He levered himself over her, ignoring the twinge from his bullet wound as he caged her with his arms. Her eyes went wide as he kissed her, hard and fierce. “Yes,” he said. “And you belong with me. Not here, stuck on this bloody estate for the remainder of your life. Not married to Frederick Burton-Smythe.”

“I told you, I’m not going to marry him. I thought I could before you came back but—”

“Marry me,” St. Clare said. It was half plea, half hoarse command. Not at all the romantic proposal he’d contemplated when traveling down from London.

Her bosom rose and fell against his chest. He felt her heart beating wildly, surely as wildly as his own. “And how shall we live?” she asked.

“Does it matter? Without you, life wouldn’t be worth living at all.”

She briefly looked away from him. Her throat spasmed on a swallow.

“You told me that, without me, you’ve been only half a person, living half a life. But I’m here now. Not the same—not Nicholas Seaton—but my heart is still yours. It’s always been yours. If you’ll marry me—”

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

His eyes blazed. “Maggie—”

“But you know Fred will never approve the match. It will mean giving up Beasley Park. Giving up my fortune.”

“Damn this place, and your money along with it. I’d take you in your underclothes.”

She choked on a laugh.

“I may still do,” he said in a low growl. “Come here.”

Her arms circled his neck, and when his mouth found hers once more, she kissed him back as eagerly and as passionately as he kissed her.

Sometime later, he lay down at her side, holding her hand, just as he’d done so many years before. A foolish smile played over his lips. He was lovestruck. Thoroughly besotted. And, at present, not much inclined to address realities.

Maggie had no such aversion. “Your grandfather’s not likely to approve either.”

“You think not? You may invite him to tea and ask him yourself.”

“What?” She abruptly sat up. One might think the earl himself had appeared in front of her. “Don’t say he’s come with you?”

So much for their respite from reality.

St. Clare propped himself up on one arm. “He has. He’s at the Hart and Hound. Still abed, I expect.” They’d arrived at the coaching inn late last night, sometime after eleven. His grandfather had forgone dinner and gone straight to his room. Even now, St. Clare still wasn’t sure of his mood. “We intend to pay a formal call on you this afternoon.”

Maggie was aghast. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Why not? I have it on good authority that a little boldness never goes amiss.”

“There’s boldness and there’s boldness. This is…” She shook her head. “Your grandfather must realize what will happen if someone recognizes you.”