“He’ll be charged with treason and murder,” he said. “And when he’s found guilty, he’ll be hanged.”
“How awful for Lady Hasselthorpe.” Beatrice shivered a little, placing her brush carefully on the dressing table. “Did he really inform the French of your regiment’s movements solely to kill his brother?”
Reynaud shrugged, causing his banyan to fall farther open. “He was probably paid as well, but I think the main reason was so he could steal his brother’s title.”
“What a terrible man.”
“Indeed.”
Beatrice swiveled on her stool to look at him fully. “I never thanked you for what you did to help pass Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied quietly. “The men the bill benefits are soldiers. My men. I should’ve been more interested in the bill all along, instead of worrying solely about myself.”
She stood, walking toward him. “You’d lost everything. There was a reason you were focused on what you needed to have again.”
“No.” He shook his head and looked away, a muscle tightening in his jaw. “I thought only of money and lands and my title. I didn’t consider what was truly important until it was almost too late.”
She felt her throat tighten. She climbed into the bed to sit beside him and trailed her fingers down his chest. “And what is that?”
He turned and seized her hand, making her start.
“You.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, watching her with black eyes so serious they nearly frightened her. “You. Only you. I realized it on the ride to Hasselthorpe’s estate—realized it and knew I was too late. God, Beatrice. I rode for hours thinking that you would be dead before I got there.”
“I thought you might not come,” she admitted.
He closed his eyes as if in agony. “You must’ve been terrified. You must hate me.”
“No.” She drew their joined hands toward her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I could never hate you. I love you.”
He grabbed her and rolled her under himself in a sudden movement. His position was dominating and aggressive. She should’ve been wary, but she had no fear of him at all.
Reynaud leaned close to her, nearly nose to nose. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. There’ll be no going back—no holding back—once you’re truly mine. I do not have it in me to let go once I have what I desire in my grasp. Tread softly.”
She framed his face with her palms. “I won’t tread softly. I want to go running and leaping. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I love you. I’ve loved you since you came crashing into my tea party. Before that, really—ever since I was a young girl and saw that roguish portrait of you in the blue sitting room. I love you, Reynaud. I love—”
He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her words. She slid her hands up, reveling in the smooth feel of his hair beneath her hands. He was alive. She was alive. Joy flashed through her, and she widened her legs beneath him in invitation.
Fortunately, he seemed to have the same idea.
He tore his mouth from hers, gasping as he fumbled between their bodies. “You are mine. Forever, Beatrice.”
He levered himself up and pulled at the skirts of her chemise. Something ripped and then she felt his hot penis against her folds. He thrust into her, once, twice, and was fully seated, but he froze then.
His head dropped and he shuddered. “Beatrice.”
She stretched slowly, sensuously.
“God, don’t,” he muttered. “Beatrice . . .”
She wrapped one leg over his calves and the other high over his hips. “Hmm?”
She clenched internally.
His flesh leaped within her. “Christ.”
“Do that again,” she murmured, tilting her hips against his. He was heavy on her—she couldn’t displace him—but she could sort of undulate, which she did.
“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered, lowering his forehead to hers.