Free I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden Page B

without a pound to your name, and I had met you some other way, I would still be here, hoping to kiss you again.”
    “If I were still a spinster in Holborn,” she said slowly, “everyone would mock you for even looking twice at me.”
    “My darling Maggie,” he said with a faint smile, “they’ve already turned their backs on me. I would live my life in ruin and disgrace for the chance to look twice at you, every day for the rest of eternity.”
    Her breathing stopped. “Why?” she asked, almost fearfully.
    If he hadn’t already declared himself with his last statement, there was no reason not to come straight out and say it. He met her eyes and said simply, “Because I’m falling in love with you.”

 
    C HAPTER S EVEN
    R hys went home not knowing if he had lost his chance with Margaret. Part of him feared very much he had; her reaction to his declaration of love had been underwhelming. She turned away as if flustered or unsettled, and only nodded when he offered to take her back to her party. They had parted with subdued, empty niceties, and Rhys left with no idea if his feelings upset her or pleased her.
    Until Branwell’s untimely arrival, he’d thought very differently. She wanted to know his intentions, and if he were courting her. She asked him to walk out, and told him to kiss her—it was important to her, knowing if they suited each other physically. And by God, did she suit him. She suited him so well, he was awake until the small hours of the morning, reliving the feel of her mouth on his, her body pressed against his, her rapid breath against his cheek as he kissed every inch of her lovely throat.
    But now his secrets were out. Although everyone in London knew he was destitute, he hadn’t exactly flaunted the depth of his fall. He was righteously proud he had stopped the mindless borrowing against his lands begun by his father and continued with abandon under Branwell’s hand despite his protests, but that pride had a sour taste. Perhaps he should have kept up the pretense a little longer, at least until he secured a wealthy bride, when he could have discreetly turned his fortunes around. Not that he would have lied to Margaret, precisely, but he wouldn’t have had to tell her until he was more certain of her feelings for him.
    He was ruminating over it when Clyve arrived, bearing a leg of ham and the morning papers. “You need to marry the girl quickly, so you can provide a decent breakfast for your friends,” he told Rhys, sending the ham off with Bunter, the one remaining servant, for carving.
    “I’ve no idea if she’ll marry me at all. Cousin Branwell turned up in the garden last night at a very inopportune moment.”
    Clyve groaned. “That idiot! But surely all isn’t lost—you said she’s a sensible woman. Anyone with sense can see Branwell’s a narrow-minded fool.”
    “She is,” said Rhys dourly. “No doubt she’ll make the sensible decision and refuse me.”
    His friend waved one hand. “What sort of inopportune moment?”
    “ Very inopportune.”
    “Excellent,” cried Clyve with a leer. “Good work, Dowling. To your upcoming marriage.” He lifted his cup of coffee in salute.
    “No, no.” Rhys glared at him. “Of course I didn’t make love to her in the gardens at Vauxhall. Be sensible, Clyve.”
    “If Branwell starts telling everyone you did, it’s as good as done.” Clyve shrugged, unconcerned.
    “The old fool better keep his mouth closed,” said Rhys sharply. “If he doesn’t, I’ll close it for him.”
    The viscount looked mildly surprised. “Isn’t that what you want? If Branwell tells people you’ve had her, her brother will have little choice but to give his consent.”
    He didn’t answer. Clyve only saw the goal and a means to achieve it. Rhys, though, hated the thought of Margaret being forced to marry him. Not only would it counter all the efforts he’d made to prove his interest in her, not her dowry, it would infuriate her, even if she