She jerked her hands out of his with a sound that could have been a strangled sob. She surged to her feet as if she were about to flee, but at the last moment, she turned back to him, holding up one small white hand to prevent him from rising. ‘There can be no certainty for me, my lord. I am nothing, nobody. I have no name but the one the Aubreys were kind enough to lend to me. I am no fit wife for any gentleman. And certainly not for the Earl of Portbury. It is wicked to suggest otherwise, but I will forgive your ill-conceived jest. Let us forget the words were ever spoken.’

She had become as rigid as the beech trunk at Jon’s back. He realised he had been clinging to a vision of his comfortable life with her. He had seen Beth there by the fireplace, sitting quietly opposite him, but he had never once considered that she might not share his longing for a peaceful refuge. In truth, he had not considered her at all. He scrutinised her features carefully now, for the first time in a long while. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will. She was affronted by his proposal, and deeply hurt. In a moment, she would regain enough strength to flee. Unless…

Ignoring her still outstretched hand, he stood up and put his arms around her. Since she did not believe a word he said, he had best try something other than words.

He kissed her.

It was Jon’s first real kiss in a long time. He brushed his lips over hers, very lightly, unsure of how she might react. Her lips parted, and he felt the warmth of a tiny sigh on his skin, as if she had been waiting for his touch, holding her breath. And yet her response was hesitant, the response of an innocent girl. She did not have the way of kissing.

A strange feeling surged through Jon, an unfathomable mixture of pride and possession. He was almost sure that Beth Aubrey had never been kissed before. And yet she was trying to respond to him. Her head might be telling her that Jon’s proposal was a wicked jest, but her warm body and her soft mouth wanted to reach for him. Jon stopped trying to analyse her reactions and gave himself up to the simple pleasure of kissing her. He wrapped her even more snugly against his body and put a hand to the back of her head, holding her still so that he could explore. He feathered tiny kisses along her bottom lip. She tasted of coffee, and sweetness. He risked a bolder touch, putting the tip of his tongue to the tiny sighing gap between her lips. This time it was no sigh, but a groan he heard, from deep within her. That was too much.

He deepened the kiss. Now she truly did respond. Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck. She opened her lips to welcome him in. Desire swept through Jon’s body. There could be something between them after all, more than mere companionship. They would sit restfully together by the fire, no doubt, but he fancied the getting of an heir could be pleasurable for them both.

It was as if her body were relaxing into a bath of warm, scented water, which lapped over her limbs and caressed her flesh. She was floating. Yet she had never been so alive. Her skin, all over-from her cheek to her throat to her breasts to her belly-was awake, reaching and yearning. She wanted him to touch her. Everywhere.

She drove her fingers into the thick hair at the back of his head and pushed her body closer into his embrace. She could feel the strength of him, held in check, restrained so as not to alarm her. But it was there, none the less, a warm, reassuring strength. She could feel that what had begun as a simple kiss was turning into something much more demanding. He desired her.

That sudden awareness brought her back to grim reality as surely as if he had scrubbed handfuls of snow on to her naked skin. She pulled her hands down to his chest and pushed hard, with balled fists. She tore her mouth from his. The moment her lips were free, she cried out. ‘No!’

The reaction was instantaneous. His hand had been in her hair, holding her steady for the exploration of his lips and tongue, but he did not try to restrain her. He dropped his hands to his sides and took a very deliberate step away from her.

Beth clasped her hands together very tightly. She refused to let them shake. ‘My lord, you-’

‘Jonathan. My name is Jonathan.’ He did not move to close the space between them, but his gaze softened and the merest hint of a smile curved his lips as he looked down at Beth. ‘Jon,’ he said, in a deeper, warmer voice.

He was asking her to use his given name? She shook her head vehemently, trying to clear her thoughts. He had proposed. He was proposing. To her! And it seemed it was no jest, after all. She could not think straight. That kiss… Oh, heavens, that kiss had turned her bones to butter. Her body was burning hot and icy cold, all at once. She was quivering. Would she melt altogether? Or freeze?

‘Beth?’ He was uncertain, too. She could hear it in his voice. He raised his right hand, palm up, and offered it. ‘Beth, will you have me?’

She dared one look at his face, but she could not read his expression. Whatever his emotions, he was managing to conceal them. All she knew was that his proposal must be sincere. ‘It is impossible!’ she burst out. ‘You know it is so!’

He was standing as still as the statues in his park. His outstretched hand had not moved even a fraction.

‘Oh, you ridiculous man!’ She let anger bury the hurt. ‘You must know it is impossible. You are the Earl of Portbury and I am nobody. I have no past, no family, not even a name. You insult me by suggesting you would take me to wife.’ That spurt of anger had saved her. She was back in control. She had even managed to bury the delicious sensations that his kiss had brought to the surface and that had been threatening to overwhelm her. She would not think of those. She turned abruptly and began to march along the path towards the rectory. That was where her refuge lay. That was where she could be free of this torment.

He caught up to her after three paces. He did not touch her. If he had, she might have cried out, so tense were the feelings consuming her. No, he just strode past her and planted himself like a rock on the path, as if a landslide had suddenly blocked the way. Heavy, impenetrable, dangerous. He was not smiling. He held up a hand, not an offering this time, but a command.

She stopped. She had no choice.

‘You would have a name. My name. You would be the Countess of Portbury. My wife. Your position in society would be alongside mine. No one would dare to question that.’

