higher station, so he would do the opposite, to thwart her and pay her in kind.

If only Em had held on to her faith a little while longer, they could have been wed now. This could have been her bed, one she did not have to leave before the sun rose.

Naked, her pale skin glowing like ivory in the candlelight, Emily took his breath away, as she always had. He had loved her as long as he could remember. She was so beautiful. Not in the way Pel was. Pel had an earthy, carnal sensuality. Em was a different kind of beautiful, more fragile and understated. They were as opposite as a rose was to a daisy.

Gerard was very fond of daisies.

His large hand reached out and cupped the slight weight of her breast. “You are still maturing, Em,” he said, noting the new fullness.

She covered his hand with her own. “Gerard,” she said in her lilting voice.

He caught her gaze, and his heart swelled at the love he saw there. “Yes, my love?”

“I am enceinte.”

Gerard gaped. He had been careful, and made use of French letters. “Em, dear God!”

Her blue eyes, those lovely eyes the color of cornflowers, filled with tears. “Tell me you are happy. Please.”

“I…” He swallowed hard. “Of course, sweet.” He had to ask the obvious question. “What of Sinclair?”

Emily smiled sadly. “I do not believe there will be a doubt in anyone’s mind that the child is yours, but he will not refute it. He gave me his word. In a way, ’tis fitting. He released his last mistress due to pregnancy.”

His stomach clenched tight with shock, Gerard laid her down upon the mattress. She looked so tiny, so angelic against the blood red color of his velvet counterpane. He discarded his robe and climbed over her. “Come away with me.”

Gerard lowered his head, and sealed his lips over hers, moaning at the sweet taste of her. If only things were different. If only she had waited.

“Come away with me, Emily,” he begged again. “We can be happy together.”

Tears slid down her temples. “Gray, my love.” She cupped his face in her tiny hands. “You are such a passionate dreamer.”

He nuzzled the fragrant valley between her breasts, his hips grinding his erection into the mattress in an attempt to temper his desire. With an iron will, he controlled his baser demands. “You cannot deny me.”

“Too true,” she gasped, caressing his back. “If I had been stronger, how different our lives would have been. But Sinclair…the dear man. I have shamed him enough.”

Gerard pressed loving kisses into her tight belly, and thought of his child who had taken root there. His heart raced in near panic. “What will you do then, if you will not have me?”

“I depart tomorrow for Northumberland.”

“Northumberland!” His head lifted in surprise. “Bloody hell, why so far away?”

“Because that is where Sinclair wishes to go.” With her hands under his arms, she tugged him over her, her legs spreading wide in welcome. “Under the circumstances, how can I refuse?”

Feeling as if she were drifting away, Gerard rose over her, and slid his cock slowly into her, groaning his lust as she closed hot and tight around him. “But you will come back,” he said hoarsely.

Emily’s golden head thrashed softly in pleasure, her eyes squeezed shut. “God, yes, I will return.” Her depths fluttered along his shaft. “I cannot live without you. Without this.”

Holding her tightly to him, Gerard began to thrust gently. He stroked into her in the way he knew brought her the most pleasure, while restraining his own needs. “I love you, Em.”

“My love,” she gasped. And then she came apart in his arms.

Tink.

Tink.

Isabel awoke with a groan, knowing by the soft purplish color of the sky and her exhaustion that it must be just after dawn. She lay there a moment, her mind groggy, trying to determine what had disturbed her sleep.

Tink.

Running her hands over her eyes, Isabel sat up and reached for her night rail to cover her nakedness. She glanced at the large-faced clock on the mantel and realized Markham had departed only two hours before. She had hoped to sleep until late afternoon, and still intended to do so, once she dealt with her recalcitrant swain. Whoever he was.

She shivered as she made her way to the window, where tiny pebbles hitting the glass provided the annoying sound. Isabel pushed up the sash and looked down at her rear garden. She sighed. “I suppose if I must be disturbed,” she called out, “it is best that it be for a sight as handsome as you are.”

The Marquess of Grayson grinned up at her, his shiny brown hair disheveled and his deep blue eyes red-rimmed. He was missing his cravat and the neck of his shirt gaped open, revealing a golden throat and a few strands of dark chest hair. He appeared to be lacking a waistcoat as well, and she could not help but smile back at him. Gray reminded her so much of Pelham when she had first met him nine years ago. Those had been happy times, short-lived as they were.

“O Romeo, Romeo!” she recited, taking a seat on the window bench. “Wherefore art thou-”

“Oh, please, Pel,” he groaned, cutting her off with that deep laugh of his. “Let me in, will you? It’s cold out here.”

“Gray.” She shook her head. “If I open my door to you, this incident will be all over London by supper time. Go away, before you are seen.”

He crossed his arms stubbornly, the material of his black jacket straining to contain his brawny arms and broad shoulders. Grayson was so young, his face as yet unlined. Still a boy in so many ways. Pelham had been the same age when he’d swept her off her seventeen-year-old feet.

“I am not leaving, Isabel. So you may as well invite me in, before I make a spectacle of myself.”

She could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that he was serious. Well, as serious as a man such as him could be.

“Go to the front, then,” she relented. “Someone will be awake to admit you.”

Isabel rose from the window seat, and retrieved her white satin dressing robe. She left her bedroom and walked into her boudoir, where she opened the curtains to let in the now pale pink light. The room was her favorite, decorated in soft shades of ivory and burnished gold, with gilt-edged chairs and chaise, and tasseled drapes. But the soothing color scheme was not what most moved her. That distinction went to the only spot of obtrusive color in the space-the large portrait of Pelham that graced the far wall.

Every day she gazed upon that likeness, and allowed her heartbreak and loathing to rise to the surface. The earl was impervious, of course, his seductively etched mouth curved in the smile that had won her hand in marriage. How she had loved him, and adored him, as only a young girl could. Pelham had been everything to her, until she had sat at Lady Warren’s musicale and heard two women behind her discussing her husband’s carnal prowess.

Her jaw clenched at the memory, all her old resentment rushing to the fore. Nearly five years had passed since Pelham met his reward in a duel over a paramour, but she still smarted from the sting of betrayal and humiliation.

A soft scratching came to the door. Isabel called out and the portal opened, revealing the frowning countenance of her hastily dressed butler.

“My lady, the Marquess of Grayson requests a moment of your time.” He cleared his throat. “From the service door.”

Isabel bit back a smile, her dark mood fleeing at the image she pictured of Grayson standing haughty and arrogant, as only he could be, while semi-dressed and at the delivery entrance. “I am at home.”

A slight twitching of a gray eyebrow was the only indication of surprise.

While the servant went to fetch Gray, she went around the room and lit the tapers. Lord, she was weary. She hoped he would be quick about whatever was so urgent. Thinking of their earlier odd conversation, she wondered if he might not need some help. He could be a bit touched in the head.

Certainly they had been unfailingly friendly with one another, and beyond mere acquaintances, but never more than that. Isabel had always rubbed along well with men. After all, she liked them quite well. But there had been a respectful distance between her and Lord Grayson, because of her ongoing affair with Markham, his closest friend. An affair she had ended just hours ago, when the handsome viscount had asked her to marry him for the third time.

In any case, despite Gray’s ability to arrest her brain processes for a moment with his uncommon beauty, she had no further interest in him. He was Pelham all over again-a man too selfish and self-centered to set aside his own needs for another’s.

The door flew open behind her, startling her, and she spun about, only to be met head-on with over six feet of powerful male. Gray caught her around the waist and spun her about, laughing that rich laugh of his. A laugh that said he’d never once had a care in the world.