“I didn’t love Juliet,” Win said, but Marguerite shook her head.
“I couldn’t have guessed that! And I couldn’t wish for that, or I shouldn’t have, really. I did, though. I truly did. I wondered if maybe she would fall in love with someone else, or decide abruptly that you two just weren’t meant to be. And then that day I saw you in the restaurant and you ordered that ridiculous peach torte—” she broke off in earnest then, and a single tear snaked its way down her face as she shook her head. “I was so excited to be talking to you, to have a few stolen moments with your attention on me.”
She drew in a shaky breath, and it was Win’s turn to grimace. “You looked so focused, so intent, standing over old Mr. Holt. My first thought, I’m not going to lie, was concern.”
“About Mr. Holt?” she managed, clearly surprised.
“About what he might tell you. His family has been in this part of South Carolina longer than mine has, he might have known our history.” He shook his head to silence her protest. “It doesn’t matter if what James Masters did happened during a war over a hundred and fifty years ago. I was also hiding from…from what I’d done, or not done, five years ago. It was all wrapped up together.”
“But both of those people made their own choices, Win. And those choices weren’t your responsibility.”
“I know…I know.” He leaned down and brushed Marguerite’s hair with his lips, because he couldn’t go a moment more without feeling closer to her. “Thank you,” he whispered, and something in his heart seemed to shiver a little more, threatening to break it open wide. “To know that you could want me, Marguerite, to see what’s in your eyes, I could live a thousand years and never be as happy as I am right now. You’ve given me that gift, tonight. You’ve made it happen.”
“Then will you let me keep making it happen?” she asked, her words barely a whisper. “Because…because I love you, Win. I truly love you. Both the parts you think are perfect and the parts that you think aren’t.”
“Oh, Marguerite,” Win could no more deny her than he could deny his next breath. “I love you, too,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I can’t ever imagine not loving you.”
Though he uttered the words so quietly he was surprised Marguerite could hear them, the crowd surrounding the gazebo all seemed to exhale at once, their released breath followed by a flurry of chatter so loud it broke through Win’s haze. He brought his head up sharply, blinking, but he realized at once that something had gone terribly wrong with their plan. The king and queen were standing off to the side of the gazebo, leaving him and Marguerite dancing alone, and—
Then Marguerite exclaimed with a quick breath of surprise. “Win!” she pointed.
And there, in the overflowing baskets placed carefully among the evergreen ferns…was a profusion of bold and blooming flowers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Marguerite turned around, then around again, breaking away from Win just enough to see the flower trellises lining the pathway around the gazebo. The moonflowers had burst open with spectacular vigor, full white blossoms gleaming under a thousand tiny lights.
“It’s happening!” The high, reedy voice seemed to rise above the swelling murmur of the crowd, and Dawson Holt stepped forward, his hand reached out to touch the nearest flower with almost an awed reverence. “Oh, I never…I truly never thought I’d see this moment.”
Marguerite swayed, suddenly dizzy, but then Win was there again, holding her tight. Holding her like he’d never let her go. He pressed something soft into her hand and she blinked down, confused for a moment before she lifted the snowy white handkerchief to her eyes, whisking away the tears that trickled past her lashes.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” she managed, her voice wobbling.
Win merely tightened his hold as another voice joined the clamor, this one loud and filled with satisfaction.
“Perfect! Absolutely perfect. Take your pictures, one and all, though we’ve had cameras rolling to capture the moment and show the world just what true love is capable of.”
Win stiffened and they both turned as Kit Wellingford strode forward, his hands spread wide. “This glorious night would not have been possible without you all here—here, where the glorious dinner parties of the Holt House were held nearly a century ago, here where the tragic tale of Priscilla Holt unraveled. A woman who knew the power of love and yet, in the end, did not believe in it enough to allow it to take its natural course.”
The crowd murmured in excited surprise, and Marguerite understood Kit’s plan immediately. So here was his chance to share his story the way he most preferred, with an audience of eager listeners. She had no doubt that the cameras were rolling for this reveal as well.
“You want to sit out the encore?” Win’s voice was at her ear and she nodded quickly. He tugged her away from Kit’s recitation and down the back stairs of the gazebo. Together they fled past the last knot of onlookers – a beaming Bess and curious Beatrice, both of whom sported wide satin scarves tossed around their necks – and toward the river walk, Win’s hand tight on hers as they passed beneath the trees and then out onto the wide, grassy slope.
The night could not have been more perfect, warm but with the lightest breeze, the stars shining bright far above them. Down at the dock a solitary security guard remained, keeping watch over Bess’s barges, and Win angled her slightly to the side, where the lawn curved gently toward the water. With the trees screening the sounds of the party beyond, it seemed as if they were cut off from all the world, with nothing and no one to worry about except each other. Except…
Suddenly all of her own words came flooding back to her—and Win’s words too—and Marguerite drew up short. He’d said he loved her, that he couldn’t imagine not loving her…but what did that really mean? Was he willing to hold on to that love beyond this magical night?
