“Marry me,” he said simply and then took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
His response came out in a rush of air. “It does not matter what anyone else thinks or says. We can leave it all behind. We can be—wait. What?”
“I said yes.” She couldn’t help but smile at his incredulity. He seemed so often to know what she needed before she did that she was relieved to be able to surprise him. “Yes, I shall marry you,” she said, louder, slower, and clearer, to make sure he truly heard it.
Ultimately, she experienced no earth-shaking epiphany. No thunderbolt of realization. No stinging arrow from Cupid’s bow. Slowly, inexorably, all the messages people had been giving her simply melted into her, in particular the refrain he’d been singing over and over, that he loved her. And she loved him. How simple. She faced her fears and replaced them with a deep, unequivocal conviction. Yes, she would share the rest of her life with him, whatever that entailed. She smiled at his sudden loss of speech, at the brightness of his eyes as tears welled.
He wasn’t the only one stunned into silence. The entire room was too quiet. This was what they could look forward to from London society.
He stood, nodded to the conductor, who led the orchestra into a waltz, and calmly escorted her to the balcony.
“Why?” His question startled her. It seemed so incongruous with his hand stroking her cheek.
“Why what?”
“Why did you change your mind?” His eyes searched her face.
“Well, because you love me.”
“And?”
“What do you mean ‘and’?”
“Come now,” he said, looking surprisingly shy. “You already know I love you. That did not seem to be enough before. So what else?”
“And . . . because you and I somehow fit.” At his raised brow, she added, “Not only in the way you’re thinking, you scoundrel, but in a larger sense.” His mouth twisted even more suggestively, and she swatted his chest. “You know what I mean. I’d long ago decided that there was no such thing as a soul mate. It wasn’t simply that I’d given up on marriage. I could happily live as a redundant woman, eking out an independent life. Yet you make me see how my life could be shared, how I can be stronger and accomplish more with a true partner.”
“And?” he asked in a whisper. He kissed her gloved knuckles, his eyes fixed on hers, almost pleading.
“Oh, dear. You poor man. I suppose I haven’t said it yet, have I?”
“No,” he said, his voice low and tense. If the line of his shoulders and the working of his jaw were any indication, he might break apart any second from the anxiety. “No, you have not. Ever.”
She said she’d marry him. Could he doubt her feelings? Could he think she would agree to marry him for anything less than complete devotion? She laid her palm against his cheek, such a simple touch.
“You seem to have so little need for words, so little regard for sentimentality. Could one little declaration mean so much to you?”
He nodded, his eyes fierce, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His warmth spread through her glove and continued through her body. She smiled up at him, opening herself to him.
“And,” she said, low but firm, “I love you. I’ve wanted you from the day you first walked into my shop. I think I’ve loved you since your mother’s dinner party,” she admitted. “I do have reservations, but I love you, and now, just this once, I will be selfish—”
That was all she could manage to say before his lips took hers. Chaste and gentle, this kiss still managed to set her heart soaring and her mind whirling. Only their hands and lips touched, and yet she felt they were already one.
“Well,” he said, long moments later, as he composed himself, “I had a whole speech prepared to sway you.”
“You could have fooled me. In any case, you can present it to me later.” She laughed and then said quietly, “I shall grow old, you know.”
“So shall I. God willing, we shall do so together.”
“But I will grow old much sooner than you. I could become an invalid. I could become demented. I will most certainly lose whatever physical charms attract you to me.”
“Nora, I love you. I love everything you are . . . but, most of all, I simply love you. Whatever happens, I will always love you. I will be by your side and revel in every moment.”
When they reentered the ballroom, Lady Devin was already waiting and swiftly embraced Honoria enthusiastically.
Society would accept his decision. And so, without warning, he reset the stage, determined to elicit the joyous response his new fi-ancée deserved. He led her up to the dais and addressed the guests.
“My dear friends, I believe it is reasonable for me to say that my mother’s balls, while infrequent, are occasions of grand celebration.” Cheers of “Here, here!” rang out in salute of his mother. “Tonight is an especially auspicious occasion. Mrs. Honoria Duchamp, you are everything I could ever want in a woman. I love you with everything I am. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Yes, the proposal had already been made, but he’d apparently determined that this was the way it should be made, with outrageously dignified pomp.
She stood her ground, eyes only for him.
“Yes, my Lord Devin, nothing would make me happier. A thousand times yes.”
He squeezed her hand as his mother and friends applauded. Slowly, the sound grew as the entire assemblage followed suit. Or most of it. A few dour souls made their way to the exit, but their censure would not darken the moment. Several of Lady Devin’s friends came up to give their felicitations, and it turned out to be the ball of Nora’s dreams.
In his arms, she felt whole. She felt cherished. She felt seen. And she felt as if, just for once, she could be the heroine of a grand, epic story indeed.
