Earl Crush

by Alexandra Vasti

He did not know whether to congratulate himself on his restraint or be alarmed that it was required.

Arthur did not know what to do with that information. He elected to nod.

Had she really thought she could change her life? Upon what basis would such a mad fancy have seemed possible?

How could she expect to make a difference if she let herself be ruled by her fears?

Because some things were worth the panic and the potential for humiliation. Some things mattered more than her own personal dread.

Thinking about her was as useless as it was distracting. He burned himself twice whilst pondering the shape of her lower lip, plump and deeply curved.

He would make himself stop thinking about her mouth, he resolved as he left the barbican. He had no other choice.

He was still thinking about her mouth when the heavy oak door of the bedchamber beside his own opened with a thud directly into his face.

Yet he could not stop himself from checking. He wanted to make sure she was all right, that was all. He needed to make sure.

It did not matter how much he wanted her. It did not matter how she looked—glowing and vibrant, tempting and real—or the way she felt beneath his hands.

You could be hurt. I wouldn’t … I would not have you hurt again by me or mine.”

She could feel his presence across from her even without looking at him, large and warm, stubborn and loving. She wanted to know him better. She wanted him to kiss her. No—she wanted to kiss him, to pull his head down toward hers and bring his mouth to her own.

He already knew she was clever as hell, on top of being openhearted, sympathetic, alarmingly organized, and so brave and loyal it made his chest ache.

wanted her for himself, all to himself, and the hell with the rest of the world.

How safe would she be, if Davis learned that she’d discovered the truth? Arthur did not know. But he knew he could not let her come to harm.

because the sight of her with her face hidden did something uncomfortable to his insides.

He would not mind pretending she was his, not when he wanted it to be real.

“They’ll think I’m a bloody lucky bastard for marrying a woman so bonny and fine. No doubt they’ll wonder how I’ve managed it. But I don’t give a fig for what they think. I’ve no need for their approval of me or my wife.”

And he would never know if he could have done things the right way. He would never know if he could have won her properly, captured her heart and her affection for himself and not because he was her only choice.

“Next time, damn it, trouble me! You can always trouble me. God knows you already do.”

“When we’re facing each other over pistols, I’ll have to remember to aim low.” “To, er, wound him only?” “Because he’s short.”

Arthur had begun to fear that proximity to Lydia Hope-Wallace was slowly ravaging his intellect. She had certainly eroded his willpower. Wrecked his composure. Caused significant and irreversible damage to his heart.

How I wanted you. I wanted to keep you in my bed forever, give you words of milk and honey, pour out sweetness upon you. Tell you to lay your head in my lap and rest awhile, for I would keep you safe.

At one point he grabbed her hand and then dropped it again as though it were hot to the touch.

You’re clever as the devil, Lydia Hope-Wallace, and twice as brave.”

He wanted to see every inch of her—to know her safe and well and his. God, how he wanted her to be his.

He felt a terrible urgent need to care for her—to see to it that she was dry and warm, that no part of her was hurting. He wanted to touch her more gently than his large and clumsy hands were capable of.

He wanted her to be his—not just her body, but every part of her—her mind, her heart. He wanted to make her shatter around him not once but every day, a thousand thousand times, wanted to hear her voice go to pieces on his name for the rest of his natural life.

He would wait for her, for that. He had to.

His. She was his. He would not go wrong in this.

This is what I ought to have said: You stagger me. Your wit, your courage, your wide and tender heart.

God, he was mad for her, for her clever, practical brain and that impossible bravery.

He loved that godforsaken chair. He wanted to take it home with him. He wanted to put it in a museum.

I worship the ground you walk upon, my darling, in case that was not apparent from the way I came on your tits. Would you like to be my wife?

Of everything in his heart as he looked down at her worried face, guilt was a pale whisper beside the chorus of admiration and yearning and—yes. And love.

How could it be that she did not see herself the way that he saw her? The most desirable woman in the world—as glorious as a sunset—as brilliant—as impossible to look away from.

“You are not an obligation,” he murmured. “I want you, Lydia Hope-Wallace. I want to bring you home with me. I want you to be my wife.”

Bedlamite!

If she needed certainty, he could give it to her. If she needed him to steady her, then by God, he would never leave her side.

By the time dinner began, Arthur had met the rest of the Hope-Wallace brothers and concluded that they ought to be separated from one another for the general safety of the British Isles. Preferably via incarceration.

You are the summer and the winter, the spring and the fall. When you change, I want to change alongside you. I want to discover you anew every morning. I want to forget what dawn looks like except in your eyes.

She wanted everything—would take whatever he was willing to give her. She wanted decades at his side, a castle rebuilt, a village made plentiful together. She wanted to go home with him and never use the countess’s chamber again because she slept every night at his side. She wanted children with eyes the color of Scotland.

“God forgive me, Lydia, but it would have killed me to let you go.”

But I would have you penniless and barefoot.”

“Christ Jesus, Lydia. It’s everything—your heart and your brain and your laugh. You make me half-crazed. When you’re gone I imagine the feel of you beneath my hands, and when you’re with me, I think about how to make you smile. I want to—to read all your letters and your pamphlets. I want to listen to you talk until I fall asleep, and then I want to dream about your voice.”

“But to have you here,” he went on, “to be able to touch you. To watch your face in the light. Christ, Lydia. No dream of mine could have come close to this.”

“Oh Lydia.” His voice had dropped, just above a groan. “Oh my love. I would not hurt you for the world.”

“Everyone else is invisible to Strathrannoch when Lydia is in the room. One becomes accustomed to it.”

Could he have this? Night after night, Lydia in his arms, luminous and quick-witted and brave enough to break his heart.

He did not know how to tell her that he wanted more than her hand in her marriage. More than her body. He wanted her heart—her love—their future together. He wanted everything.