“I’m going to do what I should have done months ago when I realized I loved you,” he replied. Then, wrapping both arms around her, he kissed her thoroughly, the touch of his lips against hers holding her more firmly in place than if he had chained their wrists together.
When he finally released her, she made no effort to move off his lap. “When?” she asked softly, nuzzling her face down against his neck.
“When what?” he replied, a great deal of masculine satisfaction in his voice and a great deal of comfort in his hands, which were now stroking her back and tangling themselves in her hair, which had somehow come loose from its pins.
“When did you realize you loved me?”
There was a pause. “Not until Christmas,” he finally replied. “But I hope you will excuse me for being so slow to know my own heart.”
“I forgive you,” she murmured.
“Good. Now, please explain why, loving me as you do, you turned down both my offers of marriage.”
She pulled back enough that she could see his face “I don’t remember saying I loved you.”
He grinned down at her. Yes, there was definitely a great deal of smug, self-satisfied complacency in his smile. “You told me when you kissed me,” he said simply, and she was unable to contradict him, especially when he kissed her again and again and again, and each time she could not refrain from kissing him back.
Curled up in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, she persisted in trying to make him see the error of his ways. “I have no money,” she began, “and no family and no accomplishments. And I am not really beautiful, so you must realize you could do much better than me if you are wishful of finding a wife.”
“To me you are the most beautiful woman in the world,” Nicholas replied with laughter in his voice.
“I am serious,” she replied, beginning to play with a button on his waistcoat. “You are so handsome and so well-connected, you could easily have any woman you wished, and there are so many young ladies who are prettier and cleverer and richer and—”
“And if you tell me there is anyone who has a kinder, more loving heart than you, then your tongue will fall out for uttering such a lie.”
“But—”
“And if you tell me that anyone else loves me as much as you do, then I think that will be an even bigger lie.”
Joanna felt herself blushing again.
“Well?” he asked. “Do you tell me I am wrong?”
Mutely she shook her head against his chest.
“Then will you do me the honor of marrying me? I must warn you that if you say no a third time, I shall probably sink into a decline, and then people will label you a heartless flirt.”
“I only refused the first time because you made it so clear that you did not really wish to marry me.”
“I was blind. You must allow for the fact that I am a mere male and therefore not as clear-sighted as you are. Do you forgive me?”
“Yes,” she said, still feeling a wee bit bashful to be sitting on his lap—but quite unwilling to move an inch away from him.
“And will you marry me?”
“I would have accepted your second proposal with alacrity if you had only said you loved me, or even if you had said you were somewhat fond of me, or even if you had said you had grown used to having me around, or even—”
He interrupted her by kissing her—so thoroughly that when he finally finished she was too breathless to speak.
“Now,” he said firmly, “without any more roundaboutations, answer my question. Will you marry me?”
She started to reply, but with a smile he clamped his hand over her mouth. “No, allowing you to talk has proved too risky. Simply nod your head if you agree to marry me.”
She nodded her head.
“And we shall be married in St. George’s by special license as soon as we return to London. Nod if you agree.”
She shook her head.
“What? You cannot possibly prefer eloping to Scotland?”
Shaking her head, she began to chuckle—or at least it would have been a chuckle if he had not been holding his hand over her mouth.
“Then what? Why? Oh, the devil, I suppose I cannot expect to keep you mute the rest of our lives.” Removing his hand, he said with resignation, “So tell me all your objections, and I shall attempt to counter each and every one.”
“I have only one,” she said meekly.
“And that is?”
“Except for the dress I am wearing, every stitch of clothing I own is on its way to Scotland, and I refuse to be married in a gown I have been sleeping in.”
“If that is all,” he said with a lazy smile that tickled her insides and made her toes curl, “then you will be happy to know that I am acquainted with a modiste who can supply gowns of any size at a moment’s notice.”
This book is dedicated to my aunt,
Marjorie Enid Walker Mason,
who introduced me to my ancestors,
who in turn gave me a love for history
on a personal level.
I wish to thank Joyce Ziegler and Mary Jo Rodgers for their advice about colors for my heroine. I also wish to thank fellow writer Emily Hendrickson for her contribution of time and information.
Copyright © 1992 by Charlou Dolan
Originally published by Signet [ISBN 0451171691]
Electronically published in 2013 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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