Page 118 of The Highlander Is All That

She set her hand to his cheek, wounded by his worry. “How could I not love her? She is part of you.”

He sat back and blinked. “That sounds a wee bit like a declaration.”

“Does it?” She had to laugh at his expression. “I suppose it is.”

“Ach. I love you, Anne St. Claire,” he said as he leaned over to kiss her.

She broke away as a horrible notion occurred. “What about the duke? What if he doesn’t approve?”

“The duke?” he growled. “The duke be damned.” And then he kissed her again.

They repaired, in haste, to their room and fortunately, no other thoughts occurred. Not for a long, long while.

* * *

“My lady? Did you hear me?”

Elizabeth glanced longingly up the hill at the cottage she shared with Miss Claire. She had heard Lord Hamlyn, but she’d been dreading this conversation for weeks, though it was probably best to face it head on. She sighed and shifted the packages in her arms and turned to him. “My lord?”

“I said, I’m in love with you. Head over heels, totally, utterly in love with you.” The boy dropped to one knee. “Say you will make me the happiest man on earth.”

Elizabeth winced at this lovelorn pronouncement. Oh, he was handsome and gentle and kind—nearly as perfect as a man could be.

But only nearly.

And even though he was tall and handsome and sweet—and titled and rich—Elizabeth couldn’t dredge up a shred of interest in him. Even if she’d had an inclination to do so, which she did not.

Aside from that, he’d fallen in love with her on sight, the very day she’d arrived in Cornwall, which she found highly suspect. They hardly knew each other.

She shook her head. “I cannot marry you, Lord Hamlyn.”

“Cary, please.”

No. He would always be Lord Hamlyn. “You must understand . . .”

His hopeful expression deflated. “Did you love him so much?”

“Beyond words.” And she still did.

Not the fictional soldier they’d invented who had (not really) perished in Waterloo, but the faithless Highlander who preferred widows. Which was ironic, considering her disguise. She glanced at Lord Hamlyn and winced. He seemed devastated, which was a little silly. They’d only just met. But he was young and . . . fanciful. She struggled to hold back a maudlin smile. Hamish had once thought the same of her. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Please say you will reconsider.” He stared at her with puppy-dog eyes.

She caught his gaze, allowing her expression to speak for her. And then, with a small squeeze of his hand, she headed back to the wattle-and-daub cottage she shared with Miss Claire on the bluff overlooking the town.

The duchess had had the brilliant idea that Elizabeth travel disguised as a widow to Clovelly, a small village in the Torridge district of Devon where she was to stay with Helena’s retired nurse until the scandal blew over. The ploy was even more inspired when, two weeks after her arrival at Miss Claire’s cottage, Elizabeth began losing her breakfast on a regular basis.

Though she had no idea what was happening, Miss Claire did.

It was a surprise and a delight for Elizabeth to realize she was increasing.

If she had to live her whole life in this lovely seaside town, it would be easier to do it as a widow than a disgraced girl.

Which she was.

Somehow, though, she had trouble dredging up a hint of shame or guilt.

All she knew was happiness. Certainly enough of it to smother her heartbreak.