How to Live Happily Ever After (Happy Ever Regency Book 7)

by Bree Wolf

  “Marry me, Nessa,” he whispered, inching closer, “and we can finally give in to this.”

  Agnes’ breath came fast as she looked up at him. “This?”

  A slow yet wicked grin came to his face. “Don’t pretend to be ignorant. You feel it, too.” His eyes briefly dropped to her lips. “Marry me, Nessa.”

  Willing herself to ignore the tantalizing nearness of his lips, Agnes kept her gaze fixed upon his. “So that we can give in?” she challenged.

  Grinning, he nodded.

  “Is this why you wish to marry me?”

  Still grinning, Lord Wentford shook his head at her. “Don’t try to convince yourself that all I want from you is…pleasure.” The way he said the last word caused goosebumps to rise on Agnes’ skin. “I would not have asked you to marry me—eight or nine times now, I believe—if that was all I wanted.” His gaze remained on hers, waiting patiently.

  Finally, Agnes swallowed. “Then what is it that you want?”

  “You,” Lord Wentford replied without hesitation. “All of you. Your days as well as your nights. I want to be the first thing on your mind in the morning and the last thing on your mind before you go to bed, just as you are on mine. I want your laughter and your tears. I want your dreams and your wishes, but also your fears and your doubts. I want all of you.” He smiled, and his gaze drifted down to her flour-stained fingers. “I want to know all there is to know about you.”

  Agnes knew she ought to send him away. She knew that it was dangerous to allow him to stay. Yet… “Well, as you might’ve guessed, my lord, I enjoy baking.”

  “When you’re upset?” he inquired, a knowing look in his eyes as they swept over her.

  Agnes reached for the bag of flour and then shoved it into his hands. “Here. You can do the measuring.”

  Without commenting on his now flour-stained jacket, Lord Wentford nodded. “It will be my pleasure.” Then he set the bag of flour aside, took off his jacket as well as his cravat, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work.

  Or tried to.

  A bit of a frown came to his face as he regarded the many bowls and cups and utensils Agnes had set out. “How do I do this?”

  Agnes chuckled. “Have you never been in a kitchen before?”

  He looked up and grinned at her. “I might have set foot in one sometime during my childhood. However, instead of being helpful, I recall stealing a fistful of biscuits.” He paused. “It might have only been a dream though.”

  Smiling at the frowning expression upon his face, Agnes stepped toward him and showed him how to measure first the flour and then the butter. She handed him a sturdy wooden fork and instructed him to press the butter into the flour. Meanwhile, she went to place a pot on the iron-cast stove and filled it with a bit of water, then added the berries as well as a spoonful of sugar.

  “Once the butter is spread out a little better,” Agnes instructed him, watching with unrestrained delight how he struggled to keep the flour from spilling out of the bowl, “you can use your hands. Here, let’s add a little water, but careful that it is not too much.” She stepped closer and looked up at him, noting his eyes lingering upon her instead of the dough he was preparing. “Are you listening to me?”

  Still gazing at her, Lord Wentford smiled. “A little water,” he repeated, “but not too much.”

  Agnes felt all but entranced as they stood so close, her sleeve brushing against his arm, his eyes looking down into hers. She could see flecks of gold dancing in the bright green of his eyes, like stars drifting into oblivion once the sun came out.

  And then his head leaned down toward her.

  Agnes drew in a shuddering breath. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  A warm chuckle rumbled in his throat. “I admit,” he whispered, his mouth now dangerously close to hers, “it crossed my mind. Do you object?”

  Agnes felt the warmth of his breath against her lips. “I know I should,” she mumbled, her thoughts far from clear.

  “But you won’t.”

  His voice trailed along her nerve endings in a most delicious way. “But I won’t,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

  “Nessa.” His nickname for her dropped from his lips and fell onto hers, tantalizing, teasing. “Say it.”

  Without thinking, Agnes knew what he meant, what he wanted, and in that moment, she was not strong enough to resist him. “Grant.”

