The professor was still staring at her.
“I received the package with the teacup.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I knew right away that you must have gotten it in that charming toy shop in Vienna on the return trip. It’s lovely, so I wanted to thank you, and I read the note . . .”
He took a step forward. “Miss Ballard—”
“See, I don’t understand why you call me Miss Ballard now, and in the note with the teacup, you called me Gigi.” She clasped her hands together because they were trembling. “I thought you called me Miss Ballard at the park because you were going to reconcile with Olivia, so I left, and . . . and then you wrote those letters, but I didn’t want to read about your new life and your new decisions. So I burned all of your letters without reading them.”
The professor hadn’t moved after the first step, but now he set his brush down and stepped off the gazebo, which put them much closer to each other. “You burned my letters?”
She took a breath then. “I did.”
His beautiful hazel eyes were unreadable. What was going through his mind? Was he annoyed? Angry?
The edges of his mouth lifted, and his eyes sparked with amusement. “You burned my letters? So you have not read any of them, save for the note with the teacup?”
Why was he repeating things? The heat that had begun in her chest was spreading outward. “Yes?”
The edges of his mouth lifted farther. Was he . . . laughing at her?
“Gigi . . .” He stepped forward and reached for her hand.
But she stepped back, moving her hands behind her and clasping them tight. “You’re confusing me, Professor Haskins.”
“Clyde.” He was even closer now. Did he not know to keep his distance? “If you would have read my first letter, you would have found out I told Olivia that I might forgive her, but I no longer wanted to marry her. Any desire had fled long ago. I just didn’t know it until I met you.”
Gigi loosened her hands and set them on her hips. “You sent her away?”
His hazel eyes were lighter now, nearly dancing. “If you had read my second letter, you would have discovered that I’d invited you to a family dinner, a supper to meet my sister and her family.”
“You have a sister?” Why had they never spoken of this?
He moved closer still, until she caught the scent of him. Wood and sage. And now she added paint to that scent. She still hadn’t wrapped her mind around the fact that Clyde Haskins was a painter. And he had a sister. And he wasn’t courting Olivia . . .
“What did the third letter say?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
He was right in front of her now, close enough to touch. Close enough to hold. “The third letter was a confession.”
She blinked at this.
One of his hands strayed to hers, gently tugging it from her waist and intertwining their fingers. “A confession of how I feel about you.”
The warmth of his fingers locked with hers started a slow burning heat skittering across her skin.
“Addressed to Miss Ballard?”
“Sometimes a letter needs to be more official,” he said in a rasp, “because it’s a declaration.”
The slow heat was climbing to her neck. “What sort of declaration?”
“The declaration of how I’ve fallen in love with you, Rowena Georgina Ballard II.” His lips now curved into a full smile.
“You remembered my full name,” she said.
“I remember every word you’ve ever said.” His fingers touched her jaw. “I couldn’t very well marry another woman when my every thought and every desire was with you.”
Gigi exhaled. Her face was completely and utterly flushed, she was sure of it. The heat had nowhere else to go. “That is quite a declaration, Professor.”
“Clyde.” He leaned down, his hazel eyes only inches away.
“Clyde.”
His lips brushed hers then, and Gigi decided that there could be more than one perfect kiss in a lifetime. The kiss on the train, and now this . . . although Clyde kissing her now was perhaps more significant because, after all, he’d just told her he loved her.
She slid her hands up his chest, her body trembling at the solid warmth beneath his shirt, and she skimmed her fingers behind his neck, pulling him closer, savoring his scent, his taste, his solidness beneath her hands.
And then she said the words she’d held bottled up for so long. “I love you, too, Clyde.” It came out as the softest whisper, but the impact was immediate.
He lifted his head and cradled her face with both his hands. He’d never been more beautiful as he was at this moment in his tangled garden, paint flecks in his hair, his gaze filled with earnest warmth. “Then you had better marry me, Miss Ballard. There is no other outcome I will accept.”
“Nor I,” a regal voice said behind Gigi.
She froze, every part of her going stiff.
Clyde’s face went a rather bright shade of red.
Gigi spun to see that, indeed, they had an audience of five. If the horses had been able to fit through the gate, perhaps it would have been seven sets of eyes breaking into their privacy.
Her mother’s cheeks were streaked with tears. “Congratulations, both of you!”
Lillian had a hand over her mouth, her eyes rounded.
Irene and Blanche were clutching each other’s hands as if they needed support to stand upright.
“Is that a painting of Georgina?” Blanche asked.
Everyone turned toward the canvas in the gazebo, which Gigi could now clearly see.
It was her on the Orient Express, in the lounge car, bent over a notebook. Clyde had sold himself short—he was an excellent artist.
“It’s beautiful,” Lillian murmured.
“Exquisite,” Aunt Rowena added.
Gigi stared up at Clyde. “You painted me?”
His tender, loving gaze moved over her face, then he broke out into a grin. “I can do much better now that I have the real subject in front of me.”
