"Favourite things. Aye." Ian leaned against the hearth and crossed his arms over his chest the only way he could keep from yanking her into his arms. Bloody hell, if he'd thought it difficult not to pounce upon her before, it was nearly impossible not to do so now, when no more secrets existed between them. When he'd bared his soul to her, and she'd admitted to having strong feelings for him.

Based on her reaction to their kiss on the terrace, he didn't doubt he could seduce her, but he wanted more than a quick romp. Wanted more than her body. He wanted her heart. And wanted her to know she owned his. Although she'd owned it from the moment he'd seen her, he'd never told her so, something he'd castigated himself for every day for the past six months. Surely if he'd told her, she wouldn't have left him. He'd intended to, but hadn't felt the need to rush, especially as he believed she knew, even without the words, how deeply he cared for her. Bloody hell, it had seemed as if his feelings all but glowed from him.

It was a mistake he wouldn't repeat. Before this evening was over, Sophia would know, without a doubt, how much he cared for her out of the bedchamber as well as in it.

So, instead of sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the nearest bed, he offered her a smile and teased, "I'd wager you're now sorry you never expressed to me a love for diamonds and emeralds."

She laughed, a magical sound that flowed over him like warm honey. "In truth I'm not overly fond of diamonds or emeralds. I much prefer-"

"Pearls."

"I mentioned that?"

He nodded. "Once."

"And you remembered?"

"You sound surprised."

"I suppose I am."

She returned her attention to the table and picked up one of the sea shells decorating the surface. As he knew she would, she held the shell up to her ear, and his heart turned over at the delighted smile that lifted her lips. "You also remembered how I love the sound of the sea."

"I recall every detail of our time together. Everything about you is ... unforgettable."

Colour rushed into her cheeks and she quickly set the shell back in the bowl. "Ian, what I said in the carriage regarding my feelings ... there are things we need to discuss-"

"I agree. And what better way to begin than with your favourite things?" He slid back one of the mahogany chairs from the table in invitation.

Her gaze lingered over the arrangement of pink roses set in a crystal vase in the centre of the table. "I believe you are once again trying to tempt me with your roses."

"I am. And let's not forget the cherries, marzipan, scones and raspberry jam."

She moistened her lips, a gesture that tightened Ian's fingers around chair back. "I am a bit hungry," she murmured.

"Excellent. Shall we sit?"

She hesitated, and he prayed the wariness in her eyes was a result of not trusting herself bloody great news as far as he was concerned as opposed to not trusting him: a bloody depressing thought. Finally she nodded, then gracefully sat and murmured her thanks. Ian took the seat across from her and popped a piece of marzipan in his mouth. While enjoying the almond-flavoured treat as well as several cherries he watched her spread jam on a scone then take a delicate bite.

"Is it to your liking?"

"Yes. Thank you for going to such trouble on my behalf."

"'Tis no trouble to give you the things you enjoy, Sophia."

His gaze riveted on a speck of jam dotting her bottom lip. Unable to resist, he reached out and brushed a fingertip over the spot. "You missed a bit of jam." With his gaze steady on hers, he sucked the morsel from his fingertip. Her eyes darkened at the gesture which he might perhaps have been able to resist, but when her gaze dropped to his mouth and she whispered his name, the fire racing through him incinerated his every good intention, and the battle not to touch her was well and truly lost.

Without taking his gaze from her, he stood and strode around the table. Lifted her into his arms. Carried her swiftly to the sofa. Set her on the chintz-covered cushion, then covered her body with his.

"Missed you so bloody much," he murmured in a rough whisper, interspersing kisses along her jaw and neck between words. "Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think o' anything but you. Finding you. Touching you. Loving you."

Every thought fled his mind when she tangled her fingers in his hair and urged his mouth to hers for a lush, tongue-dancing kiss. More. Needed more. He insinuated his hand beneath her gown's hem and skimmed his palm up her leg.

"Ached for you ... God, Sophia, I've ached for you every minute of the last six months." They both groaned when he touched her folds. "Wet," he rasped, running his tongue down her throat as he teased her with a light, circular motion then slipped two fingers inside her. "You're so beautifully wet."

She moaned and arched beneath him, spreading her legs wider. "I've ached for you as well, Ian." She stroked his hard length through his breeches, and he gritted his teeth against the intense pleasure.

