by Cheryl Holt
“Why is that exactly? You used to be sweet on me. Where is your unbridled passion? You can’t tell me it evaporated. I’ll never believe you.”
He leaned in and stole a kiss, and as he drew away, her heart hammered so hard that she worried it might burst from her chest. He was enormously pleased with himself, while she was distressed, furious, and sad.
It hurt to look at him, hurt to hear his voice and see his smile. Didn’t he understand? She’d been scraped raw, hollowed out. There was nothing remaining of the person she’d once been. He’d left her an empty shell.
She scrambled to her feet and hastened off down the lane. Of course, oaf that he was, he wouldn’t let her storm off with any dignity. He came after her, his long legs rapidly covering the ground so that, shortly, they were strolling side by side.
She tried to ignore him, but she couldn’t. He simply took up too much space.
“I’ve been gone for awhile,” he said, “and now that I’m back, do you know what I noticed?”
“No, and I don’t care what you noticed either.”
“You’ve put on a few pounds.”
“How kind of you to mention it.”
“Your bosom is bigger, your tummy more rounded.”
She halted and whirled on him. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No, I’m calling you pregnant.”
She gasped. “What?”
“People claim you’re overly emotional. You cry at the drop of a hat. You’re constantly dizzy. You’re with child, Emeline Wilson.”
Could it be? Frantically, she counted the days, the weeks. It had been ages since she’d had her monthly flux, but she’d attributed it to stress and strain.
Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .
“If I had a gun,” she seethed, “I’d shoot you with it.”
“You ought to be a tad nicer to me. It sounds as if you need a husband.” He smirked. “I’m available.”
“Maybe I won’t kill you. Maybe I’ll kill myself.”
“And do away with Nicholas, junior? You never would.”
He stared in that intent way he had, the way that had previously elated her. Once, he’d made her feel as if she was the most unique woman on earth. Now she just felt tired. Tired and miserable and so very, very lonely.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a gold wedding band. He waved it under her nose like a talisman.
“What is that supposed to be?” she asked.
“What would you imagine it is?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
He clasped her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
“Marry me, Emeline.”
“What? No.”
“Marry me,” he said again. “You want to so badly. Stop fighting it.”
“No,” she repeated more firmly, but he was unfazed by her reply.
“Why not?”
“Because if I were to wed, it would be for love.”
“I know that about you.”
“You’re focused on status and revenge. You want a Lady Veronica Stewart—it’s all you’ve ever wanted—and you’ll never convince me that you’d suddenly ask me instead.”
“I have lowered my standards quite a bit, haven’t I? I’m definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel with you.”
It was the sort of sarcastic remark that once might have coaxed a pithy rejoinder from her, that might have garnered him a playful jab in the ribs. But she was exhausted and depressed and anxious to slither away so she could lick her wounds in private, while she contemplated her condition.
“Don’t do this,” she quietly implored.
“Don’t do what?”
“You assume I’m increasing, and you’ve been overcome by some odd chivalrous impulse, but it will pass.”
“You think this is an impulse?”
“I’m certain it is. Just leave it be, Nicholas.”
“You called me Nicholas.”
He flashed a devilish grin that had her heart pounding again, and a collage of images popped into her head: their first meeting in London, his initial visit to Stafford, the afternoon he’d caught her fishing in the stream, his kindness to her sisters, her developing infatuation, his ultimate seduction.
She’d been so happy then. She’d felt so vibrant and alive. How had that joy fled so completely?
“Let me share a little secret with you, Em,” he said.
“Please don’t.”
“You want to marry for love. Well, what about me? What if I want to marry for love too?”
“Then you should go find someone who loves you. You’re wonderful, remember? I’m sure you won’t have any trouble.”
“I don’t have to search,” he insisted. “I’ve found what I need very close to home. It’s been waiting here for me all this time.”
To her consternation, he dropped to a knee and clasped her hand again.
“I love you, Emeline.”
“Nicholas, no, don’t you dare—”
“Hush,” he soothed, “and listen to me for once.”
“Why should I turn over a new leaf at this late date?”
His eyes were so very blue. A woman could get lost in those eyes. She had gotten lost in those eyes. She tried to glance away but couldn’t.
“When I first came to Stafford, I hated it,” he said.
“How could I forget?”
