"Love!" Bonnie’s heart bounded into her throat, and she scrambled up and groped for the door handle. "Marry—”
“Place no faith in what he says,” Mrs. Pennington interposed sternly. "Men are all alike. They will invariably attempt to trick you ...”
She rattled on, but Bonnie had found the handle, and she pushed the door open and peered into the moonlight. David rushed forward, and she was afraid to look away from him, afraid that if she averted her eyes for an instant, he would disappear. Her foot blindly sought the step, missed it, and she tumbled out of the coach and fell into his arms.
“Thank God," he whispered, crushing her to his chest. “Oh, thank God."
“Will you be wanting her bag as well, sir?" an unfamiliar voice inquired dryly.
David loosened his arms, though not by much, and Bonnie turned and saw the driver standing beside the box. He was shaking his head with amazement, but there was a great wad of bills in his right hand, and she surmised that he had been handsomely paid for his cooperation.
“No, thank you,” David said. “Leave it at the first stop, and we shall retrieve it later.”
“Very good, sir. The first change is at the Crown in Watford. The lady’s case will be waiting there."
He remounted the box, clucked to the horses, and the coach lurched to a start, nearly bouncing Mrs. Pennington through the window. The old woman sadly shook her head, then settled back in her seat, and the stage clattered round a bend in the road and out of sight.
“Where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?” The earl flashed his winsome grin. “Ah, yes, I believe I remember."
He pulled her close again, laid his mouth hungrily on hers, and Bonnie succumbed to that wild, delicious ache. How could she have thought to forget him? she wondered distantly, parting her lips and straining against him. How could she possibly have thought to live without him?
“Thank God," he repeated, burying his face in her hair. “Thank God I caught you up.”
“You gave us an awful fright.” Bonnie giggled. “We were persuaded ...”
She stopped and stiffened in his arms. Perhaps she had absorbed some of Mrs. Pennington’s skepticism, she reflected. Whatever the reason, she suddenly realized that a great number of questions remained unanswered, and she drew away and frowned up at him.
“Why would you try to catch me up?” she asked. “You could have traveled to Cheshire at your leisure—”
“To Cheshire, yes,” he interjected, “but what was I to do when I got there? I didn’t know in which town your aunt resided. I did not even know her name. I should have been compelled to scour the entire county for you, which—be assured—I should have done. But it seemed more sensible to chase you down en route. And infinitely more dramatic.”
He sketched another grin, then sobered. “I remembered your statement, the day we met, that you intended to take a public coach from the Swan with Two Necks, so I saddled my horse and proceeded there. I learned that a northbound stage had departed not long since, and I could but pray that you were on it.”
‘But why did you wish to find me at all?” Bonnie pressed. “You were prepared to hire a chaise to drive me to Cheshire tomorow. How did you come to change your mind so quickly?”
“I didn’t change my mind, Bonnie; I saw my mind. After I left you, I went to Brooks’s and lost five hundred pounds in the space of an hour. I could scarcely read the cards, much less concentrate on the play. I couldn’t think of anything but you. And I finally admitted what I’d attempted to deny for weeks. That I ... I love you.”
He extended one forefinger and tentatively stroked her cheek, and even that gentle touch weakened her knees.
"As I indicated. I’d been attempting to deny it for weeks. I suspect I fell in love with you at the very start, but I did not recognize that something was amiss until I escorted you to Lady Lambeth’s assembly.”
"Amiss?" Bonnie echoed indignantly.
“Hush.” He moved his finger to her mouth. “I meant to say that Lady Lambeth's ball forced me to perceive that my feelings were most peculiar. I was . . . was ...”
“Jealous?” Bonnie supplied, mumbling round his finger. “More than merely jealous.” He raised his finger and ran it lightly down her nose. “Ravenshaw and Varden and the rest of them are some years younger than I, and I conceived a
notion that you visualized me as a middle-aged man. An uncle in sentiment if not in fact. I could not remove the gray from my hair, but I went to Weston and Meyer the next morning and ordered several new ensembles.”