He was very sure, and absolutely wrong. ‘Of course they would,’ she retorted, trying to swallow the pain that was gripping her heart. ‘You have no idea what black deeds there may be in my past that led me to flee. Have you never thought that my memory is shuttered because of what lies hidden there? The Earl of Portbury cannot risk discovering that his wife is a fugitive. Or worse. What would society say then?’

‘No one would dare to accuse my wife of anything,’ he retorted, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

His tone was so arrogant that Beth was stunned into silence. He frowned down at her for a moment, and then said, in a more thoughtful voice, ‘You are a truly good woman, Beth. If you fled, it was from someone else’s wickedness, not your own. I believe-I know that to be true. No one would dare to suggest otherwise.’

‘Of course they would,’ she said again, though less forcefully. ‘They would say that the Earl of Portbury had taken leave of his senses, in marrying such a woman. They would obey the outward forms, no doubt, but the gossip, the sly, sneering comments, would be made at every turn. Not only about me, but also about you! Can you not understand that, Jonatha-? My lord?’ She winced. His stony expression had softened at the sound of his given name. The moment she retracted it, he had begun to frown again.

‘I understand no such thing. What’s more, I would not care a jot about society gossip. I do not seek to marry for society’s sake, but for my own. I do not seek to cut a fine figure in this world of theirs. I do not give a fig for that. And I had thought that you would not, either. Beth? Beth, do you care for such things? I thought you would wish to live retired from society, as I do. Let the tabbies say what they will of us. We have no need of them, and their stiff-rumped opinions. Our life together will be peaceful, and content. As far from society as we wish to be. It is a delightful prospect, is it not?’

It was more than delightful. It would be paradise. But she could not possibly answer with the truth. Nor could she lie. She just stared at him.

He cleared his throat. ‘I can see that I have shocked you with my proposal. It is no wonder, for you are a gently bred lady.’

At that, her head came up even more. He did not know- He could not know anything about her upbringing. She herself did not know.

‘But I beg you to understand that my proposal is sincerely meant. You would do me the utmost honour if you accepted me. Will you not at least take a little time, a day, to consider what I am offering?’ He took half a step towards her. ‘Please, Beth. Do at least consider.’

She felt an almost overpowering urge to raise her fingers to his face, to stroke away the tension that was so evident in his frown and in his narrowed eyes. She clasped her hands together once again, forbidding them to stray.

She had to stop him, to save him. She must not let her feelings overcome her principles. She fixed her gaze on the ground at her feet, knowing she dare not look at him for this. ‘I suggest that you consider, my lord. Has it not occurred to you that you are proposing to a woman who may be married already?’

Chapter Eight

She had planted him a facer.

Jon had been boxing for too many years to give in just because he had been floored once. He refused to quit, especially when his goal had suddenly become so much more important.

‘Look at me, Beth,’ he said, as gently as he could, reaching for her tightly clasped hands. She tensed for a moment, but then she yielded enough for Jon to take them in his. He did not attempt to pry her fingers apart. He simply lifted them to his lips and dropped a featherlight kiss on her skin. She was still staring at the ground, however. She seemed determined to resist him. Was she afraid, perhaps? ‘There is no need to be anxious. I know you for a strong woman who is afraid of nothing, and no one. I am your friend, Beth. Please look at me.’

It seemed the word ‘friend’ was able to reach her, where his touch had not. Without moving her hands in his, she slowly raised her head and her gaze joined with his. She was as white as her tucker; her eyes were huge and dark in her pale face. She made no move to speak, but she did not need to, for her emotions were written in her brilliant eyes. His proposal had injured her. Even if she now accepted that Jon was not mocking her, she was certainly not convinced that there was any kind of a future for them as man and wife. She thought Jon was too high, and she-a woman with a shadowy past and no memory-was much too low.

‘I can assure you, Beth, that you are wrong about marriage.’

‘I…I know I am not wrong about this one. It is impossible.’

‘I understand your reluctance, but I cannot agree with you. Will you allow me to explain why?’ He drew her arm into his-she had stopped resisting, he was glad to see-and escorted her back to the bench under the beech tree. He had a chance now, though perhaps not for long. He was going to have to be truly silver-tongued, for she was clearly set against him.

He took his seat beside her, still holding her hand tucked into his arm, but he did not sit too close. ‘I must ask you first, Beth, if you still think I am trying to play a base trick on you with my proposal?’ He had to know that she would listen.

She coloured a little and shook her head.

‘Good. That is a start.’ He patted her hand, just the lightest of touches. It was too intimate, it seemed, for she flinched. He felt the tightening of her muscles through the layers of clothing. He let his free arm drop back to his side. One more false move and she might run.

‘You think you may already be married. I can see why you would think that. For a lady, it is a logical assumption but, as a man, I can tell you that you are certainly…er…untouched.’ No married woman would have responded so innocently to Jon’s kisses. He was not mistaken there.

‘Untouched?’ She blushed, like a white rosebud caressed by the first rays of the early morning sun.

Jon cleared his throat. That had not been a good choice of word. There were some aspects of marriage that one did not discuss with a gently-bred, single lady. ‘Beth, you think you are not good enough to become a countess. To become my countess. Will you not permit me to be the judge of that? Believe me, your lack of memory does not matter. You are a lady, bred in the bone. It is clear in every word you say, in everything you do, in every step you take. No one doubts it. My wife must be a lady, I admit that. But you fulfil the requirement admirably.’