Page 29 of A Desperate Proposal

Elinor caught herself mid-eyeroll but didn’t stifle a frustrated sigh. “I swear that I have never met a man more vexing than you, Lord Asherton.” God, please don’t let him ask me to be his mistress. I don’t know that I have the strength left to refuse. Even such disgrace feels less terrifying than returning to my uncle’s house.

“If you saw how beautiful you are when aggravated, you’d wonder at anyone ever being peaceable in your vicinity.” His dark head moved in the light, bowing. “But I apologize. My preference to see you laughing and just a trifle annoyed is ill-timed. You are in pain and have had a very trying and painful evening.”

A familiar heat rose in her cheeks. “That may be true,” she said, looking down at the ruined chain and heavy cross. “But I think a long night of pain is a great deal better than the years of trials that Georgiana Mitford will face.” She dropped the chain into her lap. “I mourn more for the future I imagined for myself than the man who would have secured it.”

“I maintain he will secure far less than he thinks,” Tristan muttered. Elinor found herself watching his lips, and the not-quite-hidden sullen slant they’d suddenly acquired.

“In truth, I find I am more upset at the thought of having lost your good opinion of me,” she ventured in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “Do you forgive me, my lord?”

“There was nothing to forgive.” Tristan’s posture straightened. “I should have spoken with more tact. But I find candidness comes easily when speaking with you. Perhaps too easily.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Their gazes met once more. Did he feel the need to reach for her hand? He exhaled, his fingers moving restlessly once more, and Elinor thought perhaps he did. She ached to still his fingers and feel his bigger palm against hers. His skin had felt so intoxicating before, and the weight of his limbs against her own would surely soothe even the most painful unhappiness…

“Does that bother you?”

“What?” She blinked, and he smiled.

“My ill-suited tendency to address you too candidly.”

Her heart seized in her chest hard enough to tear the truth from her lips: “Only because … because I know that in the end, I cannot have you.”

“Another flawed premise, Miss Harcourt.” His eyes did not waver. “Say, rather, you should have someone better. For you certainly should.”

She watched his elegant fingers, still moving against the chair’s arm. With a shaky breath, she put her hand over them. He stopped moving. “There is no one better,” she whispered.

He made a low sound that couldn’t quite have been pain. Then somehow, he moved, striking panther-quick. How she ended up in his arms was a question for another time, because the Earl of Asherton had hold of her and didn’t seem to be letting go, nor were his lips on hers allowing any questions until they’d tumbled backward into the chair—Hers? His? She couldn’t remember with his tongue doing that against her own—and her body was throbbing like that day in the carriage. A need only he sparked, and only he could quench, held her in thrall.

“There is,” he whispered finally, when she was practically shuddering in his lap. “Someone better,” he added, obviously waiting for her mind to catch back up to the conversation. “And if I were better, I’d let you find him. I’m not. I want you as my countess.” His fingertips touched her lips, forestalling her answer. For a moment. “Your cousin Alexander found me. He is, ah, somewhat drunk, and he expounded his hesitation in marrying you himself. You don’t want to be an officer’s wife.”

“I … I didn’t…” Her head spun, her heart trying to both leap for joy and sink with dread in the same second. Blast it, Alex!

“I am a Major, Miss Harcourt. Soon to be a Lieutenant Colonel. Nor can I abandon the Duke of Wellington’s side.” He cupped her cheek, his expression sad and weary. “I may yet return to France, or Portugal, or God knows where as we settle Napoleon’s mess.”

Elinor lifted her hand, her fingers—when had her glove come off?—going to his lips to silence him. She bowed her head, the passion she’d felt a moment before fading somewhat as shame slithered up to take its place. “You know who my father is. Before I was removed to my uncle’s house, I watched every time he left for another battlefield. It broke my heart to see my mother’s tears. And it broke mine that he was gone. I was so happy when he came home hurt. And that … that is a disgusting thing to say out loud. But it meant he was not fighting a war. That we would not receive a letter saying he wasn’t ever to return.”

“I understand,” he whispered, and she felt his shoulders sag.

“You don’t.” She closed her eyes. “I was determined to never find myself in my mother’s agonizing pace. But I … I recently discovered why she endured so many farewells. It would have hurt her far more to have never had him at all.”

“Then say yes, Elinor.”

“I want to.” She caught her breath. “But before I do, it is only fair to point out that I have no idea how to be a countess. You say I should hesitate because you think yourself a poor choice, and selfish to ask me but I would fear disappointing you—” His kiss stopped her words. Asherton laughed at that, holding her tighter.

“I have no idea how to be an earl,” he whispered. “In that, we are an ideal match. I’ll give you my most fervent support whether you’re the worst countess in the history of England or the best.”

“But you have the breeding. The family. I—”

“You’ve heard exactly the general opinion of my family. To hell with breeding. You’re an officer’s daughter. I’m an officer. And we shall both learn how to handle the blasted titles. Together.” His fingers moved along her sides, setting sparks through her limbs. How could she argue with that?

“And if I am disdained by all your highborn friends?”

“Dearest, the Ton have been cutting my family for decades. It wouldn’t matter if you were a princess or a pigman’s girl, you’ll be disdained for being my wife all the same.” His expression was so horribly bleak. “I can give you wealth, title, servants, and my heart. But you will be ignored at balls and cut by wretched hoydens with half your beauty and none of your intellect.”

Elinor put her hand to his cheek, desperate to kiss him but holding back. Seasons of being ignored and gossiped about were nothing compared to Tristan’s smile. But there was one thing more. “And when you tire of me? Or we quarrel? Shall I dread meeting your mistress?”

Tristan had the gall to chuckle, but he pulled her hand to his lips, which soothed the annoyance. “Never, Elinor. If I’m lucky enough to wed the woman who stole my heart, I am smart enough not to risk her happiness for anything.”

“Then yes. I will marry you.”