“Good God, David. Six-and-thirty is hardly middle-aged.” “So I shortly discovered,” he said wryly. “I soon began acting like a sheep-eyed schoolboy, did I not? Tearing off to Oxford Street to buy you chocolates ... I was mortified when I returned to the house and found Francis in the library, and I couldn’t puzzle out why. Could not own to my emotions because . . .” His voice trailed off, and he toyed with the ribbons of her battered hat. It no longer signified, Bonnie realized; she was confident now of his love. It did not signify to her, but she sensed that he must say the words, and she laced her fingers through his.
“Because what?” she prompted softly.
“Because, in the first place, I was confused. I believed love to be a myth; I told you so the day we met. And then, when I began suffering the . . . the distressing symptoms I had always ridiculed, my confusion started to turn to fright. Perhaps you recollect that immediately after I presented you to Judith, I offered to release you from our agreement.”
“I do recollect that.” Bonnie nodded. “You said you thought it was what I wanted.”
“I did think it was what you wanted, but I also glimpsed a chance to recover from my mysterious malady. I calculated that if you left, I should quickly forget you, and my life would resume its normal course. But as soon as I had spoken, I was terrified you would leave. You cannot imagine my relief when you elected to stay on.”
He disengaged his hand from hers and caressed the curls at her temple.
“The next time the subject of your departure arose was the day Judith proposed her assembly,” he continued. “And by then. I was hopelessly lost. Angry as I was, I couldn't bear to let you go. and I seized upon your injury to keep you in London.”
“Only to order me out of the house tonight,” Bonnie said dryly.
“Tonight.” He sighed. “You took me unawares, Bonnie, and I simply wasn't ready to confess my feelings. Not until I fled to Brooks’s and endured the most miserable hour of my existence. I raced home, and when I found you gone, I nearly lost my wits. Which does not excuse my earlier remarks, of course.”
He paused and once more touched her cheek. “I know I must have wounded you dreadfully, and I can but beg you to forgive me. Though I’ve discovered love late in my life, I daresay I love you as much as a man can love a woman. And if you’ll consent to wed me . , , Well, if I may quote you, you will never be sorry.”
“No,” she whispered round the lump in her throat. “No, I am sure I shall never be sorry.”
He took her in his arms again and kissed her. very gently this time, then lifted his head.
“I am engaged,” he laughed unsteadily. “Dear God, what have I come to?”
He released her, took her hand, and led her toward his horse, which was placidly grazing a few yards away. It occurred to Bonnie that one question remained unresolved, and she drew him to a halt.
“What of Miss Godwin?” she said. “Make no mistake on that head, David: I shan’t allow you to stray.”
“How interesting you should mention Jane.” He chuckled. “Now I think on it, I believe that was my first indication that something had gone awry. You no doubt recall that I had a , . . an appointment with Jane the day I escorted you to Mrs. Pruitt’s. You had given me a great deal of trouble, and I was eagerly anticipating a tranquil interlude with my . . ah . . . friend. But after five minutes in her company, I perceived that she was prodigious boring. Realized I should rather quarrel with you than—�
�
“Never mind,” Bonnie interrupted hastily.
“At any rate, I haven’t seen her again from that day to this.
"But you went out every afternoon—”
"I went to Brooks’s. Hoping to regain my sanity. Which, fortunately. I did not.” He smiled and tugged her ahead, boosted her into the saddle and gazed up at her. “I am quite prepared to marry you tonight, just as I promised that awful woman in the coach. But I fancy Cornelia would prefer us to wait a week or two and have a proper wedding.”
She had waited for him all her life, Bonnie reflected; she could wait a few weeks more. “Yes, we shall have a proper wedding,” she agreed.
“However, we needn’t return to town tonight. Your case is just up the road in Watford, and we could—”
“David!” siie chided.
“Well, I thought we should begin producing heirs without delay.” He flashed his engaging grin, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “That is how this whole thing started, is it not? With my invention of a niece to inherit my estate?” “We shall have ample time to produce heirs after we are married.” Bonnie had intended to sound extremely severe, but she could not repress a giggle.
“Umm.”
David shook his head with mock despair, mounted the horse, and reached his arms around her to take the reins. Bonnie nestled against him, reveling in the strong, steady beat of his heart upon her back, and she was quite certain Fate was smiling.
About the Author
Though her college majors were history and French, Diana Campbell worked in the computer industry for a number of years and has written extensively about various aspects of data processing. She had published eighteen short stories and two mystery novels before undertaking her first Regency romance.
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