did not want to choose another woman. He’d chosen her last season, nearly a whole year had already passed, he would not wait another year and he’d no intention of letting her slip through his fingers.
He refused to accept no from her.
He needed her and not simply for her money.
Did she not understand that?
Aware his gaze had hardened to glaring, he whispered, harshly, “Am I not good enough for you? Did you not like my verse?”
Her lips parted slightly. They drew his gaze. If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her, drawn her into his arms and never let her go. She was his. She just didn’t know it yet, but he knew it. His eyes lifted to hers again. “You are meant for me. Why can you not see it?” Forget the drivel about souls and fate and love, this much was true. He was certain that she was the only woman he would be happy with. Lord, without her, he would never even be able to claim the word, happy!
Her lips pursed.
“I tried to tell you in that letter, what I think, how I feel—”
Her fingertip grazed his lips, to silence him, as she passed him in a turn.
Good God! Did she not know he would give anything to have her?
“I read your letter, I know what it said.”
Drew’s heart missed a beat. The look in her eyes spoke of sympathy.
Did it mean he had hope?
“Write to me,” he urged. “I’ll speak to you when I can, but in the meantime write.” The notes of the dance drew to a close.
“I do not have your address, I—”
He captured her fingers, lifting her hand to kiss it, and as he did so, he slid the small folded piece of paper he’d written his address on into the wrist of her glove.
“You do.” He met her gaze over her bent knuckles as he gripped her fingers. Then he let her hand fall and bowed briefly before turning away.
* * *
Mary watched him return to his friends, her heart racing.
“Miss Marlow.” The man who had led her into the dance, Lord Brooke, was at her side offering his arm.
She lay numb fingers on it.
They’d orchestrated the whole night, he and his friends.
“There are a dozen other heiresses he could court…” she said.
“But none as beautiful.”
“So that is what draws him, wealth and beauty?”
They walked across the floor, towards her parents, slowly, as people formed sets for the next dance.
Lord Brooke leaned closer. “Is it not his looks which draw your eyes to him?” It was not a whisper, his deep baritone made her skin prickle, and the note of condescension stirred anger inside her.
“Miss Marlow.” He straightened, lifting her fingers from his arm, as her parents came into view. “It has been a pleasure.” He bowed.
Then like Drew he walked away.
“Who were you with?” her mother asked, coming forward.
Mary, glanced across the room. Lord Brooke, Lord Framlington, Mr Harper and Mr Webster were leaving the ball.
Mary faced her mother. “Lord Brooke, Mama. Oliver introduced his friend to me and his friend introduced Lord Brooke.”
“And his friend was?”
“Mr Harper.” The slip of paper tucked within Mary’s glove itched. Had the whole endeavour been to slip her his address?
“Mr Harper? I think his father’s money came from sugar plantations.” Her father had moved beside her.
She shrugged. “I have no idea, Papa. We danced, we did not share life histories.”
He smiled. “No, I suppose not, but if it was that Mr Harper, avoid him, he has an appalling reputation, and Lord Brooke too. Avoid them both in the future.”
“Yes, Papa.”
She had been right; Lord Framlington consorted with men whose reputations matched his. His had been earned then, surely.
Her breath slipped out through her lips – and, he’d left his address within her glove. She would be the worst fool to communicate with him.
Her father’s fingers, tapped her beneath the chin. “Cheer up, sweetheart, there are plenty of decent men about, and here is one. I believe Lord Farquhar wishes a second dance.”
Mary turned. Daniel was approaching with a broad smile.
Why could not cupid aim steady arrows at her heart, ones which led to trustworthy men, rather than dangerous predatory rogues?
Drew crawled into bed, three sheets to the wind. They’d retired to his bachelor apartments for a second evening, and it was now almost five of the clock. The first light of dawn crept about his curtains.
His friends had spent half the night commending him on his choice. The second half they’d spent constructing more verse, only this time Peter had said it should praise Mary’s nature, not her eyes. Apparently Mary did not take kindly to being complimented on her looks. She wished to be appreciated for more than her appearance. It was another credit to be notched in her favour.
A considerable amount of laughter had followed, and an inevitable quantity of wine.
When he woke he was hot and sweaty, his body thrumming with need for Mary Marlow – in his dreams she had not said no the other night.
He looked at his watch on the side. It was only mid-day but there was no way he would be able to sleep again.
He threw the covers aside and got up, then washed and shaved, planning to ride in the park and vent his frustration. Rewriting the latest letter would have to wait until he’d dealt with his painful surge of desire.
He could seek a willing woman to assuage it, but if he wanted constancy with Miss Marlow the idea seemed traitorous; he had abstained for a year, he would not break that now.
He was not interested in other women anyway. Not any more. Mary consumed him, mentally and physically. It was Mary he needed, no-one else.
His mouth dried, filling with a bitter taste, and it was not from last night’s excess of drink, it was from fear he’d fail and lose her.
On his ride he stretched out his mare, hurtling across the open meadow of Green Park, leaning low, hugging his body to the horse, pushing his bodyweight into his heels, and keeping balance with his shins, and his thighs, riding like a mad man.
He felt close to insanity – desperate.
Still, if she was easily caught he’d be bored of her in weeks. No, her determination to withstand him only bore out his belief that she was the woman for him.
She had strength of character, and that was to be admired.
Returning home he rewrote the letter his friends had constructed in their cups last night, and as he reached its end found his own words flowing from the quill, a diatribe falling from his mind onto the paper as the words had last night when they’d danced. He blotted the words briskly then folded the paper before he lost the courage to include his own words and sealed it with wax.
He found a young lad he trusted in the street and sent the boy off to deliver it.
* * *
“Miss Marlow.”
Mary