Helpless to remain still, he thrust into her hand. "I won't last long if you continue doing ... ahhh ... that." Long? Bloody hell, he was a heartbeat away from ripping open his breeches and mindlessly sinking into her. Which was precisely what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do. Damn it, he was going to do this properly even if it killed him which it bloody well might.

With a groan that felt ripped from his soul, he sat up, bowed his head, and fought to control his ragged breathing.

"Ian ..." She sat up and kissed his neck, dragging another groan from him. "You didn't need to stop. I want us to have this night. One last night to be together."

A frown pulled down his brows and he turned towards her. "One last night? What are you talking about?"

"Us ... spending the night together. Enjoying each other."

"And then ...?"

"And then I'll go home. And you'll return to Scotland."

Bloody hell. He'd not only pounced on her, he'd lost his mind and forgotten all his fine plans for the evening. "Sophia. I stopped because I didn't come here for a quick romp-"

"I understand. Which is why I want you to know we can have the entire night."

"No, you don't understand at all. I didn't come to London to resume our affair or to spend a night with you. I came here to tell you that I love you. So much it hurts to even breathe without you. I don't want you to be just my lover. I want you to be my wife." He withdrew a square velvet box from his waistcoat pocket then lowered himself to one knee. Looking into her eyes, he opened the box to reveal the pearl ring he'd commissioned especially for her. "Sophia, will you marry me?"

Six.

The blank shock, followed by dawning dismay, on Sophia's face was definitely not the reaction Ian had hoped for. She rose from the sofa then moved to the fireplace, putting the length of the Axminster rug between them. "Marry you? You cannot be serious."

Hurt and damn it anger propelled him to his feet. He set the ring aside then reached her in two long strides and grasped her shoulders. "I've never been more serious in my life. I love you, Sophia. I want ye to be my wife. To share my life."

She shook her head and tried to shrug off his hold, but he wouldn't let her. "It's impossible, Ian."

"Why?"

"Why? Surely you can see this could never work between us. Your place is in Scotland. Mine is here, in England, being the sort of mother to Edward I promised him I'd be. The sort whose behaviour is above reproach. A scandal would not only cast shame upon me, but Edward as well. Just last year a terrible scandal erupted when a viscountess was discovered having an affair with a footman. Her husband publicly gave her the cut direct, and many in Society, not wishing to incur the viscount's wrath, cut not only the viscountess but her children as well, including her son, whose political aspirations suffered as a result. Edward has political aspirations as well. I cannot, will not subject him to any such possible shame."

"I'm not a footman, Sophia, and I'm asking you to be my wife not my mistress. We are of the same social class. No scandal would touch you or your son if we married."

"The age difference between us is enough to set tongues wagging. I'll be labelled a cradle snatcher or worse. My God, Ian, you're not only twelve years younger than me you're only ten years older than my son!"

"You make it sound as if I'm a child rather than a man of five and twenty. What precisely is it you think I'm too young for?"

"A woman of seven and thirty."

He muttered a Gaelic curse. "There is naught I can do about my unfortunate lack of age, except to reiterate that it doesn't matter to me and to remind you that I will get older."

"As will I. I know how difficult an age gap can be in a marriage-"

He cut her off with a dismissive wave. "Twelve years is hardly the same as the thirty-year difference you had with your husband."

"You'll change your mind when you're still a young man and I'm an old hag."

"That's bloody ridiculous. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

"Beauty fades with age."

"Not inner beauty. But using your theory, any good looks you believe I possess will also fade. You'll look at me and see a crabbitty old coot."

She shook her head. "Ian, it was one thing for us to be together in Scotland, where I was unknown and had no one but myself to consider. It was a wonderful, special time and I'll always be grateful to you for showing me how to live again. For making me want to live again. But it wasn't real."

"The hell it wasn't. It was the most real thing I've ever known."

"While it lasted. But it had to end."

"Not if we care for each other."

Her eyes begged for understanding. "I must set a good example for Edward, and that good example does not include being with a man twelve years my junior."

"I don't give a damn about the twelve years!"

"You should. What of an heir? It's very unlikely I can bear another child."

"I've male cousins who can inherit the title."

"Every man wants a son of his own."

"I canna speak for every man only myself. And what I want is a woman to love. A woman who makes me laugh. Who makes me happy. Having a child would be a great blessing, but 'tis not vital to my happiness. Whereas you, Sophia, are absolutely vital." He smoothed his hands down her arms and entwined their fingers. "I also want a woman who loves me, as much as I love her. As far as I'm concerned, that's the only reason us marrying would be impossible if you don't love me." He searched her gaze, wishing he could read her thoughts, but her expression was impossible to decipher. "So the only question left is: do you love me?"