Win, who’d apparently been waiting for this moment, turned her toward him, encircling her with his arms as he stood slightly back, watching her.
“That was quite a speech you gave back there, Countess Saleri,” he murmured. His lips were curved into an expression that could mean anything, she thought. It could slip as easily into amused, casual affection as it could deepen into a look of intimate vulnerability. He was giving her the choice of how to shape that expression—the choice of how to shape everything.
And it was a choice she was more than happy to take.
“It wasn’t just a speech, Win,” she said, placing her hands on his arms. “It wasn’t just me trying to stop that terrible curse from hanging so heavily over the house, the gardens…and poor Mr. Holt.”
“I don’t think he’s feeling so poorly anymore.” But though Win was still smiling, his eyes had grown more intent as he watched her, glittering in the soft night. “I think you’ve made him the happiest he’s been since he was that ten-year-old boy staring in wonder at all the flowers and the lights, unable to imagine anything more magical.”
“There isn’t anything more magical,” Marguerite whispered. “But it’s not because of the music or the night with all its glowing lights, it’s not even because of the flowers. It’s because of what built this house, Win. The house and all those gardens, all those years ago. For all the tumult and strife this house has seen, everything goes back to one thing. There was love here, once upon a time. And now, because of you, there is again.”
“Because of me?” Win’s voice sounded a little strangled, and Marguerite clung to his arms more fiercely, desperate that he not step away from her, determined not to let him go.
“Yes, because of you. You, not your father or grandfather, and not anyone in your family tree, no matter what they did or didn’t do all those centuries ago…no matter what you feel you could have done five years ago.”
Despite her best efforts, Win did edge away, his expression going suddenly blank. “You can’t understand what you’re saying, Marguerite.”
“You’re right, I can’t,” she said, her hands dropping to cl
asp in front of her, since Win was no longer willing to hold them. Instead he stood, braced, as if all the weight of the world still rested on his shoulders. “I can’t understand it but at least when it comes to James, neither can you. You weren’t here during that terrible war, Win. You don’t know what people were being asked to do, or how they truly felt about it. You said all the records from that time had gone missing—”
“Not missing, Marguerite,” Win said harshly. “They were destroyed. Not a page, not a letter, not a newspaper article remained of that scandalous period of the Masters’ history, and why? Because we buried it. Buried it, shredded it, set it on fire. Whatever it took to remove any shred of blame from ourselves, to avoid any censure. But memories run long in the Lowcountry, and family roots here go very, very deep. The truth is here, in this earth, in these people. What James Masters did was wrong, and it’s a debt I can no longer ignore. It’s one I—somehow—want to repay.” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, looking more harried, more forlorn than she’d ever seen him.
“Then we’ll repay it together,” she said.
Win looked down at her sharply. “What? No,” he said, immediately, but that forlorn look was still there, his defenses crumbling even further as she reached out again and took his hand with hers.
“Yes, Win,” she said again. “Whatever you decide to do, for however long, I want to be there, by your side. I’ll help you make it right, and if you can’t make it right, if in the end mistakes were made that can never be taken back, then I’ll help you grieve and start again, knowing that you did everything possible to undo the damage that your family did in this area. But the important part isn’t what we do, isn’t even how we do it. It’s that we’ll be together, working side by side. If you can give me that, if you let me give you that, then nothing else really matters.”
He shook his head, but the movement was slower now, less sure. “I can’t let you do that, Marguerite,” he whispered. “My family…”
“Your family wasn’t perfect, nobody’s family is.” She pulled him toward her, and he stepped forward, one tremulous step. “My family believed we had to marry a prince in order to fix some perceived slander or slight we incurred somewhere buried in the mists of time, remember? My father was willing to endanger more than one life because of that curse. I know all about stupid family obligations.”
Win laughed a little unsteadily, and she turned him forward again, back toward the music and the lights. “More than that, though, I know you. And I know what incredible things you’re capable of…even if you don’t.”
As much as she wanted this man to herself, it seemed important that he see the truth of what he had built here, what he’d created.
Win, for his part, came willingly, his arm curving around her back to hold her close as they made their way back across the wide lawn and under the canopy of trees once more. “Marguerite, I don’t even know the whole truth about the past.” He sighed, then began again. “I still have research to do. It could be even worse than I think.”
She squeezed his arm. “Or it could be…better, somehow. You could learn something good about poor James Masters. I don’t know how. But you could.”
Win stopped her then, and they were still in the shadows of the trees.
“Your boundless faith in me, in the idea that everything will work out, is based on what, exactly?” he asked.
She shrugged, but there was something new in his voice, something that made her heart soar. Something that gave her…hope. “You made this house come back to life when there was nothing but weeds and painful memories holding it up. You did that.”
One side of Win’s mouth quirked up. “I did that to make sure you didn’t get too close to the truth about my own family. Of course, it all came out anyway.”