  The very second his name fell from her lips, his own claimed hers. It was a sweet kiss, soft and gentle, and yet, Agnes could feel it everywhere. She had never expected a kiss to feel like that, and she was loath to break it, too curious to further explore these unexpected sensations that coursed through her.

  “Nessa,” he mumbled yet again, reaching for her and pulling her closer. His hands moved up her arms and over her shoulders. She felt his fingertips brush along the side of her neck, leaving crumbs of dough in their wake. His kiss grew bolder as his hands cupped her face, then slid into her hair.

  A distant part of her mind worried about dough in her hair, but it was easily silenced by another, a much more dominant one. She simply could not bring herself to release him or to order him to release her. She knew she ought to, but her lips never formed to utter a single word, kissing him back instead.

  For years now, Agnes had made herself believe that she was content on her own. Without a husband. Without children. Without a family of her own.

  Love.

  Yes, sometimes, at night in the dark, a silent tear fell onto her pillow. She wanted love. She had always wanted love. Whenever her father spoke of her mother, of their time together, as short-lived as it had been, it made her yearn.

  Only Lord Wentford was not the one, was he? He could not be the one. He was young and handsome, wealthy and titled. He was everything every woman in this world wanted. Of course, she wanted him. Of course. But why would he want her?

  Pulling back, Agnes felt the heady joy that had engulfed her retreat, quickly replaced by the reality she had been living in for the past nine and twenty years. Women like her did not get a happily-ever-after. She ought to remember that.

  “What is it?” Lord Wentford whispered, once again leaning in and brushing his lips against hers in a heartbreakingly gentle gesture. “The look in your eyes just changed. What did I do?” Again, his lips met hers in that feathery touch. “Did you not like it?”

  There was such a sweet, almost vulnerable look in his eyes that Agnes had to smile. “I did like it,” she heard herself say before she could stop herself.

  Of course, the blasted man lit up like fireworks in the night sky!

  “Continue to knead the dough,” Agnes instructed with a bit of a snap, rolling her eyes at him for good measure. Then she quickly stepped away and stirred the berries in the pot, grateful to have a reason to not only put a safe distance between them, but to also focus her attention on something other than the infuriating man in her kitchen. Baking had always been relaxing for her. Of course, Grant had to go and ruin that for her as well!

  Agnes paused. Had she just thought of him as Grant?

  “Am I doing this right?”

  Almost flinching at the sound of his voice, Agnes pulled the pot off the stove and set it aside. Then she stepped over to the wooden worktable and peered into the bowl. “A little too much water. Here, add a little more flour.”

  With dough sticking to his fingers, Grant—Lord Wentford, thank you very much!—reached for the bag of flour and added another spoonful. “Is this enough?”

  Grinning at the somewhat confused look upon his face, Agnes merely shook her head, refusing to make it too easy for him.

  His gaze narrowed in determination. “Very well. I shall figure this out on my own.” He proceeded to knead the dough, then paused, thought for a moment and added another spoonful of flour. As the dough became smooth and no longer stuck to his fingers, Agnes belatedly realized that she had forgotten to add not only sugar, but also the lemon rind to give it a fruity flavor.

  “Wh
at?” Grant asked, pausing as he eyed her carefully. “Did I do something wrong? Is it not supposed to look like this?”

  Agnes shook her head. “No, it’s perfectly fine.” She moved closer to add the missing ingredients, carefully avoiding eye contact. Still, she could feel his gaze upon her. More than that, she could all but sense the deep grin that came to his face. “Don’t be smug,” she chided, still not looking at him. “You distracted me.”

  Turning to face her, an annoyingly innocent tone in his voice, Grant asked, “How on earth could I have distracted you? After all, I focused all my concentration on kneading the dough.”

  Swinging around, Agnes glared at him. “Are you not expected somewhere, my lord? Preferably presently?”

  “No,” he told her without delay. “What is next?” His gaze swept over the kitchen. “What are we baking anyhow?”

