“Do you want to be?”
“In love with you?” He straightened, took a chance, and reached for her hand. The flame grew a little brighter when she didn’t pull away. “Yes. It terrifies me. The idea of children terrifies me. The thought that something might happen to you, that I might let something happen to you, absolutely terrifies me, and always will.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I wouldn’t be rid of that fear for any price. Because to lose it would be to lose you, and the possibility of our children. I . . . I want it—you and children and every moment of fear and happiness that comes with being in love. I want it. All of it.”
The skepticism was fading. He could see the hurt and wariness retreating from her features.
“You love me,” she repeated, and this time, she said it with confidence and the first hints of a smile.
“Yes.” He pulled her closer slowly, until the front of her gown brushed against him. “Yes. With everything I am. If you believe nothing else I’ve said—”
“I believe you.”
“You do?” Hope was no longer a small flame now, it was a blinding light that burned away the vestiges of fear and doubt. “And that you could never be a burden? And that I’m sorry? I’m so sorry, Winnefred. You’ve done all the work, had all the courage. I’ve been a blind and selfish—”
“I certainly believe that.” Her smile grew. “All of it.”
All of it. The good and the bad. He could no more fathom the extent of his good fortune than he could stop himself from asking for more. “I know I’ve done little to earn it, but I had hoped . . . Coming here, I had very much hoped, that despite my blunderings, you might be willing to consider, at some point . . . bearing a similar responsibility?”
“That is a perfectly absurd way to ask if I love you.”
“I know.”
“It suits you.” She slid her hand free to reach up and cup his face. “Yes. I love you.”
All the pieces were falling back into place once more. He took a deep breath and found his own courage. “Will you marry me?”
She took a deeper breath and said, “Yes.”
He heard his own shout of laughter over her own. He dropped his cane, wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her off her feet intending to kiss her until they were both senseless.
“Wait.” Laughing, she turned her head in a futile effort to dodge his lips. He kissed her cheek instead. Along with her brow, her nose, her hair—every part of her he could reach.
She batted a playful hand against his shoulder. “Wait! There’s something else.”
Momentarily defeated, he set her down but kept her tight in his arms. “What is it?”
Whatever it was, he’d find it, or fix it, or whatever it was that needed doing. In that moment, he swore he could hand the stars to her on a platter if she asked it of him.
“It’s London,” she explained, still laughing softly. “I know you’ve a home there, and it’s a lovely city, but . . .”
“It is a lovely city,” he agreed. He brushed her hair back from her face and because he could, pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “We’ll want to visit from time to time, I imagine. Particularly when Lilly and Lucien are in residence.”
“Visit,” she echoed, her smile growing even brighter. “Yes, I would like to visit from Murdoch House.”
“On one condition,” he agreed and watched her smile bloom. “We add to the house. I’ve grown accustomed to having staff again. And I want a large music room.” He picked her up again and brushed his lips across hers. “I want to dance with my wife.”
Epilogue
The marriage of the Marquess of Engsly to Miss Lilly Ilestone was the talk of the ton. Not so much because of the groom’s rank, or the bride’s beauty, or the fact that their courtship had been the most elaborate London had seen in years, but because the couple, apparently rendered temporarily daft by their soon-to-be-wedded bliss, had elected to hold their nuptials on Lord Gideon Haverston’s unfashionably small estate in the middle of the Scottish countryside. Some unlikely little farm called Murdoch House.
It was highly irregular. Members of society twisted their lips at the dreadful lack of taste exhibited by the pair, and whispered behind their hands at the absurdity of holding a country wedding during the Little season, and carefully checked their mail with every hope and expectation of receiving an invitation.
They were collectively disappointed.
The only guests in attendance on the day of the wedding were family members, Thomas Brown, and a goat named Claire.
The goat came as a surprise to Winnefred. She was certain she’d closed the door of the stall tightly. But there Claire was, lying serenely in the grass between Lady Gwen and Thomas—who she rather suspected of having something to do with Claire’s escape—while Lucien and Lilly stood before the vicar on the banks of the pond.
Winnefred sighed happily. She’d married Gideon in the same spot not six months ago.
Within a week of her return to Murdoch House with Gideon, Lord Engsly had arrived with a special license, and he’d been followed soon after by Lilly and Lady Gwen.
Rather than allowing the Howards to have anything to do with her wedding, Winnefred had sent to Langholm for another vicar, and she’d married Gideon the following day so she could watch his eyes lighten in the morning sun as they exchanged her vows.
He had promised to love and cherish, and she had promised to love, cherish, and obey.
She turned her eyes from the bride and groom to the man standing next to her. She couldn’t imagine not loving Gideon, not cherishing him. Deciding that having kept two out of three promises wasn’t half bad, she slipped her hand into his.
He looked down and gave her a warm smile that filled her heart.
She’d thought herself happy before Gideon had come. She’d believed she was taking care of the home she’d made for herself and Lilly. But she realized now she’d merely been making do for the both of them.
Now, as she watched Lilly laugh and kiss her new husband, and as she listened to the call of her cattle in the pasture, she thought that here was the light and sound and voices she had imagined the first day she’d come to Murdoch House. Here was the life and the laughter and the welcome.
