by Regina Scott
She offered him a serene smile. “Good evening, Mr. Prestwick. How nice of you to join us.”
She thought for a moment that he was angry with her, but the look passed and he made her a bow. “Your servant, Miss Fairchild, like every other man in this room.”
Before she could answer, the butler barreled in with the footmen close behind. “My apologies, my lord,” he murmured to Leslie, motioning the footmen to surround Chas. “We’ll have this person out immediately.”
“Whatever for?” Leslie quipped. “His taste in clothing may be atrocious, but he certainly knows how to make an entrance.”
Anne hid a smile as the butler gaped at him.
Leslie threw up his hands. “Oh, cut line, Beamis. I know you haven’t been with us long, but I assure you, this kind of thing happens all the time. This is Chas Prestwick. He will not bite.” He grinned at Chas. “At least, not you.”
“Yes, sir; very good, sir,” the butler muttered, clearly not assured but trying to do his duty nonetheless. “Perhaps if the gentleman would follow me I might be able to find him more suitable attire?”
“The gentleman is going nowhere,” Chas growled, “until he has spoken privately with the lady.”
Anne felt her face grow warm in a blush.
“If you’ll see to the doors, Beamis,” Leslie told him, “I’ll handle the rest.” He clapped his hands and raised his voice to address his wide-eyed guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the fright. I assure you, you are in no danger. If you would all gather around me, I will explain.”
As they moved closer, their expressions ranging from wary to rapt, he motioned for Chas to take Anne out. Chas bowed for Anne to proceed him, and she led him out into the corridor, her heart beginning to race.
“I see your knee has improved,” he said, moving ahead of her to open a door a little way down the corridor. He ushered her into what was obviously a library, quiet and dark save for the moonlight streaming through wide windows in the far wall.
“Yes, thank you.” The polite amenities seemed so pointless when there was so much she wanted to say to him. If only he would give her some sign of how he felt.
He was glancing about the room; now he looked at her, where she stood just inside the doorway. He offered her a grin that did strange things to her stomach. “How fitting, a library. Where we first met.”
“I remember,” she murmured, gazing at him. If only he would cross the space, tell her he cared, take her in his arms.
He ran his hand back through his hair. “Confound it, Anne. I’ve made my usual mess of things. I wanted to impress you with how respectable I can be, and I leap out of the night like an escaped Bedlamite. I promise you, after we’re married, I will behave myself.”
Her heart leapt, then fell. This was the moment she had waiting for. She prayed he would say the words she longed to hear. A week had been so long. What would it be like if she had to spend the rest of her life without him? “After we’re married?” she prompted.
He shook his head. “I’m doing this all wrong.” He took a deep breath, then crossed to her and went down on one knee to take her hand in his. Anne tried not to tremble. “I want to do this properly. Miss Fairchild, Anne, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Oh, Chas, I’d like nothing better.” His face lit up, and she was forced to look away. “Oh dear, I promised myself I wouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” She could hear the fear in his voice, but he quickly covered it with a jest. “Haven’t I proved myself to you? Shall I conquer a kingdom? Slay an ogre? Fight a dragon?”
She smiled despite herself. “No. Although you may have to in my Aunt Agatha. She’s quite convinced herself against you. I’m afraid, however, if you marry me, you inherit her and Millicent as well.”
“Done. An easy bargain. You know how Millicent and my mother get on. The two of them will drive Lady Crawford to civility or madness within a fortnight. Is that it?”
“No,” she said, steeling herself to remain strong.
“Anne, please, this is killing me! Tell me what you want me to do!”
“It will likely seem silly to you,” she said, knowing she sounded defensive. “But it is important to me.” She paused and felt him tense as if expecting a blow. “With you on your knees looking so adoring, I find it hard to say.” She straightened, and he sucked in a breath. “Chas Prestwick, much as I love you, I will not marry you to save my reputation. I need to be sure you love me as well.” There, she had said it. She waited for his reply with tension equal his own.
“Is that it?” he fairly yelped. He climbed to his feet and swept her into his arms. “You minx, I thought you were going to tell me you’d fallen for Leslie!” He whirled her about in a circle until she was breathless, then deposited her on a nearby chair, once more kneeling at her feet. He grinned at her while she caught her breath.
“Miss Fairchild, I told you once your suitors were decidedly unschooled. So, you want a declaration, do you? Then you shall have one.” His grin faded, and green eyes met grey in a solemn promise. “Anne Fairchild, with your eyes like a storm at sea and your hair darker than midnight, I adore you. I laughed at fellows who composed sonnets to their loves, until I met you. I love the way you smile so serenely as the world goes to pieces around you. I love how you inspire the best in those around you, just by being you. I love how you make me feel inside-- capable of doing anything I ever dreamed of. Most of all, I love you. Now will you marry me?”
She practically leapt into his arms, her words of agreement lost in their kiss. As Chas covered her eager lips with his own, he realized he hadn’t yet told her about Malcolm. Time for that later, another part of him decreed, and he bent to the task of showing his once unflappable bride-to-be just how much she was loved.
Copyright © 1998 by Regina Lundgren
Originally published by Zebra (0821758721)
Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.