  “A fruit tart,” Agnes replied, grateful for the distraction. She proceeded to spread some flour over the worktable and then rolled out the dough into a careful circle.

  “How do you get it to come out so even?” Grant asked with honest admiration in his voice.

  Agnes shrugged, trying her best to ignore that odd sense of familiarity that began to spread through her being. “Years of practice.” Once the dough was in the pan, she poured the cooked berries on top, added a crisscross topper and then slid the tart into the oven.

  Unfortunately, that concluded the necessary preparations, meaning that from now on her hands were idle. What was worse was that her mind was as well, and that was a dangerous thing with Grant—Lord Wentford—around!

  Raking her mind for some kind of distraction, Agnes slowly turned, no more than glanced at Grant, and then proceeded to straighten up the workbench, grateful to have found something to occupy her hands as well as her attention. Still, as he was wont to, Grant continued to linger nearby. She could feel his gaze upon her as she worked, scrubbing the tabletop and setting aside the used utensils. “Will you stop staring at me?”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Why? Does it bother you?” As though wanting to challenge her, he inched closer still until his arm brushed against hers.

  Annoyed with him for teasing her as much as with herself for enjoying it—Heaven help her, but she was!—Agnes turned to face him. “Have you always been this—?”

  “Charming?” he offered helpfully, a teasing grin upon his face. “Bewitching?”

  Agnes laughed. She could not help it, she laughed. “Hardly. Irritating is more like it.” In that moment, her gaze fell on the bag of flour still sitting atop the workbench and a bit of a devilish thought wormed its way into her mind. It teased the corners of her mouth upward and sent an excited tingle down her spine.

  No doubt seeing the change in her expression, Grant paused, his brows slowly drawing down in contemplation. “What?” His gaze swept over her. “Should I be worried?”

  Trying hard to contain the excitement suddenly bubbling in her veins, Agnes smiled up at him, doing her best to keep his attention from shifting from her face while her left hand slowly reached into the bag of flour. “Worried about what, my lord?”

  “Grant,” he insisted, still watching her most carefully. “You have a look in your eyes that…”

  “That what?” Agnes asked as she slowly retrieved her hand.

  Grant shook his head, his gaze still narrowed in confusion. “It makes me think of someone waving a white flag while getting ready to stab his enemy in the back.” He cocked an eyebrow in question.

  Agnes grinned. “You are very perceptive, Grant. I commend you.”

  His frown deepened. “Are you getting ready to stab me in the back?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?” She batted her eyelashes innocently at him.

  Grant laughed. “Because I’m beginning to know you, and I cannot help but think that something rather devious is going on in that beautiful head of yours.” He inched closer again, his eyes locked on hers. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Losing the battle with herself, Agnes grinned. “I’m afraid I cannot.” Then she threw the handful of flour she held straight at his face.

  Let the battle begin!

  Chapter Eight – War & Surrender

  Utterly taken aback, Grant blinked his eyes, trying to see through the cloud of flour billowing around him, clinging to his eyelashes and tickling his nose. He coughed once, then twice, then wiped the remnants of Nessa’s attack from his face, blinking his eyes at her.

  His opponent in turn seemed to find the situation absolutely hilarious for she laughed until tears started running down her face. She looked flushed, crimson tinging her cheeks, while her eyes took on that lively, vibrant glow he was coming to love about her. “I’m deeply sorry,” she gasped, still laughing.

  “Yes, you look truly guilt-ridden to have committed such a heinous act against a peer of the realm.” Grant stepped forward and reached for the bag of flour. “I cannot help but think that it demands retribution.”

  Her jaw dropped and her eyes went wide as she began to back away. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  Grant grinned at her. “Go ahead and believe that. It’ll only make my victory swifter.” Then he flung his own handful of flour at her.

  Squealing, Nessa ducked and slid out of the way as another white cloud formed in the air between them. Grant waved his hand to clear his vision and, to his surprise, he saw Nessa rounding the table, reaching for the bag of flour from the other side, prepared to retaliate.