She looked down to where Gideon’s strong hand covered her own.
Here was home.
Turn the page for a special preview of
Alissa Johnson’s next historical romance
An Unexpected Gentleman
Miss Adelaide Ward was, by her own admission, a woman of unassuming aspirations.
In recent years, she had come to the conclusion that it was folly to seek more from life than what might reasonably be expected to materialize. And for an undowered spinster burdened with an eighteen-year-old sister, an infant nephew, a brother in debtor’s prison, and seven-and-twenty years, what might reasonably be expected was very limited indeed.
She wanted a home, the company of those she loved, and the security of a reliable income. These were her dreams. They were few in number and simple in nature, but they were hers. She longed for them as any debutante might long to snare a peer, and she had fought for them as any officer might fight for glory on the battlefield.
It was with some disappointment, then, that on the very eve of seeing her efforts come to fruition, she found herself not emboldened with the thrill of imminent victory, but battling fear, nerves, and the surprising weight of reluctance.
Tonight, Sir Robert Maxwell would propose. She was certain of it. Fairly certain. It seemed a reasonable expectation. The courtship was reaching near to four months, which, in her estimation, was an excessive amount of time to allocate to romance. More significantly, Sir Robert had strongly hinted at the possibility of a proposal should she attend Mrs. Cress’s house party. Well, she was in attendance, and had been for a fortnight. Surely tonight, amidst the music and drama of a masquerade ball, Sir Robert would present his offer.
Mind you, Sir Robert had no great appreciation for mus
ic, but he did seem to Adelaide to be inordinately fond of dramatics.
“I don’t care for dramatics,” she muttered.
Her feet slowed in the hall that led from her guest chambers to the ballroom. At best guess, the distance between the rooms required a thirty-second walk. She managed to stretch the first twenty yards into a ten-minute exercise of unproductive meandering. She stopped in front of the mirror to fuss with a rebellious lock of chestnut hair and wrinkle her small nose at the narrow features and light brown eyes she’d inherited from her father. Eyes that, she could not help but note, had begun to crease a bit at the corners.
A few feet later, she reached down to straighten her hem and pull a bit of lint from the ivory silk of her sleeve. Then she peeked into a room, fiddled with a vase, adjusted the low bodice of her gown, and stopped again to examine an oil painting . . . in minute detail, because art appreciation was not something one ought to rush.
And between each pause in movement, she literally dragged her feet. Her dancing slippers made a soft and drawn out woooosht, woooosht, woooosht against the polished wood floor with every step.
Annoyed by the sound, Adelaide stopped to pull her off her mask and fiddle with the feathers. This, she assured herself, was not another bid to stall. The mask required a considerable amount of fussing. She’d constructed the silly piece herself, and having no experience with—nor any apparent talent for—such an endeavor, she’d made a terrible mess of the thing. The feathers were unevenly spaced, sticking out where they ought to be lying flat, and bent in several places.
Sir Robert was certain to take note of it. She could envision his reaction well. His pale blue eyes would go wide, right before they narrowed in a wince. Then he would cover the lapse of manners with a smile that was sure to display his perfect teeth to best advantage. Then he would pronounce her a most charming creature in that awful, condescending tone.
“I don’t care for that tone,” she muttered.
She rubbed an errant feather with the pad of her thumb while the lively strains of a waltz floated down the hall and the scent of candle wax tickled her nose.
It was only a tone, she told herself, a minor flaw in a man positively brimming with things to recommend him. He was handsome. He was fond of her.
He was in possession of five thousand pounds a year.
The mere thought of so much money lightened the worst of her nerves with visions of a happy future. Her sister, Isobel, could have a London season. Little George could have a proper nanny. Wolfgang’s debts would be paid. And the lot of them would have a roof over their heads and no shortage of food on the table. It was her dream come true.
“Right.”
Ignoring doubts that lingered, she replaced the mask, securing it with a double knot and an extra yank on the ribbons for good measure. She set her shoulders, took a single step forward . . . and nearly toppled to the floor when a deep voice sounded directly behind her.
“I’d not go just yet, if I were you.”
She spun around so quickly, she dislodged her mask and tripped on the hem of her gown.
“Easy,” the deep voice continued with a chuckle, and a large, warm hand wrapped around her arm, steadying her.
She caught a glimpse of dark blond hair and light eyes, and for one awful moment, she thought she had been caught dawdling in the hall by Sir Robert. But by the time she righted herself and straightened her mask, that fear had been replaced by an entirely new sort of discomfort.
The man was a stranger. He shared the same light coloring and uncommon height as Sir Robert, but that was where all similarities ended. There was an air of aristocratic softness about Sir Robert, his frame was elegantly long and thin, and his features were delicate, almost feminine. There was nothing even remotely delicate or feminine about the man before her. He wasn’t long, he was tall, towering over her by more than half a foot. And he wasn’t thin, but athletically lean, the definition of muscle visible through his dark formal attire. He was handsome, without a doubt, with broad shoulders and a thick head of hair that was more gold than blond. But his features were hard and sharp, from the square cut of his jaw to the blunt jut of his cheekbones. Even his eyes, green as new grass, had an edge about them.
