Patrica Rice by Regency Delights

about love that you already know. But it won't be quite the same as having two parents who love each other. Would you care to live in a cottage with us? I really don't need the town house or the carriages or such. I just need a wife, a lovely wife, a loving wife who understands I'm not perfect but loves me anyway. Do you think you could ever love me?"
    She clenched her hands in the muslin of her skirt and looked out the window again. "Arianna's mother? Why can she not give you these things?"
    "I'm not doing this very well, am I?”  He sighed. "Arianna's mother is a"—he sought for a polite term—"a soiled dove. She took off shortly after Arianna's birth. She knew I couldn't keep her the way she wished to be kept, and she'd found an old man who would. Of course, he wouldn't keep the child. I've spent everything I had finding a wet nurse and providing them with a place to stay. It's extremely expensive living in London. I had no notion how much it took to raise a child. I had to borrow from the cent-percenters when Arianna ran a fever and I had to hire a doctor and buy medicines. I'll find some way to pay you back over time. Now that I have those debts off my back, I'm certain I can find a place for us where my income can support us. For that alone, I owe you. I will gladly do anything to see that you have the life you want, Melanie. Just tell me what you want."
    She jerked her leg away from where his hand so casually rested upon it. "You can't make me whole again, Damien. You can't make me the kind of countess you deserve. You'll need an heir someday, and as much as you may protest now, I'm certain I'm not the woman you would choose to provide one. I mixed you up in my foolish dreams and made a hash of everything. I'm sorry I've caused you such confusion, but I won't go back to London and pretend to be your countess any longer. You need one in truth. Tell them I died, if you wish. Tell them the truth, if you prefer. And find a lovely mother for Arianna, one who will love you for who you are and not for your blasted title. You have a lot to offer, Damien. Don't sell yourself cheaply."
    Damien suffered a brief flare of anger, and he clutched his fingers into his fists. He controlled it, however, when he saw the streaks of her tears. Catching her chin with his hand, he made her face him. "I don't want to sell myself cheaply. I want to sell myself to you. I'm the one who's making a hash of it. I love you, Melanie. That's what I've been trying to tell you. I couldn't lie to you because I love you too much. You have no idea how easily I could get an heir on you, if you wish to be crude about it. If it makes you happy to hide your leg, then hide it for your own sake, but not for mine." Boldly, he jerked up her skirt to expose two stockinged limbs sprawled across the pillows of the window seat. He ran his hand up the withered one, contrasting the brownness of his skin to the whiteness of her stocking. "You have nothing to hide from me." He kept his hand on her leg but met her eyes firmly. I want you as my countess in all sense of the word. I want you in my bed, Melanie. I want you to bear my children. I need you to save me from everlasting damnation. Marry me, Melanie."
    The library door slammed open, revealing a furious Sir Francis wielding an ancient battle-ax and a bevy of stalwart footmen carrying cudgels and muskets. The baronet's roar of rage filled the room as he discovered the Earl of Reister with his hand up his daughter's dress.
    "You bastard! You son of a fiend! You bloody damned—"
    Melanie brushed her skirt back down and leaned over to wrap her arms around Damien's neck. "I think I've borrowed Damien long enough, Papa. I want him for my own now. Do you think we might ask the vicar to do it proper this time? I want flowers and my family there. And Pamela can be my flower girl." She turned a loving look to Damien, who sat still and watched the armed footmen warily. "Will you need time to ask your friends?"
    As he saw