“You made me love it. You made me love you. You’ve ensnared me, and you can’t simply walk away. It would be too cruel.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, not mad. Just in love. With you.” He stroked his fingers across her stomach, reminding her that there might be more at stake than pride and hurt feelings. “You need a husband, Em. Let it be me.”
When he assessed her like that, when he spoke in that soft tone . . .
“I don’t know what to do.” She started to shake. “I don’t know what’s best.”
“I am best. I am precisely what you need. Say you’ll have me.”
“But . . . but . . . a few weeks ago, you were engaged to somebody else.”
“A huge mistake on my part. I admit it.”
“You can’t have changed your opinion so quickly.”
“Can’t I have? I’m a man, Em, and a particularly thick-headed one at that. It never dawned on me that I was in love. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Guess what I realized.”
“What?”
“I love you so much, I’m dying with it.”
“Oh, Nicholas.”
“I’m not much of a catch. I’m vain and stubborn and intractable, but I’m also loyal and faithful. I will always stand by you and be your staunchest ally. You’ll never be alone again.” Overwhelmed by sentiment, he had to swallow twice before he could continue. “Take a chance on me, Em. You’ll never regret it.”
Voices echoed down the lane, and they peered over to discover that the people from the party had come looking for them. Jo and Stephen Price, her sisters, Annie Price, the new vicar, the carpenters.
“Get up,” she urged, trying to tug him to his feet, but he wouldn’t budge.
“No. The entire town should bear witness to my proposal.”
“I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”
“Silly Em, you could never embarrass me.”
His brother called, “Have you worn her down yet?”
“No,” he replied. “She doesn’t think I’m worth having.”
“I didn’t say that!” she huffed.
“You didn’t say yes either.” He kissed her ring. “What’s it to be, Em? We’re waiting for your answer.”
She gazed at him, at her sisters and friends. Their expressions told her she could have it all. The husband who adored her. Children. A father to care for them and keep them safe.
A home where she was happy and cherished.
“Swear to me that you mean it,” she demanded.
“Yes, I mean it. I swear.”
“Swear to me that you’ll stay at Stafford. You won’t be off gallivanting, where I’m panicked and fretting over where you are and if you’re all right.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.”
“Promise me that it’s forever.”
“Forever . . .” He nodded. “I like the sound of it.”
She couldn’t refuse him. Not with spectators studying their every move. Not when he was offering her exactly what she craved.
The sad, pathetic fact was that she still loved him. She always had and always would, and she could have him for her very own. She could have him for the rest of her life.
“Don’t ever lie to me again,” she warned.
“I will if it’s for your own good.”
She scoffed. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes, I am. Impossible and conceited and possessed of every other bad trait. Now what’s it to be? Will you have me or not?”
“Yes, Nicholas, I will have you.”
He grinned a sly grin. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.” He stood and faced the crowd. “You heard her, folks. I’m about to become leg-shackled.”
“About time,” his brother muttered.
“Isn’t anybody going to congratulate me?”
The adults clapped and cheered, and the girls rushed over, hugging them and squealing with delight.
Nicholas soaked it all in, and she watched him, realizing how much he’d changed from the angry, solitary man he’d been when they’d first met. She’d given him this. She’d brought him this contentment, this sense of belonging.
She sighed with satisfaction.
“Let’s go back to my school.” She smiled—just for him. “I want you to show me everything.”
“You better gush over it,” he advised her. “You better spend the whole day, telling me how marvelous I am.”
“I’ll definitely tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you and tell you, and I’ll never stop.”
CHERYL HOLT is a New York Times, USA Today, and Amazon “Top 100” bestselling author of over fifty novels.
She’s also a lawyer and mom, and at age forty, with two babies at home, she started a new career as a commercial fiction writer. She’d hoped to be a suspense novelist, but couldn’t sell any of her manuscripts, so she ended up taking a detour into romance where she was stunned to discover that she has a knack for writing some of the world’s greatest love stories.
Her books have been released to wide acclaim, and she has won or been nominated for many national awards. She has been hailed as “The Queen of Erotic Romance” as well as “The International Queen of Villains.” She is particularly proud to have been named “Best Storyteller of the Year” by the trade magazine Romantic Times BOOK Reviews.
She lives and writes in Hollywood, California, and she loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.cherylholt.com.