He put her to mind of the drawings her sister had shown her of the sleek American lions. And that put her to mind of stalking. And that made her decidedly uneasy.
Her senses tingled and her breath caught in her lungs.
She wasn’t sure if she cared for the sensation or not.
“My apologies,” he said quietly. His voice held the cadence of an English gentleman’s, but there was a hint of Scotland in his pronunciation. “It was not my intention to startle you.”
“Quite all right.” She wanted to wince at how breathless she sounded. She cleared her throat instead, and carefully withdrew her arm from his grasp. “I was woolgathering. Do excuse me.”
She turned to leave, but he moved around, quick and smooth as you please, and blocked her path. “You shouldn’t go just yet.”
“Good heavens.” The man even moved like a cat. “Why ever not?”
“Because you want to stay here.”
He offered that outrageous statement with such remarkable sincerity that there could be no doubt of his jesting. The act of silliness both stunned and intrigued her. He didn’t look to be the sort of man who teased.
“That is the most ridiculous, not to mention presumptuous—”
“Very well. I want you to stay here.” His lips curved up, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It was unkind of you to make me say it.”
She was surprised to find he had a charming smile. The sort that invited one to smile back. It did little to slow her racing pulse, but she liked it all the same.
She shook her head. “Who are you?”
“Connor Brice,” he supplied, and executed an eloquent bow.
She curtsied in return, then righted her mask when it slipped. “Miss Adelaide Ward.”
“Yes, I know. Settle your feathers, Miss Ward.”
“You’ve not ruffled them, Mr. Brice.” She hoped he believed the lie.
“No, I meant . . .” He reached out and brushed the edge of her mask with his thumb. She swore she could feel his touch on the skin beneath. “Your feathers need smoothing. What are you meant to be, exactly?”
“Oh. Oh, drat.” She reached up and pulled on the knot of ribbons at the back of her head. They refused to give. Sighing, she pulled the contraption over her coiffure and tried not to think of the damage she was doing. “A bird of prey.”
“Ah.” He grasped his hands behind his back, leaned down, and peered at the mask in her hands. “I thought perhaps you were aiming for disheveled wren.”
The sound of her laughter filled the hall. She much preferred the gentle insult to the sort of compliment Sir Robert was sure to give. Mistakes were so much easier to accept when one was allowed to be amused by them.
“It’s true,” she agreed. “I look dreadful.”
He straightened and his green eyes swept over her frame in a frankly appraising manner that made her blush. “You’re lovely.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled. And then, because she’d mumbled it at the mask instead of him, she forced herself to look up when she asked, “And where is your mask?”
“I don’t have one.”
“But it’s a masquerade.” Had a mask been optional? She wished someone had mentioned that earlier.
“There is more than one way for a man to hide himself.” He gestured at a door she knew led to a small sitting room.
“Is that where you came from?” No wonder he’d been able to sneak up on her so quickly. “Whatever were you doing in there?”
“Avoiding a particular lady. What were you doing out here?”
She wanted to ask which lady, and why he’d broken his self-imposed exile to speak with her—she was hardly the most interesting person at the party—but she was too busy trying to arrive at a suitable excuse for her dallying to devise a s
ubtle way to pry. In the end, she didn’t have to come up with anything. He answered for her.
“You’re avoiding a particular gentleman.”
“I’m not.”
“Sir Robert,” he guessed, and shrugged when she sucked in a small breath of surprise. “Your courtship is hardly a secret.”
She hadn’t thought it was fodder for gossip either. At least not in . . . wherever it was Mr. Brice was from.
“I’m not avoiding anyone.”
“You are.”
Since he seemed immovable on that point, she tried another.
“Perhaps it is Mr. Doolin,” she said smartly. She did make a habit of steering clear of the elderly man and his wandering hands, so it wasn’t a lie, per se, more of an irrelevant truth.
He gave a small shake of his head. “It’s Sir Robert you’re not eager to see, and you were wise to drag your feet. Last I checked, he was lying in wait for you right on the other side of the ballroom doors.”
Her mouth fell open, but it was several long seconds before she could make sound emerge.
“Sir Robert does not lie in wait. I am quite certain he is not to be found crouched behind the doors like an animal.” It was a little discomfiting that she could, in fact, easily imagine the baron doing just that. More than once in the past, she’d felt as if his sudden appearance at her side had been something of an ambush.
She sniffed, and with what she thought was commendable loyalty, added, “He is a gentleman.”
“Do you think?” Mr. Brice’s smile wasn’t inviting this time. It was mocking. “It is a constant source of amazement to me how little effort the man must exert to disguise his true nature. But then, the ton is ever ready to take a baron at his word and at his . . . five thousand pounds a year, I believe you said?”
Oh, dear heavens. She’d said that bit out loud?
Heat flooded her cheeks. This was awful. Perfectly dreadful. There was no excuse for having made such a comment. And yet she couldn’t stop herself from attempting to provide one.
Nearly a Lady (Haverston Family Trilogy #1) Page 30