“I will not,” Daphne protested.
Ignoring them both, Marcus pulled Daphne into his arms. “Don’t create a scene.”
“I fear you already have.” She glared at him, a mixture of anger and something else, perhaps sadness in her gaze. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m of a mind to marry you.”
She stared at him, her jaw slack, feet unmoving. “What?”
“You’ve been my every thought since the day you arrived. My every dream since we kissed.” He released her and dropped onto his knee.
The room went silent around them—a palpable quite so thick he could hear the beating of his own heart. It mattered not. The only person who mattered was Daphne. He had to have her. To keep her…to protect her…to love her. He reached for her gloved hand.
"You will. Make fools out of both of us." She yanked her hand back. "Get up."
Marcus would not be deterred. He recaptured her hand and brought it to his chest. “My heart beats only for you, My Dear Daphne.”
Tears clouded her eyes as she pressed her lips together.
Marcus rubbed a small circle over the back of her hand. “Marry me.”
Her eyes rounded, her hand trembling beneath his. "You're not the marrying type. You said so yourself."
“I am now.” He stood and pulled her against him, locking his hands behind her back. “I cannot imagine a future without you by my side.” He lowered his head to press his forehead against hers. “I love you, Daphne.”
“Oh Marcus,” she dashed a tear from her eye, “I love you too.”
His nerve endings tingled, heat spreading through him as hope swelled in his chest. “Then say you will be my wife.”
“Yes. I’ll marry you.”
The room burst into excited applause and calls of congratulations. Marcus ignored them all and captured Daphne's lips in a kiss full of promise and love. He'd found his best friend, his lover, his future in this woman, and he knew without a doubt that he'd never let her go.
Epilogue
Two years later,
His wife’s scream rent the air sending his pulse into a breakneck speed. He could scarcely stand the waiting—the not knowing. Marcus peered at the clock. Every minute seemed like an hour as he paced back and forth waiting for news. Good God, how long did these things take?
One, two, three… Marcus paced across the drawing room. What if something went wrong? Four, five, six… What if he lost them both? Seven, eight, nine…
“Do stop your fretting.” Natalie flicked her wrist, closing her silk fan. She stood from the velvet bench she’d been sitting on and approved him. “Women give birth all the time.”
Marcus scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “They could die.”
“They won’t.” Natalie shook her head. “Daphne is strong. You have no cause to worry.”
Another scream split the air around them and Marcus’s heart leaped into his throat. He could stand it no longer. Pivoting, he marched toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Natalie raced to catch up.
Marcus peered over his shoulder but did not stop. “My wife needs me.”
Natalie reached for his forearm. Shaking her off, he continued on his way. Nothing would prevent him from reaching Daphne. He should be at her side; after all, he was responsible for her suffering. Without his participation, there’d be no babe. Not that he wished for that. He was very much looking forward to being a father.
He and Daphne had spent the first year of their marriage avoiding such an outcome. He’d been selfish and wanted time with only the two of them before starting a family. She’d agreed and they had enjoyed a wonderful first year. When the time was right, they’d worked fervently to get her with child.
Now he dreamed of what their babe would look and act like. He imagined a little girl with a cherub face and her mother’s golden locks over bright blue eyes. Of course, the girl would be a minx—how could she be anything else with him for a father. True, most lords wanted heirs and spares before daughters, but it mattered not to him. There would be time for boys later.
Of course, he’d welcome a son as much as a daughter, but in his imaginings, the babe Daphne carried was always a girl. She believed it to be so as well. In fact, they’d even choose a name for their daughter.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Marcus turned toward their chamber and hurried his pace. Daphne screamed out again, an ear-shattering tone that ripped at his heart. He burst into a full run. His hand shook as he gripped the doorknob and pulled it open.
He hesitated for a heartbeat at the sight of his beloved wife laying on the bed, sweat coating her brow and a pained grimace tugging at her full lips. In another moment he was halfway across the room. “Darling, I’m here.”
“Marcus,” she said, her voice weak.
He lowered himself to the side of the mattress and took her hand in his.
The midwife peered at him. “You cannot be in here. It’s simply not done.”
“I’m afraid she’s right, My Lord. It isn’t proper at all.” The doctor raised one bushy eyebrow. “Please wait in the hall.”
Marcus turned the sternest glare he could muster on the pair. “Do not speak to me of propriety when my wife is suffering. Do what I am paying you to do and let me worry over the rest.” He turned back to Daphne and smoothed a hand through her tangled curls. “I won’t leave you.”
She gave a weak nod, then squeezed his hand as she closed her eyes together.
“Push,” the midwife instructed.
Marcus had hired both the midwife and doctor for extra measure. He wanted to ensure that whatever might happen, Daphne and his child would receive the best care. They were his world and he’d always do everything in his power to protect them.
Daphne’s grip on his hand loosened. Her breaths coming in pants, she dropped her head back to the pillow. “I’m tired. So, so tired.”
Marcus stroked his thumb over her cheek. “I’m sorry, Darling. Soon you can rest.” He leaned closer to her, bringing his mouth near her ear. “Be strong my love.”
