I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden Page A

look to them that tugged at Margaret’s heart. Aside from a battered table with a mended leg and a few chairs in the dining room, there was no furniture at all, no draperies, no ornament of any kind. It was quite the loneliest thing she could imagine.
    When they reached the hall again, Dowling turned to her. “Have you satisfied yourself? What else may I show you to put your mind at rest?”
    Her heart skipped a beat. From the intent way he was looking at her, he meant more than the house’s condition. “I certainly see how you could put funds to good use.”
    As if prompted, there was a crash from the room behind him. “Another cupid meets his doom,” said Dowling. His expression didn’t change. “But I wasn’t referring to money.”
    Margaret was acutely aware of how alone they were. He could kiss her again, and no one would interrupt. He could sweep her into his arms and make love to her, and no one would stop him . . . including herself. “What do you mean, then, sir?”
    “I told you weeks ago you were the woman for me.” He began walking toward her, his steps ringing like a battering ram against her reserve. “I want you. I need you. And yes, your dowry will keep us in comfort. But I wouldn’t want another woman with those funds. Only you, love.” He touched a loose lock of her hair, curling it around his finger. “Say yes, Maggie darling,” he whispered.
    “You haven’t even asked the question,” she protested, swaying toward him.
    “Marry me,” he said against her lips.
    “Yes,” she said at once, and he kissed her.
    Under the touch of his lips, her doubts fell aside. She was in his arms as much through her own volition as through his. She wanted to be here, alone, with him, damn the differences in their financial states. Her decision was made.
    This time she licked his lips first. He smiled and let her deepen the kiss. He tasted of mint and something darker, richer. She ran her hands along his broad shoulders, and then daringly down his chest, awed and giddy with the feel of him. She marveled that he let her explore him so boldly, but little by little the balance was shifting. His palm slid around her waist, urging her against him. He touched her jaw, subtly tipping her head to a better angle. His tongue met hers softly, then more urgently.
    The simmering heat of passion, so long denied in her life, roared into an inferno. She gripped his coat and clung to him, opening her mouth for his possession as she surrendered her body to his intoxicating touch. Up and down her back his hands traveled, molding her to him with devastating intimacy. The silent house around them was a cocoon of privacy and solitude, where any desires could be indulged and explored. She trembled with the force of those desires. An engagement was nearly legally wed. . .
    “You inflame me,” he whispered. His fingers shook as he smoothed them down the expanse of her bosom. “I should take you back to Carlisle House . . . Your companions will miss you . . .”
    “I want to stay with you.”
    His dark eyes were fiery bright in the candles’ glow. “In my bed?” he asked softly.
    Margaret’s heart leaped, tripped, and almost soared from her chest. “Yes.”
    He bowed his head, and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “I love you, Margaret de Lacey,” he said, and then with one motion he caught her up in his arms. She looped one arm around his neck and crushed her frothy skirts with the other as he carried her up the stairs, down a short corridor, into a bedroom. There was a bit more furniture in this room, as well as a carpet, and the embers of a banked fire glowed in the grate when he set her back on her feet by the hearth and sank to his knees.
    “Dowling,” she began.
    “Rhys.” He looked up from stirring the fire. “My name is Rhys.”
    She blushed. “Will we be so informal? Miss Cuthbert assured me people of nobility never use Christian names.”
    “Miss Cuthbert also told you I was unsuitable,