by Carola Dunn
“Quite old enough.” Malcolm laughed. “And I supposed I should be rescuing her from the life of a poor relation!”
“I don’t consider Mariette a poor relation!” said Mr.Barwith, offended.
“I know you don’t, sir. I was thinking of when Riddlesworth inherits Bell-Tor Manor.”
“Ralph inherit the manor? I am not quite a doddering dotard, young man. My nephew would bring the estate to wrack and ruin in no time.”
“But he is your nearest relative, is he not?”
“Bell-Tor is not entailed. My will bequeaths an adequate income to Ralph and the estate to Mariette, who will care for it and its people.” He looked away, blinking, and said shyly, “I hope you will spend some time here when you are married?”
“My dear sir, we shall make our home here if you wish. Mariette would not choose to be parted from you.”
“I fear despite his income you will always have Ralph sponging on you.”
“Every family has a few sponging relations.” His situation suddenly sank in. Offering for a penniless bride, he was offered a fortune, and an estate into the bargain. He burst into irrepressible laughter.
In the passage outside the library, Mariette heard Malcolm’s laughter and wondered at it. He sounded less amused than almost hysterical. Her heart sank. What was wrong? She nerved herself to open the door and go in, Ragamuffin at her heels.
Uncle George gazed with benign tolerance upon Lord Malcolm, who sprang to his feet and came to meet her.
“What is so funny?” she asked.
“It’s not really funny,” he said soberly, looking down at her with an odd expression. “I requested your uncle’s permission to ask you to be my wife, hoping to save you from poverty. Now I find you are a great heiress.”
“Am I?” she said, baffled, and added wistfully, “Does that mean you don’t wish to marry me after all?”
The teasing light she loved came into his eyes. “Aldrich was persuaded to overlook Lilian’s fortune, was he not? I daresay you might persuade me to do likewise.”
“Might I?” Heart singing again, she fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously. “How?”
“How about a kiss to begin with?”
Flinging her uninjured arm about his neck, she obliged. His lips were warm and firm, his body hard against hers as he held her close. His kiss became insistent, demanding. Mariette clung to him as a wave of shuddering warmth flooded from her mouth to her toes and back to the centre of her being. The pain of her wound went away, the world was lost; the only reality was his touch, his—a
“Woof?”
“Ahem!”
Reluctantly she pulled away from him. With one gentle hand he smoothed back a disarranged lock of her hair. His other arm stayed about her waist as they turned to face her uncle.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Malcolm said, a trifle breathless though not nearly so breathless as Mariette felt. “Your niece is most persuasive. Miss Bertrand,”—he gazed down at her, his eyes warm and smiling but not teasing at all now— “I love you very, very dearly. Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”
“Oh yes, my dear lord! I have loved you forever and thought you’d never ask. Only,” she had to say it, “I cannot help hoping I shan’t be shot again.”
With a rueful laugh he swept her up in his arms and sat down with her on his lap. “I shall quit the spy business instantly,” he promised. “I know as long as I’m involved I shall not be able to keep my adventurous darling out of it. I don’t want to keep you out of any part of my life, Mariette. I’m not sure I shall ever bring myself to let you out of my arms, now I have you safe.”
Such an avowal deserved another kiss—and won one. When breathing became essential, Malcolm said severely, “I trust you don’t mean to continue to address me as my lord?”
“No, Malcolm.” A thought struck her. “I shall be Lady Mariette! Or Lady Eden?”
“Lady Malcolm.”
“Truly?” She giggled. “How odd. I trust you don’t mean to address me as Lady Malcolm?”
“I rather fancy I shall call you beloved. Or perhaps sweetheart, or dearest love, or possibly even snugglepuss.”
“I shall like that,” said Mariette dreamily and kissed him again.
“Ahem!”
She had forgotten Uncle George. Tactful or abstracted, he had been most forbearing while they cuddled and whispered sweet nothings. Ragamuffin had apparently given up in disgust. He sprawled on the hearthrug, asleep.
“I have been thinking,” announced Uncle George, “about what to give you for a wedding gift. You will have the funds to buy all you need so I shall make you a statue. Not sandstone; good, enduring granite. But what animal would you prefer?”
“A sphinx,” Mariette said promptly, “since it was a sphinx which brought us together.”
Malcolm looked appalled. “A small sphinx,” he pleaded, “but all the same, if you don’t object, sir, we shan’t postpone the wedding until it’s finished!”
Copyright © 1995 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Zebra (0821751727)
Electronically published in 2007 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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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.