You've used me to punish yourself, haven't you?"
He watched dawning realization spread over her face, a confirmation more positive than anything she could ever say, and that arrow twisted deep in his
chest. Yet still he had to ask the last question.
"Am I anything to you but a punishment?

Lazarus had never thought of himself as lovable. Therefore it should come as no shock at all that Temperance did not, in fact, love him. No, not a shock... but it would have been nice had she had some small feeling for him.
Lazarus pondered his own sickening craving as he guided his black gelding through the London morning throng the day after he'd walked out on Temperance. It appeared that his own nascent emotions had provoked a new desire as well: the urge to be loved. How banal. And yet, banal or not, he could not change the way his heart felt.
A corner of his mouth quirked up humorlessly. It seemed he must be like other men after all.

I love you," she sobbed, rubbing her hands over his face, his hair, his chest, making sure he was solid and real. "I love you, and I thought you were dead. I couldn't bear it. I thought I would die too."

"I'd walk through fire for you," he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. "I have walked through fire for you.

Excuse me, but I believe you have my lady,” one of them said in a quiet, deep voice that sent veritable chills down George’s spine.

Harry.

It hardly mattered. She was tired of waiting for him to acknowledge who he was. Tired of donning a false mask of gaiety when she was so much more—felt so much more—beneath. No one had ever noticed her mask. No one but him. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t make the first move, then damn it, she would.

She smiled as she poured tea into his cup. “I hope you find your rooms comfortable?”
“Quite.” He took a too-hasty sip of tea and scalded his tongue.
“The view is to your liking?”
He had a view of a brick wall. “Indeed.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him over the rim of her teacup. “And the bed. Is it soft and… yielding?”
He nearly choked on the bite of cake he’d just taken.
“Or do you prefer a firmer bed?” she asked sweetly. “One that refuses to yield too soon?”
“I think”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“whatever mattress I have on the bed you gave me is perfect. But tell me, my lady, what sort of mattress do you prefer? All soft goose down or one that’s a bit… harder?”
It was very fast, but he saw it: Her gaze flashed down to the juncture of his thighs and then up again. If there hadn’t been anything to see there before, there certainly was now.
“Oh, I like a nice stiff mattress,” she purred. “Well warmed and ready for a long ride.