Moonlight on My Mind by Jennifer McQuiston

Patrick’s brother on account of that kiss, had risen before dawn just to catch a love-struck glimpse of a mere second son.
    She’d at least attempted to carry on after that fateful day. During her latest London Season, she had pushed the boundaries of propriety, seeking to rediscover the quiver beneath her skin that Patrick had somehow conjured with little more than a slow, building smile. She’d tried on gentlemen like new shoes, only to discover that the wrong fit pinched. All through the lines of men who flirted and smiled and offered the occasional moonlit kiss, she had felt absolutely nothing. She couldn’t claim the same bland effect in the presence of this man.
    And the memory of that kiss they had shared—every bit as potent as any measure of guilt or doubt—now turned his proposal from something worth considering into something she was afraid she could not refuse.
    She ran her tongue over her lips, trying to quell the way those thoughts made her skin flush warm. “You must accompany me on the morning coach, Patrick. Your future, and your family’s future, depends upon it.”
    He did not move. Did not speak. Just regarded her in that familiar, stern way of his, his long face immobile.
    She prayed her mouth continued to work well enough to finish this last bit, because she was quite sure she lacked the courage to repeat it. “So if that is the only course available to us, we need to marry. Tonight.”
    P atrick stared at the woman who had just demanded they marry and wondered if he wasn’t about to make the second biggest mistake of his life.
    His cock, damnably independent organ that it was, disagreed with the question posed by his brain, and moreover demanded an equal stake in the debate. Because beyond all the myriad reasons both for and against this foolhardy path, he had neglected to consider a very greedy one.
    Julianne was a beautiful woman.
    Robbed of the distraction of the soiled green dress, the curve of her neck drew his eye. Beneath the scant layers of cotton, her bosom was indeed every bit as high and fine as he had imagined it would be. She was a painful sight. Patrick had kept to himself these past eleven months in Moraig, avoiding both the obvious interest of several lusty widows and the ready train of serving girls who plied their skills in the alley behind the Blue Gander. But as his body surged to life around the tempting image Julianne presented, he was reminded of a very basic fact: he was a man. And she was a woman who—despite the foolhardy nature of the emotion—piqued his masculine instincts.
    There were worse reactions one could suffer from a wife.
    His wife. He massaged that thought a moment. She’d fallen right into his thinking. Truth be told, he’d hoped she wouldn’t. The Julianne he was coming to know didn’t seem to care about her reputation nearly as much as this sudden acquiescence suggested. She was clearly an intelligent girl. She had demonstrated a sharp wit beneath that fashionable exterior on numerous occasions—most recently with poor Reverend Ramsey.
    But on the other hand, she’d boarded a train lacking both chaperone and common sense . . . not exactly a point in her favor.
    It wasn’t gentlemanly of him to trick her into it, even if she deserved it. Hell, even if she owed it to him, for sending his life spiraling so far beyond his control. His conscience was intact enough—even after three rapid-fire whiskies—to admit some discomfort in using her in this manner, but he was hanged—quite literally—if he could think of another way to go about it. He had exaggerated the implications of their discovery together, although he hadn’t precisely lied about the potential in James’s wife’s connections, or the dangers of traveling together lacking a wedding band.
    But the image of Julianne in her nightclothes did not appeal to the gentlemanly side of his nature. She had made her own bed—messy though it might be—when she left behind her maid and