The midwife poked her head up. “The babe is crowning. On the next pain, you push with all your might.”
“I can’t. I’m too weak.” Daphne’s voice whispered.
“Look at me," Marcus demanded as he nudged Daphne’s jaw. When her gaze met his, he smiled. “You can do this. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.” He kissed her forehead. “Do it for me.”
Daphne gnashed her teeth together and clutched his hand, a low pitched scream emanating from her lips as she gave a final push. Her face flamed with the effort, her shoulder’s shaking until she dropped back on the pillows.
“It’s a girl. Congratulations Lord and Lady Clarendon, you have a daughter.” The midwife hoisted the crying babe into the air.
The doctor rushed over to cut the babies cord. “Yes, congratulations.”
The midwife wiped the baby off with a warm cloth as she kicked and screamed, then swaddled her in a white cashmere blanket. The whole time Marcus stared in awe. His daughter—he and Daphne were parents.
The midwife approached and laid the baby into Daphne’s waiting arms. She grinned down at the child. Marcus had never seen his wife look more beautiful. Her eyes shone, fine lines crinkling at their edges, and her smile rivaled the sun’s rays. She was always stunning, but never more so than at this moment.
He slid more fully onto the bed, bringing his body closer to hers. “I am very proud of you.”
Daphne smiled up at him for a moment before returning her attention to the baby. “She’s perfect.”
Marcus stroked the tip of one finger over their daughter’s cheek. “Just like her mother.”
“May I see her?” Natalie asked from where she stood near the doorway.
Marcus glanced in her direction, unable to fight his grin. “Of course, come say hello to your new cousin.”
Natalie strolled over to them then smiled down at the babe. “She favors Daphne.”
; “I always hoped she would.” Marcus chuckled.
Natalie angled her head, still smiling as she studied the small girl. “What will you call her?”
Daphne exchanged a knowing glance with Marcus before meeting Natalie’s questioning eyes. “Destiny. Lady Destiny Wentworth.”
“What a beautiful name.” Natalie feathered her hand over the Destiny’s downy golden hair. “I believe it suites her.”
“Indeed.” Marcus turned back to his wife and daughter. Happenstance had brought them together but destiny had demanded they fall in love. Daphne had been meant for him, and he for her. Together they had what most could only dream about.
True, everlasting, love.
Keep reading for an excerpt from
The Duke’s Christmas Kiss
Connected by a Kiss Book 6 by Tammy Andresen!
Chapter 1
The Duke’s Christmas Kiss by Tammy Andresen
Bradford Seymour, Duke of Sheridan, stared out the window of his carriage, marveling at how little the countryside had changed. It looked exactly the same as last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Quaint little farms dotted the county road as candles twinkled in the windows, their residences likely preparing for the upcoming Christmastide. Every year it was the same picture of domestic tranquility as he’d made this journey home to his parent’s country estate.
No, that wasn’t true and it wasn’t the same. He took a deep breath filling his lungs with cold air. This year he did not travel to his parent’s estate, though it was the same house on the same property. But said home had become his… his mother was now a guest in Bradford’s house, at least according to the law.
How unfair, he thought as he let the curtain fall back into place. She had been mistress of the house for twenty-five years and now the entailed property belonged to him. Not that he would ever take it from her. In their family, it was hers. Unfortunately, not all women were treated with such regard.
Rubbing his temples, he called to the driver. "At the next inn, let's stop for the evening." He needed a good shot of whiskey to wash these thoughts away. And though his home was but a few hours from here, one more night of reprieve seemed in order. Why he was pontificating on the plight of women was beyond him other than that his father's death had filled him with a great deal more nostalgia than he'd ever anticipated.
Truth be told, he dreaded the upcoming festivities. Though it had been close to a year since his father’s death, it would be his first time back to the estate since the funeral. His sister Natalie had a house party every Christmas. It was normally a joyous event filled with dear friends but this year, he had little appetite for such merrymaking.
Natalie, however, insisted it would be good for him. She was married to one of his closest friends, which made it even more difficult to ignore her invitation much as he might like to.
A sudden bump jostled him and he held onto the side to steady himself. His relationship with his father had been… complicated. He’d understood that as duke, his father had a great many duties and one of them had been to prepare Bradford to take on the roll. But the man had gone about it with little love or understanding.
A chill permeated the interior and he rubbed his hands together trying to warm them. Bradford hated his father’s attempts at control and fought against them at every opportunity. He’d made the most unseemly friends, spent time in rakish pursuits full of women and drink. He rubbed his near frozen hands over his face. He’d meant to spite his father. Now, however, his father was gone and he wondered who exactly he had punished. Was it his father or himself?
He shook his head. He wished he listened more and rebelled less. He couldn’t take back some of the things he’d done and while England regarded him as a pillar, in many ways he felt like he’d hid an unseemly heart behind a mask.
A sliding motion had him pulling the curtain open again. “Pull in here,” he said as they entered a small village.
The driver complied and stopped at the village’s only inn. He stepped outside into a winter wonderland with snow softly falling to coat the ground. “Looks like we stopped in time,” he said to the driver who stood beside the carriage.
