Her Wicked Proposal novel Chapter 48

The viscount was there for her, securing her in his arms as if she'd been molded from the same body as he. The achingly perfect feel of being nestled in his embrace was terrifying. She knew nothing of herself except that she had always been strong, and yet in this man's arms she felt vulnerable. The last vestiges of her strength were gone and she was unable to pull away, unable to put distance between them.

When the tears started to soak his waistcoat, she found herself mumbling an apology in the groove of his neck and shoulder. Lips, warm and comforting, touched the crown of her hair as he shushed her and rocked her body in slow motions. Her tense shoulders eased as a wave of exhaustion, emotional rather than physical, took over.

"I wish I could remember you," she breathed against his neck.

"I think you would hate me if you could remember, Anne. It is my fault that this happened to you. If not for my callous nature and frail pride, you would be safe and we would be enjoying the delights of a newly married couple. Instead..." The viscount sounded confused as to whether he should be angry at himself or disappointed.

She stroked his cheek, wanting to return the warmth he'd given her. He pulled away, as though her touch had burned him.

"Don't! I don't deserve your comfort."

Anne felt a sudden fierce protectiveness toward him and wrapped her unbound arm firmly around his neck, locking herself against him. Her sling made it cumbersome, but the embrace was so important to her. She desperately needed to remain attached to him, even as he sought to push her away.

"Offering love and comfort is never about whether the receiver deserves it."

"Love?" Cedric's eyes widened in surprise. "Do you love me?"

Anne frowned as she considered this. "I must have. I can't imagine I would have married anyone unless I did." She was secure in her belief there. Love was vital for marriage, at least for her.

"How can you know that if you cannot even remember your name?" His skepticism cut her more sharply than she'd expected.

"I suppose I know it the way I know I do not like pickled eggs or salmon. It's instinctive, too deep to be removed from my mind." Loving him felt that way, bone deep, carved into the essence of her soul. "Do you love me?" The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to think.

Her husband, the familiar stranger, merely flashed a charming smile.

"Well? Do you?"

"How about I tell you a story instead, Anne. Two years ago a man was at a ball with his closest friends. He knew that he had all he thought he could ever want from life: money, property, titles, companions tried and true. But there was an emptiness inside him, vast as the sea and ravaged by the winds of suffering and solitude. He laughed at others who claimed to love, or to be in love. But in fact he was jealous of them. On that night, surrounded by dancers, a young woman came to him. Against all propriety, all decency, she proceeded to gawk at him like a darling baby chick just out of its shell."

"Do not tell me I am this baby chick." She cut in with a tentative but teasing smile.