He wanted her. He just didn't want her now. And he seemed so distressed, so troubled. The way he was looking at her broke her heart.
"You are much better than that," she said quietly. "That's why I want you so much, but I understand." And then, because she couldn't help herself: "But I wish you wanted me now."
"Of course I want you now," he burst out, sounding exasperated, sounding like he couldn't believe he had to explain it. "You obviously don't understand. I want you now, and a minute ago, and a minute from now. All I ever think about is wanting you. I want you more than I want to breathe, but I want what's best for you even more than that."
And when those words came out of his mouth, that was when Sean knew.
He loved her.
Yes, she made his blood sing; yes, she'd crawled under his skin; yes, he admired her drive and ambition. But it was more than that, much more. When a man put a woman's interests before his own, when he denied what he wanted most because it wouldn't be best for her…well, if that wasn't the definition of love, he didn't know what was.
He loved her. He was going to ask her to marry him.
Not now, not until all of this was over. Not until he'd seen everything through, eased Lincolnshire to his rest, settled things between Hamilton and Deirdre. Not until he'd reclaimed his life and had something to offer Corinna besides subterfuge and lies. Not until he could approach her brother with his head held high.
Even then, the marquess was likely to refuse him. But he was going to ask.
And though he was a busy man who rarely stopped to pray anymore, right now he was praying harder than he ever had that the answer would be yes.
He kissed her, because he'd already done that and there was no going back. It was a gentle kiss, slow and heartfelt, a kiss he hoped told her without words what he wasn't ready to say.
Then he rose and reached for his shirt. "I'm thinking it's a good idea for us to stop now, as you said. We'll do this again tomorrow afternoon."
THIRTY-FOUR
THE NEXT DAY, Lincolnshire perked up.
When Lord Stafford made his usual early morning call, he was pleased to see his patient more comfortable. "He's more awake than he's been for days," he reported when he came out of the earl's bedroom following his examination. "And he can speak whole sentences—entire paragraphs—without pausing for breaths between words."
Sean had suspected the man might be getting better. "Do you expect all the sleep has revived him?"
"Perhaps, but only temporarily," the doctor reminded him. A gentle warning. "This sort of disease tends to progress and regress in uneven waves, but he's not recovering by any means." His brown eyes met Sean's with sympathy. "You'd best enjoy your uncle's alertness while you can."
Lincolnshire wasn't his uncle, but Sean nodded and thanked Stafford and saw him out. Only to find another man coming in.
This man carried a leather valise. A quite official-looking one. "I'm Mr. Lawrence Lawless," he said by way of introduction. "Lord Lincolnshire's solicitor. Here to consult with him at his request."
Lawless was a tall and very sober sort of gent—not a man Sean normally would greet with a grin. But he couldn't squelch a smile at meeting a lawyer named Lawless. He turned away to hide it, allowing Quincy to escort the man upstairs.
It was the last time Sean smiled that day.
The solicitor spent a full hour closeted in Lincolnshire's bedroom, and no sooner had he left than the earl summoned his nephew. On her way out to go to Raleigh, Deirdre turned back and went upstairs with Sean.
"Good day to you, Lord Lincolnshire," she said softly as they entered his room.
"Good day to you, my dear," the earl wheezed. Sean was amused to hear Deirdre's Irish phrasing echoed rather than good morning in the English way. And very happy that, wheezing or not, Lincolnshire had indeed rattled off that whole sentence without pausing for breath.
But when the earl added, "I'm getting my affairs in order," any smile that might have sprung to Sean's lips died before it could emerge.
That sounded so dire. So final. Despite the doctor's warning, despite his need to get on with his own life, Sean must have been harboring some small hope that Lincolnshire might recover after all, because his heart squeezed painfully in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
"For what?" The older man coughed. "Sit…both of you."
Sean and his sister exchanged a glance. Playacting, or perhaps sensing Sean's distress, Deirdre took his hand as they slowly lowered themselves in unison.
The earl swiped the back of a swollen hand across his face, clearing his mouth of a bit of froth he'd coughed up. When his hand dropped, his lips were curved in a half smile of his own. "I'm pleased to see the two of you holding hands. I cannot imagine why rumors of infidelity persist, when I've seen for myself you've a wonderful marriage. Devoted, close…understanding."
Sean's guilt spiked to record levels. He'd have dropped Deirdre's hand like a hot coal, except she sensed that and gripped his tightly.
"Give her a kiss," Lincolnshire coaxed.
There was nothing for it. Suppressing a sigh, Sean turned to his sister and gave her a wee peck on the cheek.
Lincolnshire nodded, still smiling. "Discreet in public, as usual. But I'd wager that behind closed doors—"
"Uncle," Sean cut in. He couldn't take hearing more about his wonderful marriage to Deirdre. Not without losing his breakfast. "Was there something else you wished to tell me?"
"Indeed. I wanted you to know