“Aye, Your Grace.” The driver shut the door. “I’ll take care of the team and make sure they’re settled properly.”
He brushed fat, thick flakes from his tailcoat as his hessians crunched through the snow. “Excellent,” Bradford said.
The driver pulled the team away to secure the horses while he stepped inside the inn and made his way to the common room. After ordering a drink, he made his way over to the fire. The tables were full of travelers as serving wenches bustled about carrying trays of hot food. He was sure many were traveling for the holiday.
He found a small empty table in the corner, the only to be found, and slipped into its single chair. A wench approached him, her hair sticking out at various angles.
‘What can I git ye, me lord?” she asked stopping abruptly in front of him.
“Whisky,” he replied setting a coin on the table.
With a quick jerk of her head, she was gone and in moments back with his glass.
“Thank you,” he said gesturing to the coin.
“Anything else, me lord?” she asked her eyes already wandering to another table that was waving for her attention.
He shook his head, weariness making the gesture small. He needed a good night’s sleep. “Perhaps later.”
“As you wish,” she said, then left him.
He lifted his glass and sipped the drink slowly, relishing the warm liquid sliding down his throat. More travelers entered the room, the noise making it difficult to think a thought. Bradford straightened. He’d better secure a room before they were full.
Heading back out to the front of the inn, he saw the innkeeper talking with four women. The first was a regal looking matron, perfectly coiffed and finely dressed. Two of the younger women in attendance appeared exactly as she did. Same dark hair, same beautiful, if severe features. But the fourth looked a great deal different. Her clothing was of fine quality but of last year’s fashion. She had light blonde hair and large blue eyes which accentuated the delicate pink of her lips and cheeks. A tiny pert nose and high cheekbones rounded out her lovely features and he stopped for a moment just to gaze upon at them.
The man handed the matron several keys and Bradford stepped forward, to request a room. “Good evening,” he began.
The innkeeper nodded, clearly recognizing him. “Your Grace.”
All four women immediately dipped into a deep curtsey. Though his father had been a Duke, he had yet to adjust to the title or the reaction he received. He gave a small jerk of his chin to acknowledge their show of respect. “I would like a room for the evening.”
The innkeeper visibly paled. "I'm so sorry, Your Grace. But we’re full. The storm has made the roads near impassible and…,” the man’s voice trailed off.
Bradford looked out the window. Several inches of snow had already fallen. Bloody hell, he thought as he ran his hand through his hair. Now he couldn’t get home nor could he stay the night.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” the matron said with a musical, cold voice which dropped low bringing the corners of her mouth down when she spoke. “I believe we’ve booked the last four. I’m sure we could give up one for your convenience.” Her straight brows lifted as she spoke, lightening the heavy set of her eyes.
“I would appreciate that greatly,” he answered, a touch of unease tightening his chest.
The smile that touched her lips at his words nearly made him shiver. But she pulled one key from her hand and placed it in his. “It is our pleasure.” She dipped into another curtsey. “I am Lady Wexley. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then she turned back to the two ladies just behind her. “And these are my daughter’s, Miss Priscilla Fulton and Miss Adrianna Fulton.”
He gave a nod of acknowledgment and then gave his attention to the fourth. An intense curiosity to know her name made him step toward h
er. "And you are?"
Lady Wexley cleared her throat. “My stepdaughter, Lady Ella Fulton.”
Stepdaughter. Now he understood why she was so different in visage from the others. She gave another graceful courtesy. “Your Grace.”
He reached out his hand a desire to feel her warmth against his skin causing his fingers to tingle. “My Lady.”
“Your Grace.” Lady Wexley stepped in front of him. “Perhaps you would do us the honor of dining with us?” A smile stretched her lips but her eyes remained unchanged. “We would be ever so grateful for the company.”
His shoulders slumped. He should have known there would be a price for the room. Though, he’d gladly pay it to spend more time with Lady Ella. “I would be honored.”
“Excellent.” She looked back over her shoulder again at her two daughters. “Shall we meet in an hour’s time?”
Bradford shifted. Had he been lamenting women’s fate a short time ago? This woman was no one’s victim. “Fine,” he answered. Ella’s eyes had cast down to the ground. He watched as a lock of her hair gently fell around her face. He clenched his fingers, wishing to brush that hair away. Would it be silky to the touch? Wind around his finger?
“Very good, we shall see you then.” Lady Wexely turned and headed up the stair, the three young misses following. Bradford noted that Ella was the last to ascend the stairs. Her gaze drifted back to him once before she disappeared from view.
Clenching his jaw, he had the oddest urge to call her back. But he tamped it down, he’d see her in an hour’s time.
Ella followed her stepmother down the dark hall, sure that what had just transpired with the duke would bode poorly for her. Neither of her stepsisters was giving up her room. Where would Ella sleep tonight?
And dinner with a duke? She seriously doubted she’d be in attendance. The only reason she was on this trip was because her stepmother was visiting a friend of her father’s, Lord Rumsford. She’d known Rumsford since she was a small girl. If she weren’t in attendance, there would be questions.
Stealing a Rogue's Kiss (Connected by a Kiss Book 4) Page 5