Page 37 of Loving a Beast of a Marquess
The fingers on her chin tightened infinitesimally, and his shoulders sagged. “Very well,” he said, drawing them both back so he could lean, once again, on the table. He never once let go of her as though he was afraid she might leave—or worse, that she might break without him holding her. Or perhaps he was afraid he might break without her there before him. She wrapped a hand around his wrist.
“I have told you the worst news my family could offer,” she said, her voice choked. “You can have no secret worse than this.”
“It is hardly a secret, but…” Almost absently, he stroked the hinge of her jaw, sending shivers through her. “My father’s death and the resulting scandal… I left the country over it. When I returned, I hoped that my life would return to the way it had been before my father’s death, but that is not the case.” He paused in his idle exploration of her jaw and instead trailed his fingers down her neck to her collarbone, exposed and cast in sharp relief by the deep breath she took. “You have seen how it is for me.”
“I have,” she managed, hating the way her skin ignited at his touch, no matter how absent-minded.
“I do not know what to do, Evangeline.” He curled his fingers into a fist and removed them from her with an abruptness that shocked as much as his words did. “I have a temper, I am aware, and I have a reputation I cannot shake. My world is dictated by these two things, and without a father figure to guide me, I am lost.”
Evangeline looked up at the man that until so recently she had despised. Now, she could hardly see where her dislike had come from. The light softened the hardness of his features, and his eyes were filled with such sorrow, such longing, she found it impossible to hate him. Impossible to despise him.
“You had hoped my father would give you the advice you need to move on with your life,” she murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek. It was a daring move, and one that almost shocked her even as she did it, but the brush of skin against her fingertips—rough where he had shaved yet smooth as she ventured further up to his cheekbones—was worth it. He closed his eyes.
“It is a mortifying confession for a man such as myself to admit to not knowing what to do,” he said.
“So, we grieve together.” Her fingers grazed over his eyelids, explored his straight nose, and ventured further down to his lips. It was odd, this juxtaposition between grief and intimacy, but somehow it was everything they needed. The Marquess—Zachary—felt alone.
She, so often, felt alone. Being the strong one meant isolating herself as necessary, to both protect herself and her family from seeing the toll her pain had on her.
Here, with Zachary, she didn’t need to concern herself with that. He had seen her cry in a way no one else had. He had held her to him and comforted her with the same hollow, aching sorrow she, too, felt. They were broken, but they were broken together.
“You do not judge me?” he whispered under her fingers. “Though I have confessed to weakness?”
“And I have confessed to folly.” She leaned closer until her body pressed against his. This comfort was perhaps wrong, but she needed it, and she refused to be sorry. Not for this. “You have promised to keep my secret. I shall not despise you for yours.”
His hands came up from her waist to cup her face, both thumbs swiping across her cheeks and the wetness that still lay there. “I could not have imagined a more beautiful person to grieve with,” he whispered and kissed her again.
This time, the kiss was long, slow. Not passionate in the way their other kiss had been when it had flooded her body with such heat, but tender. Evangeline let herself be lost in the sensation of it, of the salty tang of tears on their lips, of the sense they were not alone. Here, in the library, by the light of a single lamp, she slid her arms around his waist, tilted her head back, and kissed the man who held her reputation in his hands.
The man who, somehow, had contrived to become more dear to her than she could have imagined.
When they broke away, she rested her head against his shoulder for a second time and listened to the pounding of his heart, the raggedness of his breath, and matched it with her own.
“I have one more request,” she said as once more, his arms came up around her. Offering her comfort. Who had been the last person to offer her comfort, rather than demand it either knowingly or not? “Emily and Imustmarry before news of this reaches theton, or we will have little chance of making an eligible match.”
Zachary leaned back so he could look her in the eyes. “Do you want to marry?”
“I hardly see how that is pertinent. We must, and therefore we will.”
“And your request,” he said dryly, “is that I stop scaring away your suitors.”
“You have made it a habit of yours.”
“Is it my fault thetonare scared of me?”
“On occasion,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You said it yourself—you have a temper.”
“I have been taking great pains not to expose you to it,” he said, hands tightening on her arms for a moment. “In fact, I have been doing my best to becharming.”
If by charming he meant a ruthless flirt, at least with her, then perhaps he was charming. Certainly, it was a different style from the Earl of Riffy’s urbane smile, but she found she preferred it.
“Then you should have no issues allowing Emily and I to make the best matches we can under the circumstances.” She held Zachary’s gaze. “Please, Zachary. I know you had thoughts of marrying Emily, but I beg you not to.”
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Even when you are so eager for her to marry?”
Theoretically, it made sense. If hewasprepared to marry Emily before the truth of her father’s death came about, that would solve at least one of her problems. But she didn’t want to think about them being together as he was with her now. She wanted to keep his tenderness, his teasing, hishands, to herself.
“You would not understand,” she said, her voice tight. “I must just ask that you do not—please, Zachary.”