  Laughing, they continue to attack one another, hurling flour across the kitchen, then ducking behind anything that might give them cover. Grant could not remember the last time he’d had that much fun. Not since he had been a boy! Indeed, it was ludicrous and childish and completely immature. If his mother could see him now, she would probably suffer some kind of stroke.

  Yet, it felt wonderful. Despite the specks of flour still drifting upon the air, Grant had never breathed more easily than he did in this moment.

  This moment with her.

  With Nessa.

  Flour stuck to her hair and dress, and she had a big white mark on her right cheek from when she had tried to brush a curl behind her ear. Her eyes almost glowed golden, and her skin was flushed, her breathing coming fast as she chased him around the workbench, her right hand lifted, ready to shower him with another cloud yet again.

  Mesmerized by her, Grant all but forgot to flee, to run. He did not want to. In fact, he wanted her to catch him. He did not even mind the flour flung in his face. He closed his eyes, and then brushed it away. It was nothing, and she was everything.

  As Nessa turned to reach for the bag of flour once more, Grant moved quickly. In two long strides, he closed the distance between them and his hand grasped her arm, pulling her back and toward him.

  Her eyes went wide and a slight squeal escaped her lips. And she ended up in his arms.

  Grant felt her heart beat against his own, her rapid breath brushing against his lips as they stood there, staring at one another. All laughter had drifted away, replaced by a new awareness. Something that sizzled in the air between them. Something that urged them closer. Something that made her tease her lower lip, and him brush his knuckles along her jaw before his hand slipped into her hair.

  Flour clung to both of them; Grant could feel it upon her skin. “Perhaps you should leave,” Nessa said all of a sudden, a hint of apprehension in her hazel eyes.

  “Perhaps I should stay,” Grant replied undeterred, then dipped his head and placed a gentle kiss upon her lips. “Marry me, Nessa.” He could feel her draw in a slow breath before he looked up and met her eyes. “Marry me, and we can do this every day.”

  A teasing smile came to her lips. “What? Shower each other with flour?” She laughed. “Yes, because that is the essence of life, is it not?” She took a step back and slipped from his arms. Yet, despite the distance, Grant felt as close to her as before.

  Something had changed.

  Something between them was diff
erent now.

  “Of course, it is,” he replied, enjoying that almost carefree and open look upon her face. “It is these moments that make up a wonderful life, is it not? It is not the milestones we remember so well, but all those little steps in between that give each day meaning.”

  A thoughtful expression came to her face. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Lowering her head, she brushed at her eyes.

  Grant doubted that it had anything to do with the flour that still clung to the corners of her eyes. “Tell me.”

  Her gaze rose to meet his, and he could see that for a moment she hesitated, uncertain whether or not to share with him whatever his words had reminded her of. “I was thinking of my parents,” she finally said, walking back over to him until they stood side-by-side, both leaning against the sturdy workbench in their backs. “They loved each other very much, and then my mother died.”

  Grant could hear the grief and pain that loss had caused in her voice. He could see it in the way she dropped her gaze, then looked up at him once more, a brave smile upon her lips. “I never knew her. I never knew them together. Yet, sometimes…” Her voice trailed off as a faraway look came to her eyes. “Sometimes when my father is in his study, working on something, lost in thought, he forgets the world around him. Reality is almost suspended, and outside of that little room nothing and no one exists. At least, that’s what I always thought.”

  Nessa inhaled a deep breath, and Grant slowly reached out a hand to place it upon hers. What surprised him most was not that she allowed it, that she did not pull her hand away, but that odd sense that settled in his heart saying that this was where he belonged.

  Here.

  With her.

  “But then I realized,” she continued, her gaze directed at something across the room, “that in these little moments, he would return to her, to a place where she still existed. I remember opening the door and calling his name, once, twice, until he would finally turn and look upon me, that look in his eyes that said loud and clear that for one short moment he thought it had been her calling him. Not me.”