Page 94 of Tempting the Earl

“I’m not saying that at all.”

He shook his head in frustration. “Then what are you saying?”

Slipping her arms around his torso, she pressed her body to his. And though he responded by wrapping her in a secure embrace, a scowl still marred his handsome features.

Taking pity on him, she drew a deep breath and finally managed the words she’d come here to say. “I do love you. And I want to stay with you here in London, though I willnae give up Faeglen, you understand. The place means far too much to me and will have to be visited often.”

Light flashed in his eyes. “And you’ll marry me.”

She narrowed her gaze thoughtfully and sighed. “I dinnae want to marry just because we’ve...taken so much pleasure in each other’s company of late.” His lips quirked at her choice of words. “Plus, I’d make a terrible countess.”

“You’d make a perfect countess. My countess,” he added in a possessive growl that made her belly tighten.

She gave him an intent look. “You still haven’t told me.”

His arms tightened. “I love you.” The rough-textured emotion in his voice thrilled her. “With a depth and passion that, honestly, sometimes frightens me. I don’t want to imagine you leaving. I don’t want to even consider a future without you by my side. I love you, Ainsworth Morgan. I need you. I want to devote the rest of my life to your happiness”—his voice lowered intimately, erotically—“and your pleasure.”

A shiver coursed through her at his words and the heavy weight of truth within them. Sliding her hands along his nape to thread her fingers into his hair, she rose up on her toes and brought her lips within a breath of his.

“All right, then,” she said with a wide grin. “When you put it that way...aye, I’ll marry you.”

Epilogue

July 1820

London’s East End

An earl, a gambling hell owner, and a Welsh farmer walked into a tavern in St. Giles. Under the watchful, suspicious stares of the other patrons, they took position around an empty table in the corner of the rough and rather threatening establishment.

Roderick beckoned a passing barmaid while Beynon glared back at anyone who dared to meet his gaze and Colin scanned the room for the man they were supposed to be meeting.

After the barmaid strolled away to fetch three ales, Roderick leaned back to gaze about them. “Who did Nightshade say we’d be meeting again?”

“A man named Cromwell.”

Beynon gave a rough snort.

“Yes, well. I don’t expect it’s the man’s real name,” Colin replied. “But I don’t care what he calls himself as long as his information on Owen proves to be of some value.”

“It’s the closest we’ve been to date,” Roderick interjected as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Indeed. Nightshade indicated this Cromwell claims to have seen and conversed with Owen just last week.”

“The lad’s evaded our efforts for two years,” Beynon noted with typical skepticism. “It’s hard to believe this fellow will actually have anything useful to provide.”

Colin turned to meet his brother’s dark gaze. “We have to hope.”

After a moment, the younger man nodded.

“Speaking of hope,” Roderick said with a grin and a firm clap on Beynon’s broad back, “the Countess of Harte’s summer house party is expected to include a long list of eligible young ladies.”

Beynon’s expression was his darkest, most forbidding yet. “I thought I made it clear I’ve no interest in marriage. Not yet, and least of all with a lady of London high society.”

Roderick laughed. “I’ve passed the message. But Emma doesn’t always mind what I say. And when her sisters become involved”—he sighed dramatically—“I’m afraid there’s not much more I can do.”

“Perhaps I won’t make the party after all,” Beynon grumbled.

Roderick’s next taunt was cut off as a cloaked figure suddenly appeared at their table.

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