“And you’re determined to make it right,” she said. “Just like—I suspect—you’ve tried to make it right for Annelise, and other people like her.” She squeezed his arm as a fleeting expression of pain skated over his face. “I thought so. And even if your ancestor was a particularly crooked branch in your family tree—which I don’t believe he was, I truly don’t—you are the man standing in front of me, who made this house once more into a showplace. You are the man who made me love you with my whole heart. And you are the man I want to be with, Win. You.”
His eyes looked suspiciously bright as he gazed at her, and his words, when they came, faltered. “But Marguerite, I can’t ask you to...”
“You don’t need to ask me, remember?” she insisted. “I’ve already barged in and told you that I’m here, and I’m yours. You just need to say—”
Marguerite’s words were cut off as Win pulled her into a sudden, frantic kiss, his lips coming down on hers, their arms wrapping tight. Every touch, every gasp, every sigh rocked Marguerite with a deep burst of happiness, and wave upon wave of emotions rolled through her—joy, relief, excitement, anticipation. And beneath all of it was an indescribable sense of knowing that this is where she belonged, this was what she should be doing, this was the life she chose—the man she chose—the heart she chose. This.
It was some minutes later before a particularly loud burst of laughter and applause reached them. They stood apart quickly, Marguerite instantly reaching up to fix her hair, her dress, and Win shooting out his cuffs and straightening his tie. When he looked at her again, his face carried an expression of certainty that hadn’t been there before. Certainty and adoration.
“Yes,” he said, and the words were infused with such an air of finality that she had to laugh. “The answer is yes, Countess Saleri. Yes. Yes to anything you want of me, as long as you’ll be mine.
She slid her hand into his, completely overcome with joy. “Then I’m yours.”
Win tried not to grin like an idiot as they approached the party—which was still going strong, it seemed, a half-dozen couples now twirling on the gazebo and several small groups gathered in tight conversation. King Jasen and Queen Catherine also commanded a good portion of the attendees, which seemed to have grown yet again. Win surveyed the gardens and, sure enough, the flowers that ruled the night were all still in bloom, never mind the season, never mind that nothing had blossomed on this plot of land for nearly a century. Bess, Beatrice and Bill Tubbs all stood off to one side, the two humans apparently arguing over a particularly large moonflower while Beatrice chewed something contentedly. And on the other side of the garden, framed with the house to his left and the gazebo to his right, Kit Wellingford was still holding court. Win was seriously beginning to wonder if the man ever stopped talking.
“Win! I was wondering where you and Marguerite had spirited off to.”
His attention refocused on the nearest group of party goers as the queen broke away from her husband and strode toward them.
Marguerite gave his hand a small squeeze. “Brace yourself,” she muttered.
Before he could even shoot her a glance, the queen was upon them. “Well!” she said brightly, her shrewd eyes darting from him, to Marguerite, and back again. “I would think you are very pleased with the way the evening has progressed, yes?”
“I couldn’t have imagined it going any better,” Win said. His words were unaffected, his drawl overtaken with a warmth that he’d never heard in his own voice before. He glanced down to Marguerite, relieved to see she was beaming at him, then back to the queen. “I also could not have done it without you and the king.”
“And Marguerite,” Catherine said pointedly.
“That goes without saying. You had the opportunity to hear Marguerite’s beautiful words on the gazebo, but I’ve not had a chance to respond.”
“I’m sure you don’t have to do that now,” Marguerite said hurriedly.
The queen waved her down, her gaze fixed on Win. “I’m sure you do. Please, proceed.”
He nodded, another absurd wave of happiness rolling through him. “Your highness, I know you set great store by the women in your country, and I’m sure they all have remarkable abilities
and characteristics, but in Marguerite—” he turned back to Marguerite, addressing her directly. “In you, is everything. Your gentle heart, your quick grasp of any situation, your intelligence and resourcefulness, your laughter, your genuine concern, your belief in me…” he shook his head. “Anything you want to do, I know you’ll achieve, anywhere you want to be will be better for your presence. Anyone you choose to love…” and here his voice did shake, just a little, “will be the luckiest man alive.”
“Win,” Marguerite said simply, and her eyes were alight with happiness—happiness he’d brought her, he knew. Happiness he wanted to continue bringing her, no matter what the future held.
“Well! That’s very good then. Very, very good.” The queen spoke quickly, almost sharply, and Win glanced up to meet her gaze—surprised to see her eyes were strangely bright as well. “I think everything’s exactly as it should be.”
Win began to reply when Kit Wellingford’s unflappable voice sounded once again over the microphone.
“Everyone! Everyone, gather round. There’s one more, small item I would like to share. I shouldn’t, I know, I’m merely grandstanding now. But I find I simply can’t help myself.”
Win closed his eyes and groaned, while beside him, Marguerite chuckled. “I’m so glad we asked him to come.”
Win couldn’t disagree more, but he allowed Marguerite to pull him forward as the queen rejoined the king, the two monarchs putting their heads together as Catherine spoke into Jasen’s ear. She could only be talking about them, Win knew, and impulsively he drew Marguerite closer, positioning her in front of him, her back against his chest. They stood at the edge of the crowd like that, as Kit waited for everyone to quiet.
Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Page 22