Aunt Rowena set her hands on her hips. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Gigi choked out, not missing the fact that Clyde had not exactly released her, even though they’d been caught kissing by her entire family. His arm remained firmly about her waist.
“Are you going to give the young man an answer?” Aunt Rowena said, her mouth quirked as her eyes danced with delight and triumph.
Gigi laughed shakily. “Don’t I get any privacy?”
“The time for privacy is over,” Aunt Rowena said. “We’ve been in the carriage a full ten minutes. A minute past that and we would have had propriety concerns.”
Lillian stifled a giggle.
Their mother frowned at Aunt Rowena. “Perhaps we should—”
Aunt Rowena held up a hand. “They’ll get as much privacy as they want as soon as I am assured they are engaged.”
The professor’s arm only tightened around Gigi, and she could not imagine what he thought of all of this.
She turned to him, seeing the expectancy in his gaze. “Why did you not tell me you painted?”
Surprise flitted across his face for a second, then he smiled that smile she loved so much.
“It never came up, I suppose,” he said. “Besides, it’s more of a hobby. When I discovered early on that I had not enough talent to make it into a career, I decided to become a professor.”
“Are there any other pertinent things about you I should know? Besides having a sister and a brood of nieces and nephews?”
“There is one thing . . .”
Her breath hitched.
“You need to know that there was never one single moment after receiving that letter from Olivia that I ever considered her over you.”
That was something indeed . . . Tears threatened, and she quickly blinked them back. “I migh
t love you even more now.”
His smile turned into a grin. “That’s good to hear, darling, because I think we must do this properly. I don’t want your aunt to scold me any further.”
“I heard that,” Aunt Rowena said, though amusement laced her tone.
And right there, in the backyard of flowers and bushes, and in front of a decent-sized audience, Clyde knelt in the dirt. He grasped her hand and lifted his chin, those hazel eyes of his nearly green against the backdrop of foliage and vines.
“Darling Gigi, will you make me the happiest of men and become my wife?”
Gigi wasn’t sure who squealed. It could have been her mother or Lillian or, even more surprisingly, Aunt Rowena. Irene or Blanche were also fair candidates.
But there was a man on his knees awaiting Gigi’s reply. She leaned down, resting her hands on his shoulders and curling her fingers into his shirt. “Yes.”
No sooner had she gotten out the word than Clyde pushed to his feet and pulled her tightly against him. His murmurings into her hair were lost because Lillian was already making plans.
“A double wedding!” she exclaimed. “We shall have a double wedding!”
EpiloguE
Three months later
Her husband was brilliant, Rowena Georgina Ballard Haskins decided. His lectures were well attended, and for nearly an hour following, students and members of the public alike waited in line to speak with him.
Gigi didn’t mind. Tonight, Lillian, their mother, and Aunt Rowena had come to listen. Lillian had brought her new husband, Bart, and he’d been quite impressed as well. The newlywed couple had slipped out as soon as was proper, and that left Gigi wanting her new husband to herself as well.
But he was the guest of honor, and so she must wait.
She watched him with a half smile and a growing bubble of pride in her chest. He was dressed in a suit, his blond hair carefully styled, and every so often, his gaze would shift to hers. And she could swear he’d winked more than once.
Apparently it was still possible for married women to blush.
“Dear, we are going to head home,” Aunt Rowena said. “The line is much too long tonight, and we’ll see you tomorrow for supper.”
Gigi turned to Aunt Rowena. It was wonderful to see her fully recovered, vibrant again, and rejoicing in the good news from a doctor appointment that afternoon—Aunt Rowena remained cancer-free.
Gigi kissed Aunt Rowena’s cheek, then her mother’s. Gigi took comfort in the fact that Aunt Rowena now lived with her mother, and the two were great company for each other. Aunt Rowena’s more dominant personality complemented her mother’s diminutiveness.
All was well in Gigi’s corner of London.
As she waited, she thought back to their wedding. Yes, it had been a double wedding after all, and after Gigi had completed her sister’s wedding dress, she’d made one of her own.
And yes, she’d met Clyde’s sister, Susan, and her family at last. She was a woman with white-blonde hair and a contagious laugh.
Lillian and Bart had taken off for their honeymoon to Paris right away, but since Clyde had already begun his semester teaching at the university, he said theirs would have to be delayed. Gigi didn’t mind. After all, she wasn’t being neglected in the least.
Oh, they saw her family once a week, and once a week, they had supper with his family. And once a week, Clyde delivered a lecture. But the other four evenings of the week, her husband was all hers.
She supposed she could work on a new sketch while she waited—she always had her notebook with her. She’d officially quit her position at Mrs. Stanton’s dress shop, but the woman paid her for design work. So every few days, Gigi delivered a new set of designs and was quite pleased to see them implemented.
She still hadn’t broken into the men’s fashion market though. Perhaps her designs would just stay between her and Clyde. Tonight, his formal jacket had a deep-green thread added to the lapel stitching as well as the buttonholes. It would take a discerning eye to notice the difference, but to Gigi, it made her proud he’d wear such embellishment.
