“Next time we duel, I shall contrive to be the one who is wounded. I will see if you end up kissing me and holding me as I am you. We will see if you feel such a thing then. Lust is a very nice thing, Hetty.”
“I think I’d rather learn about lust in a happier circumstance than with you wounded.” Suddenly, she shuddered, ducking her head again against his neck. “You know, I really enjoyed my fencing lessons with Signore Bertioli. Yet when it came to the sticking point”
He tightened his hold on her shoulders and finished her unspoken thought. “There’s always a sticking point. There’s no sport, no dashing romance in slicing up a man, or a woman, as the case may be.”
“You wouldn’t want to kill Sir William Filey?”
There was a sudden, dangerous gleam in his dark eyes. “That’s different. He’s different. Yes, I have wanted to for a very long time, but my hands are tied. After Elizabeth’s death, I returned briefly to London and confronted him. Sir William is many things, but he isn’t stupid. He knows me to be his better with foils and pistols. Thus, he denied any involvement with Elizabeth and sullenly swallows my insults as he did that night at White’s when I tried to intervene and protect you.”
“I would like to kill him, too,” she said. “I think I could kill him after what I saw he did to Mavreen.”
She moved slightly against his chest to relieve the sudden sharp pulling in her side. He became very much aware of her soft breasts pressing against him. He became very much aware of how hard he’d become in just the past few moments. He didn’t want to embarrass her. He didn’t want her to feel she couldn’t trust him. Damnation.
He rose quickly to stand over her. She was young and beautiful and so damned female that it made him harder than a stone. He saw her laugh, felt the energy and pleasure in her when he’d whirled her about in the waltz. She was also Lord Harry. He knew her better than he’d ever known another human being. All her different parts were his now. It felt very good and very right. There could be no other woman like her. The black despair that had held him for so long was gone. “You must rest now, Hetty. We’ve had an evening I doubt I will ever forget. I pray you won’t either and try to stick a knife in my ribs on the morrow.”
“No, I shan’t do that,” she said and let him pull the covers over her. “Jason.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you can forgive me for all I’ve done to you?”
“Perhaps,” he said quietly, taking her hand in his. “In twenty years or so.”
She smiled at him. Twenty years, she thought. That sounded nice. Odd that it should, but it did. For the first time since Damien’s death, she felt something besides guilt, despair, and blind determination. She felt a bit of peace. She knew it wouldn’t last, that she couldn’t let it last, for the person who was responsible for Damien’s death was still out there, still unknown. But for now, she hugged the peace to her and when she slept, she was smiling.
Chapter Twenty-nine
She awoke up to complete silence. Sunlight filled the large bedchamber. That wonderful feeling of peace was still with her. There was still a smile on her face. She remembered him clearly, holding her, kissing her. She felt clean and whole, despite the constant pulling in her side, but that didn’t matter, she could bear that. She was alive.
And so was he. She stared over at him, watching him write, his dark head bent, his right hand moving swiftly over a piece of foolscap. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, the sleeves loose to the tight cuffs, and black knit pants that made him look quite nice indeed. As for his black hessians, she had to admit that Lord Harry had never looked quite so excellent in his.
But what was most important was that he’d told her the truth. He was innocent. There was honor in him, deep honor, and honesty. Again, she felt the surge of guilt, then forced herself away from it. It was over now. He’d understood. He’d forgiven her, at least he said he would in the next twenty years.
That still sounded very nice to her this morning.
“Who are you writing to?” She struggled up on her elbows, trying to reach for the carafe of water. He paused, his pen poised in midair, and quickly rose. “No, hold still. Let me give you water.”
He held the glass as she drank. “I’m writing a letter to Sir Archibald.”
“Oh my, you’re what?”
“I’m writing to your esteemed sire. Hetty, Lady Alicia Warton is an excellent hostess, though she sincerely apologizes for not informing Sir Archibald sooner of the delightful visit she is having with his daughter. She is, at the moment, endeavoring to create and recount the various activities you’ve enjoyed since your arrival at Thurston Hall. I fear you’ve been fairly debauched. Perhaps you’ve even flirted overly with too many gentlemen. It also appears that you are very fond of your host, Lord Oberlon. Perhaps he even is attracted to you. It remains to be seen.”
She just stared up at him with those clear blue eyes of hers. “I think I’d like to be debauched.”
He looked stunned, then forced a light smile. “What, no duel for me today? No knife in my black heart?”
She just shook her head at him and drank some more water.
“Call me Jason. I like to hear you say my name.”
Instead she choked on the water. He thwacked her back, then sat down on the bed beside her and pulled her against him to gently rub his palm over her back. She’d stopped choking long before he stopped rubbing.
“Jason,” she said against his shoulder. “Is Lady Alicia