"I ... I care for you very much-"

"That is no' what I asked. Do you love me? 'Tis a simple question and requires only a simple yes or no answer."

Tenderness shimmered in her eyes, filling him with relief and hope. "Yes, Ian. I love you. But"

He cut her off with a hungry kiss filled with all the pent-up love and frustration and passion he'd held in check for what felt like an eternity. She loved him. Nothing else mattered. He deepened the kiss and the words at last thundered through his brain. At last she was back in his arms, where she belonged. At last they would be together. At last.

A shudder shook her and he lifted his head. And stilled at the tears in her eyes ... golden brown pools that shimmered with sadness and regret rather than happiness. And suddenly he felt as if he'd turned to ice.

She stepped back and his arms fell to his sides. "Ian ... I cannot marry you. I do love you so much that it is nearly impossible to recall that I have responsibilities beyond my own happiness and selfish desires. Which is the biggest reason I had to leave you in Scotland because I was so tempted to forget everything but you. To think of nothing, no one but myself. But I cannot think only of myself. I cannot risk any sort of scandal. If there was only me to consider ... but there's not. Perhaps if Edward were an adult ... but he's not. If I were younger or you were older ... but that isn't the case. I wish with all my heart our circumstances were different ... but they're not."

Ian heard her words, but after she'd said I cannot marry you, they all blurred together. It didn't really matter what she said in spite of her regret, her resolute determination was clear to see. His heart screamed at him to argue, to persuade her, but his mind knew there was no point. Perhaps she loved him, but it didn't matter. Because she didn't love him enough. And no amount of arguing or persuasion would change that.

He had to clear his throat to locate his voice. "Well, that's that then." He sounded as gutted as he felt.

She reached out and rested her hand on his chest. Right above the heart she'd just broken. "Yes, but we still could have tonight, Ian. One more night. And then say good-bye."

He briefly closed his eyes and pressed her hand tighter against his chest. Then shook his head. "I can't have you again then let you go. I can't have you again then say good-bye. I want it all, Sophia. All or nothing."

A single tear slid down her cheek and fell on his cuff. "Then I'm afraid it's ... nothing."

Ian watched the droplet soak into the white linen, until the tear was gone, as if it had never existed. Just like the happiness they'd shared last summer. He gave a tight nod, then without a word he crossed the room and pulled the bell cord. Only several seconds passed until a knock sounded. At Ian's bid to enter, the butler opened the door. "Please have the carriage brought round and see that Lady Winterbourne is escorted safely home."

"Yes, my lord."

The butler withdrew, and Ian turned to Sophia. He almost wished he could take some satisfaction in the fact that she looked as pale and eviscerated as he felt, but it was impossible to feel anything when his entire body was numb. Heavy silence fell between them. He searched his mind for something to say, but he had no words left.

The butler returned a moment later. "The carriage is ready, my lord," he said, then withdrew.

Ian watched Sophia cross the room. Felt her touch his hand. Heard her say softly, "I wish you much happiness, Ian." And then she quit the room. He stared at the empty doorway after she exited then listened for the sound of the front door closing. The click reverberated through his mind like a death knell.

She was gone.

And she'd taken his heart with her.

Seven.

The following afternoon, Sophia exhausted after a sleepless night reluctantly agreed to receive Christine, but only because Christine had scrawled it's urgent I see you on the back of her card. The instant her normally unflappable friend entered the drawing room Sophia knew something was amiss.

"What's wrong?" she asked, taking Christine's proffered hands. Her concern doubled when she felt her friend's fingers trembling.

Confusion passed over Christine's features, then her eyes widened. "Dear God, you don't know."

"Know what?"

"Let's sit."

Sophia preferred to stand, but given Christine's pallor, she led her friend to the settee. "Tell me what's wrong," Sophia said. "Are you ill?"

"Only in my heart for you."

"Me? Why?"

Christine squeezed Sophia's hands. "You were seen sharing a passionate kiss with the very young Scottish Lord Marlington on the terrace at the Benningfield soiree last evening. You were further observed leaving the party with him, arriving at his townhouse, where you reportedly remained for an 'indecent amount of time', and looked ... dishevelled when you left."