"Actually I don't. I imagine my gold might make up for lack of breeding, if I pushed the matter and the girl was willing. But don't imagine I run around proposing to all the stray gentlewomen I stumble across."
She didn't look particularly gratified. "What about women who aren't gentlewomen? How many of those have you proposed to?"
If he hadn't heard her declare her love for another man, he might think she was jealous. "You're the only woman I've asked to become my wife."
"I'm…flattered." She paused. "Although technically you haven't asked me."
He stared broodingly at the foot of the bed, wishing she was in his arms and not on the other side of the room. Wishing that when she dreamed, she dreamed of Anthony Townsend and not dead Henry Deerham. "What's the point? You won't have me."
To his surprise, she surged to her feet and glared at him with disapproval. "I never thought you so poor spirited. Why on earth wouldn't I have you?"
He jerked his head up and stared at her uncompromisingly. "Well, will you?"
With a sigh, she slumped back onto the window seat. "I don't know."
He supposed it was better than a flat refusal, even if it didn't feel like it. "Last night you said you loved me."
Shock flooded her face. "What? Really? I can't…" One hand made a sweeping gesture as if to point out the impossibility of his claim.
His lips twisted. "You kissed me and told me you loved me. Then you called me Henry."
A fraught silence crashed down, then her face crumpled in distress and he cursed himself for telling her. "How awful for you."
He hadn't thought she'd see his side. Her empathy didn't solve anything, but still his wretchedness eased. "Not what a man wants to hear after a trip to paradise."
Pink tinged her cheeks. "Oh, dear, I owe you an apology. I told you I was dreaming of Henry. And…and that was what I dreamed." To his surprise, she mustered a faint smile. "It was a very nice dream, if that's any consolation."
"Not much," he said gloomily.
"I can't imagine it is." She stared down at the hands linked in her lap. "After all, you have your pride."
He ground his teeth. "Hell, Fenella, you're still in love with your husband."
"Of course I am," she agreed softly.
"Well, there you have it, then," and hated that he sounded like a sulky child denied a treat, when he felt like she'd struck a mortal blow.
Another silence descended, prickling with all they'd shared over the last eventful days. When he glanced up, she watched him with an unreadable expression.
"Except you don't," she said, as if there had been no pause.
He frowned. "I don't understand."
"I loved Henry from the moment he came to my eighth birthday party as an overly superior twelve-year-old boy. He took a couple of years to catch up with me and see that we belonged together. So he was sixteen before we decided that we'd marry. And we did, five years later. I've never been interested in another man."
Anthony struggled not to resent her husband. It was hellishly difficult. "You don't need to give me the details."
Her smile was indulgent. "Perhaps not, but you're missing the point."
"I know you'll always love him."
"Yet within two days, I went to bed with you."
"We're in the grip of May madness," he said sourly. "In November."
A long-suffering sigh escaped her. "You're usually quicker than this. Don't you see?"
"See what?"