She drew in a long breath. “I am almost finished with it. Do you think they shall throw more than tomatoes?”
He stared for a long moment. “If I personally attend? No.”
“Will you?” She gasped.
He nodded. “You pick the speakers, and I shall stand behind them. No one shall dare throw stones at me.”
No, she did not think they would. Not at her indefatigable husband. Surely he could wither a naysayer with a mere glance.
“And you will be beside me,” he stated. “As the main voice in our organization?”
To her shock, tears stung her eyes. It was all so much more than she had dared hope for, months ago, when she had begun writing him letters. “I will. I will be proud to do so.”
And in that moment, she became overwhelmed by her feelings for him.
He sat, still determined, still hopeful, even if he had faced a tide of resistance his whole life. She could see how his constant striving left him exhausted. A lifetime of attempting to change those who had no desire to change? It was no easy thing.
William hesitated, turning his drink, catching the spark of the glass in the light. “Have you heard from Margaret?”
She frowned. “I have not. She’s been so consumed with wedding preparations.”
He gave a tight nod. “Bridal nerves, no doubt. That’s what I said to Kit. But he did seem concerned.”
“I’m sure all shall be well. After all, she insisted on marrying your brother”—she winked—“even when I begged her not to.”
“You did what?” he asked, astonished.
“The very idea of having to see you at every family function was simply too much to bear.”
He laughed. “How life turns. Now you see me every day.”
Barely, she almost said. But she swallowed it back. She refused to slide into the recriminations, slights, and sarcasm that were the entryway to every miserable ton marriage. If she could not have love, she would not have bickering.
But as she studied him and wondered about Kit’s concern, she felt her own wave of fear. Was this enough? Could she bear being on the outskirts of a man’s existence? Even if she was a duchess?
Oblivious to the trepidations rattling through her brain, he said, “I have been looking forward to this all day.”
“What?”
He winked. “Being your three-leg stool.”
A shocked note escaped her lips as he referenced The Taming of the Shrew.
“Shall I sit on you, then?” she teased, her cheeks burning as desire lit with in her.
He sprawled on the settee before the empty fire, for the weather was fine.
With a surprisingly boyish gesture, he pulled at his cravat and cursed, “Damned strangling thing.”
She enjoyed watching him achieve a state of deshabille as she strode over to him.
Meeting her gaze slowly, he took her glass of wine from her fingers, placed it on the table, and put his own wine beside it. He reached forward then, his gaze hungry for something very different than wine, and grabbed her waist.
In one steady move, he pulled her onto his lap so that she could indeed sit upon him. “Before this speech, I find that I should like to have a moment with you.”
She blinked oh so innocently, even as Shakespeare’s text began to reveal just how naughty it was. Now that she was perched on her husband’s lap, she felt the hardening evidence of his need for her. “We are together. How is that not a moment?”
He cupped her cheek. “Let me show you.”