But somewhere in the murky depths, a drop of doubt must have lingered. Now that last doubt vanished like dew under a hot sun.
Diana loved him unequivocally. She loved him more than Cranston Abbey or her pride or her self-interest. He longed to shout his triumph to the skies.
His arms firmed around her heaving shoulders and she melted against him with a naturalness that made his heart surge. His injured leg protested with standing so long, but this moment was too precious to sacrifice, whatever his pain.
Cry, darling, cry. Then cry no more.
Eventually, the tempest of weeping eased. “You’re very reckless with our child’s future,” he said softly.
“How do you know I’m pregnant?” She spoke into his chest, her voice clogged. “It was far too early to be sure when you came to Marsham.”
“Because that’s why you were marrying Burnley.”
She raised her head and stared up, her face sticky with tears. Her nose was red, and her eyes were awash. He’d never seen her look so beautiful.
“I could have married him for the house.” Even now, she resisted any attempt to let her off the full measure of guilt.
He smiled down at her. “Diana, I’m not a fool. I know what the delay in your nuptials meant. If the house was all you wanted, you’d have married him the instant you returned from London. Why wait to reap your reward? I can only guess that without the pregnancy, you’d never have agreed to marry him at all.”
She raised a trembling hand to his cheek as if afraid he’d rebuff her. Didn’t she know by now that she was everything he wanted in the world?
“I told him no at first. How could I marry him when I was so utterly in love with you? It was sinfully wrong to promise myself to another man. But everything was…”
Perhaps one day, he’d accept her declaration of love as his due. But not yet. Perhaps never. “You needed to give the baby a name and a home. I’m sure he threatened your father and Miss Smith too. I know him too well to imagine anything else. Alone and unmarried, what choice did you have?”
The ache in Ashcroft’s chest eased as he watched the desperate misery drain from her face. He lifted one hand to press her palm against his cheek.
“I don’t deserve your faith,” she whispered, scrubbing at her damp cheeks with the soggy handkerchief.
“Yes, you do.”
Perhaps over the next fifty years he’d convince her of that. It gradually dawned on him that he needed time and an ocean of love to heal the wounds of the past.
Well, he was certainly man for the task. And today, they’d made a good beginning. But the need to whisk her away to safety became urgent.
“Diana, we should go.” He drew her hand away from his face but kept sure hold of it. He turned and led her into her father’s garden. “I don’t trust Burnley.”
She nodded and pocketed his handkerchief. He noticed she seemed calmer, less poisoned by regret. Even her voice was no longer laced with guilt. “He can’t hurt us, Tarquin. Not when we love one another.”
Joy welled, threatened to overflow. He stopped and lifted the hand he held to his lips. “I’m so happy about the baby. I’ve never had a real family.”
“We’ll make a real family together.”
The certainty in her tone ignited imperishable hope in his heart. He and Diana would prevail. They’d struggled through the fires of hell to reach this moment, but now the future extended before them like a broad, sunlit plateau.
His hand tightened on hers. “I’m set on becoming the dullest of fellows. The reformed rake. The faithful husband. The doting father. I hope you won’t rue the change, my love.”
“Am I, Tarquin?”
He didn’t immediately hear the quiet question. Most of his attention focused on whether Burnley’s minions skulked ready to ambush them. “Are you what?”
“Your love.”
He halted as if he smacked into a pane of glass and released her, Burnley completely forgotten.
Foolish woman. Of course she was his love.
Good God, he’d loved her from the first, although it took him an absurdly long time to recognize it.