At least, not yet. But soon. He’d marry her in the quadrangle of the Bodleian Library, he decided. He’d take her on a honeymoon to Biblioteca Marciana. They could name their firstborn William, in honor of the incomparable Shakespeare. Or Wilhelmina, he supposed, if they were lucky enough to have a daughter. Not Cecilia, though. Heritage ended here.

But his romantic dream shattered as she stomped on his foot, pulling herself from his hold so forcefully he stumbled. “Ow,” he said, scowling. She shook her hair from her face and scowled right back. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I don’t want to cry, Ned. And I don’t want your consolation.”

“You don’t?” He had never been so confused in all his life. Even now, he could see the shyness in her eyes, could practically feel the ache emanating from her body. Or maybe it was his own ache, growing so powerful in some places that he feared he might—

Oh.

His scowl faded as he finally understood. Hers flared into a blush. She lifted her chin with exquisite hauteur, almost but not quite disguising her embarrassment, and began to turn away.

He grabbed her hand. Without another word, he pulled her from the cockpit, marching so decisively along the hallway she had to run stumbling to keep up. He paused at one doorway, shot her a demanding look. She shook her head.

“Next one,” she muttered with a mix of determination and mortification.

He strode to the door, thrust it open so enthusiastically it banged against the wall—and then nearly got his face broken as the door flung back at him and slammed shut. The sound of Cecilia trying not to laugh did not improve his patience. He opened the door again more carefully and hauled her into the room.

He groaned. Facing him was the most alluring bed he’d ever seen. Simple white blankets tucked in without a crease; two pillows so thin even a pauper would disdain them—it was a bed that spoke so much of Cecilia he could barely breathe, looking at it. She slept in that bed, her body shifting against its sheets, her nightgown tangling up to her waist . . .

He hastily turned away. The rest of the room was as calm, although with feminine touches that eased its prim austerity—pearls, shawls, a polished Winchester rifle. On one wall, a black-draped portrait of Cilla gazed down, her painted eyes focused directly on him as if she knew what he was planning to do. Ned winced. He was as degenerate as the next man, but he could not debauch a girl while her mother’s portrait looked on.

“Tsk,” Cecilia said. Pulling her hand free, she strode across the room and arranged the mourning drapery so Cilla was veiled. As she looked back at Ned, she winked.

A laugh broke from him then, a sudden lighthearted delight he had not felt in years. The sexual heat scouring his body deepened into a richer, more sincere warmth. Oh damn, he thought. I love this woman. He went to her, laid his hands on her shoulders, gazed into her wintry eyes.