The last of the attendees shook Clyde’s hand, then left.
Gigi rose to her feet, smiling as Clyde strode to her.
“Thanks for waiting, darling,” he said when he was close. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, lingering in a way that heated her neck.
“I loved your lecture,” she said.
“Thank you.” He smiled and offered her his arm. “I thought you might be especially interested in the artwork at the Hagia Sophia museum in Constantinople.”
They strolled out of the lecture hall and into the London night that glittered with stars. “Oh, why’s that?”
“You will have to wait to find out, darling,” he said, pulling her a little closer.
She quite liked how he’d adopted the habit of calling her darling.
They walked slowly, at last together, in no hurry to be anywhere. As they strode up the path to Clyde’s home, well, their home now, Gigi felt a rush of pride. Her husband had given her every concession to make the home theirs. She’d added new drapes and rearranged the kitchen completely.
Clyde unlocked the front door and gestured for her to step inside. She turned on the nearest lamp.
He shut the door, but before she could walk further into the house, he grasped her hand.
She turned to face him and caught his smile before he leaned down and kissed her.
His lips were cool from the night air, but that soon changed, and he pulled her into his embrace.
She looped her arms about his neck, only too happy to kiss him back.
“Why all this ardor?” she asked when he allowed them to breathe.
His brows rose. “I missed my wife.”
Gigi laughed. “We haven’t been separated all evening.”
“When you’re on the other side of the room from me, I consider that separated.”
She slid her hands into his hair and drew him close again.
He kissed her, lingering for quite a bit of time, then said, “I have a surprise. I thought I’d wait until this weekend, but apparently, I cannot.”
Gigi tilted her head. “Is this a good surprise?”
His eyes seemed to darken as his smile turned mischievous. “Very good.”
“Well, then, out with it.”
His brow wrinkled with humor. “It seems that you do have a few shared traits with your aunt Rowena.”
Gigi only smirked.
Clyde chuckled and tugged her by the hand into the kitchen. There, he produced a dark-red envelope.
“A letter?” she asked.
He only motioned for her to open it, then folded his arms.
She opened the seal, then drew out the thick notecard. It was a certificate—a booked passage on the Orient Express leaving next week. “What is this?” she asked.
“It’s our honeymoon.”
“But this is next week—and you are still teaching.”
“The week after is our fall break, and I’ve found a replacement for this coming week,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile. “That gives us two weeks. And I aim to take you all the way to Constantinople this time.”
Several things clicked in her mind then. Clyde had been planning this for some time, and tonight’s lecture proved it. And he’d somehow guessed that if there was any place she could choose in the world to go on a honeymoon, it would be with him—doing what they’d done when they’d fallen in love.
The tears couldn’t be held back, and she wiped at her cheeks. “Oh, Clyde, I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes?” he suggested.
She was in his arms in less than a heartbeat. “Yes,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He chuckled and only pulled her closer. “I love you, darling,�
�� he murmured against her hair.
Gigi sighed with complete joy. “Please tell me that it’s just us—I mean as far as our families go. There will be no added travelers to accompany us?”
“It wouldn’t be a proper honeymoon if that were the case.”
She was grinning now. “Not that I don’t love my family or yours, mind you . . .”
“Don’t say another word.” He drew away enough to focus his gaze on her face. “I quite agree. We have new memories to make, my darling, with just the two of us.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heather B. Moore is a USA Today best-selling author of more than a dozen historical novels and thrillers written under the pen name H.B. Moore. She writes women’s fiction, romance, and inspirational nonfiction under Heather B. Moore. This can all be confusing, so her kids just call her Mom. Heather attended Cairo American College in Egypt and the Anglican School of Jerusalem in Israel and earned a bachelor of science degree from Brigham Young University in Utah. Visit Heather’s website here: www.hbmoore.com.
Enjoy this sneak peek of Jen Geigle Johnson’s Romance on the Orient Express book, coming August 2021:
Spring 1900
Freya Winter rested the back of her hand on her mother’s forehead. “Are you well enough, Mama?” Leaving her mother while she was in a bout of coughs felt like a betrayal.
“I am well enough. We all know I will not die from this, but I envy your crisp mountain air. If I could just leave London and the filth I breathe here every day . . .”
“You could stay in Paris with Grandmother. Then I will see you when I visit from Salzburg.”
She closed her eyes. “I am too tired for the journey.”
“Or perhaps you will vacation to Brighton as you have so long desired.” Freya hoped her father would grant this one wish. Her mother would benefit from the sea air, and Freya could leave for Salzburg with less guilt.
When her mother fell asleep, Freya joined her father at the breakfast table. He was reading the paper. As usual, he’d set the gossip columns aside, perhaps hoping Freya would take an interest in the social lives of those around them. This morning, she didn’t even pick up the pages to appease him. “Mother would do well in Brighton.”
Until Vienna (Romance on the Orient Express) Page 17
