She ducked her head, her heart aching for the man before her and the pain she read in his beloved eyes. “I’m sorry. You must be suffering greatly. I would do anything to ease your pain.”

“Anything?” he asked softly.

Something in his tone had her glancing up at him. He gazed at her steadily, an unreadable expression on his face. For a timeless moment their gazes held. 

Finally, he cursed and turned his steps toward her desk. He looked down at her neat-as-a-pin desk top, gestured at her ink blotter and the locked cabinet, and said, “Most ladies keep their escritoire in their bedroom antechamber, or their office. Yours has a place of prominence in the receiving room—and boasts a locking slider. Why?”

She did not bother to staunch her burgeoning smile as she approached her desk, bypassing him to smooth her fingers over the rose colored trim. “This is where I prefer to work. I am at my desk an inordinate amount of time. I do not wish to find myself cooped up in a dark chamber for hours on end when I can instead enjoy the ocean view for which I paid.” 

“I see. Your work. And what is it you do which affords us this lovely villa and which you must keep under lock and key? Am I married to a black mailer, perhaps?”

She laughed aloud, then felt a rush of pleasure when his eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips twitched. 

Her humor fled as he closed the meager distance between them in one languorous stride. A rolling heat that began in her chest spread through her in every direction. 

“Well?” he drawled. 

She met his liquid brown gaze and opted for the truth. “It’s a secret, you understand,” she murmured.

His brows shot upward. “So you are a black mailer.”

She grinned briefly. “I write here. I keep my notebooks and drafts locked here, safe from prying eyes.”

“What do you mean? Write here. Write what?” 

She lifted her chin. “I’m an authoress.”

His expression went blank. In the next instant, something flickered in his eyes, as if he recalled a vague memory.

“You knew about my writing,” she went on, studying his face for any sign of remembrance. “You and Drake, both. You were my biggest”—she gave a soft laugh—“my only supporters, until I met my friends in the literary society, one of whom is my editor and, recently, having purchased her own publishing house, my publisher.”

Admiration lit his face. “Never say that you’re published.”

Her face warmed, and she nodded. “To date, I have five novels in print, and a sixth on the way, all written under the pseudonym GT Arlington.”

He snorted softly, his eyes softening as his gaze drifted over her. “Hardly a pseudonym, pet, as we are married.”

The warmth in her cheeks doubled, and her heart squeezed. “Yes, well, no one knows that but us.”

“Us,” he repeated, the warmth in his tone fading. “You. You know. I do not. I’ve scoured my entire guest chamber, the office—which, by the way, offered no evidence of my existence—and this receiving room. Every shelf, every drawer—save that one.” He pointed one long, accusing finger at the cabinet, inside of which she kept her notebooks, letters and such. “I have found nothing that hints at my existence, much less our marriage.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. I already explained you’ve never been here.” 

“Nevertheless, there must be proof a ceremony took place. Surely Dr. Penhurst did not allow you to take me away from his esteemed madhouse on your word alone.” He bent toward her, bringing their faces nearly even. “I want to see that proof.”

She licked her lips and watched his caramel gaze track the movement. At the same time, a strange look crossed his face which she could not precisely interpret. Some combination of vexation and…she couldn’t say. 

“I have only the certificate we received at Gretna Green.” The one she’d forged, with the knowledge she’d gained researching for a book.

“Kindly produce it, madam wife.”

Fingers trembling, she reached for the sole key she kept on her person, hanging on a leather cord around her neck. 

He watched her withdraw the brass key, then, with a jerky movement of his head, looked away. A muscle rapid-fire ticked in his jaw. “A clever hiding place, pet.”

She said nothing, just moved behind her desk, with Teddy close on her heel. 

“Our marriage certificate is locked inside? It would seem your secret writing is not all you keep in there.” 

Silently, she prayed he would not leap to pilfer the contents of the cabinet, once opened. Of equal importance was her fervent wish that he wouldn’t know a marriage certificate if it bit him on the shin, Scottish issued or otherwise. 

She inserted the key in the lock and turned until a soft snick sounded. She rolled back the lid.

Warmth from his body cocooned hers as he leaned ever nearer, bracketing her in on her right side with one braced arm to peer over her shoulder.

A shiver danced up her spine at the unconscionable intimacy of the posture. Everything in her felt hot and tingly as awareness for the man behind her amplified to a tortuous level. 

Then, she heard the unmistakable sound of his slow, deep inhale, followed by his shuddering exhale. 

“Teddy,” she began, glancing back at him. Whatever she intended to say died on her lips at the banked heat in his eyes. Her mouth went dry and her knees threatened to buckle. 

“You smell very nice, Georgina.” The compliment, delivered in a halting cadence, seemed almost a reluctant admission.

Though she tried, she could not staunch the tremulous smile tugging at her lips. 

His gaze dropped to her mouth. 

She wanted to shriek in her frustration. That he wanted to kiss her—her—could not have been more obvious. How cruel life could be. How many times had she wished for that very thing. She wished for it now, with every fiber of her being.

Calling on all her will, she closed her eyes and forced herself to speak. “I need…”

“What do you need, love?” he murmured, his soft breath tickling the fine hairs on her cheek.

“Light,” she finally choked. “To see. Into the cabinet. You’re blocking it.”