Epilogue
It was Lord Devin’s favorite time of day. As the gray sky deepened into twilight, he strolled into the bookshop, placed the CLOSED sign in the window, and locked the front door. He could hear his lovely wife humming in the back office, no doubt closing the day’s accounts. He’d suggested she hire an accounting clerk, but she insisted on handling the ledger herself. She simply didn’t trust anyone else to do it well enough, and finding someone as meticulous as she would indeed be difficult. They’d had his personal accountant run an audit covering the past five years. When it was complete, the man immediately offered Honoria a job with his firm, so impressed he was with her acumen. But, of course, nothing could woo her from the bookshop.
Speaking of wooing her from the bookshop, he was surprised at what an inordinately long time it was taking for Honoria to settle this day’s ledger. There she sat at the desk, head down in concentration, pencil moving continuously, pausing every few moments as she calculated. Surely there hadn’t been so large a spike in sales on a random Thursday. When he said as much, she simply raised a finger to her lips. He couldn’t even begin to explain why, but he found even the most infinitesimal of her movements charming. The pursing of her lips, the touch of her finger, the lilt of her eyebrow. Utterly fascinating.
And yet he knew from experience that, if he distracted her from this task, it would take even longer for them to get home and explore more fascinating and enjoyable endeavors.
So he wandered the office, scanning the ever-changing stacks and ever-stable knickknacks—the miniature of her parents, a pressing of the first flower he ever gave her. He’d grown quite fond of this room . . . and that desk. In fact, he had several extremely fond and vivid memories of that desk. Such as the evening soon after their engagement when he’d accosted her after closing, finding her on one of the ladders and then doing what he’d dreamed of since he’d first laid eyes on her. He dove under her skirt and petticoats as she stood above him and found her. One thing quickly led to another, and he’d laid her out on that very desk and tasted her womanhood, feasted on her deeply and thoroughly, as she moaned and squealed and cried out.
He finally sat down in the plump leather
chair across from Nora and waited. Such recollection had a way of building like a snowball rolling down a mountain. He couldn’t stop himself from remembering another evening soon after that when he’d arrived late, delayed by friends at his club, and found Nora waiting impatiently. Hungrily. She’d pushed him up against the desk—right there!—roughly freed him from his trousers and then knelt before him, insatiable and relentless.
He grinned.
The problem with such memories, he thought as he shifted uncomfortably, was that there was only one satisfactory end result. And Nora was still too buried in the ledger for him to prompt her toward such results. He needed to distract himself before the tightness of his trousers and the throbbing of his groin made him a nuisance. So he forced himself to examine the items on his side of the desk very, very carefully.
“Here is an old friend,” he said. “One Thousand and One Nights! What an odd coincidence to find this portentous fellow lying about.”
“Hmm,” she said idly. “Yes, I acquired another copy recently. I was reminded of it today and wanted to check something.”
“Do tell.”
“Such a wonderful work. Do you remember the ending?”
“Let us see. Well, of course, the king falls in love with our inestimable heroine Scheherazade and ultimately decides he cannot possibly kill her.”
“Mmm-hmm. There was another detail I’d forgotten. . . .”
“Which is?”
Without raising her head, she held up her hand again, in the midst of calculations.
So he flipped through the last few pages of the book in his hands. Within those pages, an idea took root in his mind, growing from a whisper to a roar, a glorious and all-encompassing roar. Could it be? Dare he hope?
When he closed the book and looked back at Honoria, she was looking at him with great affection. He swallowed hard and moved toward her.
“My lady wife, is there some message you wish me to glean from this volume?”
“Yes.”
He rounded the desk and leaned in.
“I would rather not mistake your meaning. So could you give it to me plainly?”
“Certainly, my lord and husband. Our Scheherazade, brave and clever and beautiful, was very busy in all those long nights. Somehow after all those nights of drama and fancy, she not only found herself beloved and secure—but also in a rather happy but delicate condition.”
Barely breathing, he asked, “And why would you be reminded of her romantic denouement today?”
“Because, my love, it’s taken us far fewer than a thousand and one nights, more like one hundred and fifty nights, at least according to rough estimate by the doctor and midwife I saw this morning.”
His heart leapt, apparently into his throat, for he found himself unable to speak. He held her face gently, reverently in his hands. She truly did glow. And he wondered, not for the first time, what he could have possibly done to earn such a charmed life.
“You are enceinte? I did not think such a thing could be possible,” he said, finally. “Are you sure? Are you all right? Is it safe?”
“I am fine. I’m so much more than fine, love. I’m over the moon, and my heart is dancing among the stars.” She sobered a little. “The doctor says it could be rough going, bearing a child at this age. But it’s not unheard of. I’m strong in mind and body, and I have you with me.”
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied. “I know . . . we need better words for love.” And, when she kissed him, gently, he knew that this was one of those things for which no words could possibly suffice.
About the Author
Amara Royce writes historical romances that combine her passion for 19th-century literature and history with her addiction to happily-ever-afters. She earned a Ph.D. in English, specializing in 19th-century British literature, from Lehigh University, and a master’s degree in English from Villanova University. She now teaches English literature and composition at a community college in Pennsylvania. When Amara isn’t writing, she’s either grading papers or reveling in her own happily-ever-after with her remarkably patient family.
www.amararoyce.com
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Precie A. Schroyer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
eKensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3117-0
Amara Royce Page 24