by Jane Toombs
"No!” Deirdre's tone was sharper than she had intended. “No?” He gazed at her in astonishment. “You defend him after what he did, after what he tried to do?"
"He did me no harm and I think he truly meant me no harm. I believe he became obsessed. By the painting of Diana, perhaps. I fear that poor Edward, though harmless enough, has taken leave of his senses."
Clive looked down at her with raised eyebrows, saying nothing. Slowly his arms tightened around her and he leaned to her and kissed her, a long, demanding kiss, an exhilarating kiss, wiping away all memory of that strange last kiss of Edward's. She should, Deirdre realized, turn her head away in shocked protest but, her heart pounding wildly, she could not, knowing she was where she belonged, in Clive's arms.
He abruptly ended the kiss, leaving her breathless. “Will you, my darling Deirdre, do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
"But—” she began.
"I saw Timmons in London, discovered him at a fencing academy, of all places, and he assured me that my actions at Vittoria were completely honorable. He even credited me with saving his life. My fears were groundless."
"But—” she said again.
"You need not worry, I fully intend to speak to your father as soon as I return to London though I feel confident he will offer no objections to our marriage. I rather think he will welcome the news."
"But—” she said once more.
"Phoebe? Ah, Phoebe. I spoke to her only yesterday and you can imagine my happy surprise when she pleaded with me to release her from her vow of marriage. You may be sure I agreed at once since I long ago realized my mistake."
Deirdre stared up at him, amazed and delighted.
"I love you, Deirdre, and I always will love you. Only you. I think I must have loved you from the very beginning without having the sense to realize it. I admit I was a fool.” He kissed her again, lightly, almost teasingly, the kiss a tender promise. “Will you marry me, Deirdre?"
She realized she had failed to give an answer to his proposal although there had never been the slightest doubt in her mind or in her heart what that answer would be. “Yes,” she murmured, “yes, yes, yes."
* * * *
The warm June sun shone in a blue sky dotted with puffs of white clouds as the bells rang joyously while Deirdre and Clive left the chapel along a walkway covered with white and pink rose petals.
This was not an ending, Deirdre reminded herself as they drove the short distance to the Darrington house, this was a beginning. All she had ever wished for had come true, she and Clive were bride and groom, she had been joined in holy matrimony with the one man in all the world she loved. Anything and everything was possible now that they would be together for the rest of their lives.
Clive helped her alight from the open carriage and, taking her hand in his, led her through the gate into the rose garden. The guests from the chapel, she saw, had already begun to gather on the terrace. Her father waved to her and Sybil stopped looking affectionately up at him long enough to smile and nod.
Pausing beneath the arbor, Clive released her hand and reached above his head to pick a red rose.
When he turned to look at her in her puffed sleeved white wedding gown with its low scooped neckline, the bodice trimmed with pearls, her pearl tiara a brilliant circle of white on her red hair, his breath caught as it so often did at the sight of her. Words inadequately described her. She was the most beautiful, the most desirable woman in the world.
"With this rose,” he said, handing her the blossom, “I plight thee my troth."
Smiling, Deirdre held the rose so she could breathe in its sweet intoxicating scent, her wedding ring sparkling in the sunlight. “Do you remember the last time you gave me a rose?” she asked. “A rose I still have pressed between the pages of a book?"
"How could I ever forget? It was almost a year ago at the bridge in Ashdown Forest on the day we came upon Mr. Turner painting."
Cupping the rose in her hands, Deirdre said, “The same Mr. Turner who at this very moment is making his way toward us with Phoebe on his arm."
The diminutive and rather unfashionably dressed artist bowed to Deirdre, shook hands with Clive, murmured, in his awkward and rambling way, his congratulations and best wishes. With a shy smile he looked at Phoebe whose pale blue satin gown and matching silk bonnet complemented her fair skin and blonde curls to perfection. “After much pleading, Miss Darrington has graciously given me her consent,” he told them.
"I actually objected most strenuously at first,” Phoebe protested, “but Mr. Turner was so charming and persuasive I had soon depleted my arsenal of arguments."
"Her consent?” With raised eyebrows, Clive looked at Mr. Turner as he echoed his words.
"Why, I agreed to sit for him, of course,” Phoebe said, “beginning on Wednesday of next week. For my portrait. Mr. Turner explained that he will insist on exhibiting the finished painting and as a result I may receive considerable unwanted attention, but despite that I agreed."
Deirdre heard a confused bustling at the doorway leading from the Darrington house to the terrace. As she looked up, she saw two boys carrying what appeared to be a large oblong box emerge from the crush on the terrace and start slowly down the steps. One of the boys saw Deirdre, placed his end of the box on the step and, walking to where she stood, doffed his cap.
"A wedding gift, ma'am,” he said as though repeating memorized words.
"Is there a message with it?” she asked.
The boy shook his head.
"Who sent the gift?” Clive wanted to know.
"A gentleman, sir,” the boy mumbled. “He never said his name."
Deirdre walked with Clive to the foot of the steps. The gift, she saw, was some six feet high and three feet wide but only about six inches deep. Wrapped in white paper, it was decorated with a red ribbon tied in a huge bow.
"What in the world could it be?” Deirdre wondered.
"We shall soon find out."
Clive walked up the steps, undid the bow and began unpeeling the paper. As he removed the last of the wrapping, he growled angrily and stepped to one side so she could see. Deirdre gasped. The gift was Turner's portrait of her as Diana, goddess of the hunt, depicting her with one hand raised to take an arrow from the quiver on her back while a stag leaped at her side.
Edward had returned her portrait as his wedding gift to her. How unusual. But how like Edward to do the unusual. She looked at Clive and, seeing him staring angrily down at the painting, half expected him to smash his fist through the canvas.
"Clive,” she said. When he seemed not to hear her, she said his name again. “Clive.” He blinked and walked down the stone steps to her.
Deirdre held the rose out to him. “This rose,” she told him, “means more to me than all the paintings in the world. Because you gave it to me."
He glanced at the painting, scowled, looked at Deirdre, his expression softening. Reaching down, he scooped her into his arms and, skirting the painting, carried her up the steps, across the terrace and into the house. He strode into the hallway and from there to the deserted music room.
Using his booted foot to shove the door shut behind them, he carried her across the room, lowering her onto a couch and kneeling at her side. He gently cupped her face between his hands.
"Our guests,” she murmured.
"This happens to be much more important than any guests.” He kissed her and, as her arms circled him, holding him close, as the kiss lengthened and the world faded away, she had no option but to agree.
Jane Toombs
Snowbird Jane Toombs, along with the Viking from her past and their grandcat, Kinko, spend the warm months in Michigan's beautiful Upper Peninsula on the shore of Lake Superior, and the cold months among the lakes in Central Florida. Award-winning author of eighty-plus published books, Jane also has sixteen novellas or short stories in anthologies. Her favorite genre to read and write is paranormal romance. Jane has nearly a dozen books scheduled for release from Ambe
r Quill Press in 2006 and 2007 in a variety of genres.