“Aha, what?” he demanded, flummoxed.
“You want to marry me in order to satisfy your sense of honor.”
He still didn’t understand. She was looking at him as if he was some loathsome thing. What was so bloody wrong with honor?
“What’s so bloody wrong with honor? I should think you would like the man who wishes to marry you to be honorable.”
And now it was her turn to be frustrated. Of course she wanted him to be honorable. He was honorable. It was one of the things she loved about him. But she didn’t want honor to be at the heart of his proposal. She wanted love to be.
But he had said he loved her. And he hadn’t needed to say that, although he would say it if he thought it was the only way to persuade her to do the honorable thing, the right thing. Blast! Her thoughts were in a quandary!
“I just . . . I don’t feel honorable toward you,” she finally blurted out, suspecting she sounded like an ass, and certain she should be removing herself from his embrace. But the feeling of “rightness” she’d experienced in his arms had grown during this peculiar and infinitely wonderful interlude and she couldn’t bestir herself.
“Don’t you?” There was the flavor of laughter in his voice. “How do you feel, then?”
She wasn’t going to be the first to make a declaration of love. Oh, yes, he already had. But for what purpose? Because it was the truth? Or because it was the way to achieve his goal? “Not honorable,” she finally answered gruffly.
He tipped her head back. “Darling, wonderful, insecure, prideful Evie. I am not a green boy, and while my experience with the fairer sex is far more limited than you once thought, I am not, nor was I when I came to you, a virgin.”
She blushed fiercely, and was amazed to see a dark answering bronze rise up his throat. “I am not the sort of man who gets carried away by sexual drives. And while I was and am and forever will be carried away by you, I could have—granted with no small discomfort and much unhappiness—walked out of your room well before we got to the point of no return.”
She stared at him mutely, listening to his words and trying to hear the meaning behind them. He saw her confusion and once more rescued her.
“What I am trying to say, and doing a damn poor job of it, is that when I made love to you, the idea that I wanted to marry you was already fully formed and recognized and approved by every faculty I own: by body, mind, heart, and soul.
“But I erred, Evie. I admit it. I wanted you so much, so desperately, that I refused to tell you I loved you and then let you decide whether you could feel the same. So like a coward—and this hurts to admit because I detest cowards—I sought to bind you to me. That’s why I made love to you without declaring my intention, hoping you’d be incurably conventional and then be obligated to marry me. I should have known better.”
His mouth turned in a lopsided smile. “Can you forgive me?”
Her throat was tight and she felt tears rise in her eyes and she wanted so desperately to answer “yes!” and “yes!” and “yes!” But she had been a golem a long time and she had learned to mistrust men—and found that even though she wanted to believe Justin, even though her heart clamored in recognition of his veracity, her troubled mind would not allow it.
“Why do you love me?” she asked.
He looked at her. Her beautiful porcelain skin, her dark hooded eyes and tangle of silky coiling curls, the narrow feet, the slender arms and delicate collarbones, the thin wrists and blue-veined bosom. He looked around at the mess in which they sat and recalled her frantic confession, “What use is a functionless spinster?” and he had his answer.
“Because I am beautiful?” she threw the question out temptingly.
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe.”
“Then, yes,” he said simply. “You are beautiful. Your beauty undoes me and quickens me.” She started to turn her head away but he caught her jaw lightly but implacably and forced her to meet his gaze, ardent and passionate. “I see you in a doorway, the curve of your cheek, the chance gesture of your hand, and I want to kiss you. I touch your skin and I grow hard with desire, I kiss your lips and I am consumed by need.”
She felt the heat rise in her face, and her gaze lowered before the burning ardency in his. He lifted her chin again.
“But, Evie,” he said, his tone potent, “should your features grow coarse, your skin wrinkle, and your body bend with age, I will still want you. You are pleasing to me in my heart; you quicken not only my blood but my soul; I desire to feel your embrace as much as to embrace you. The aesthetics of the heart, my darling, surpass the senses and make its own perfection.”
She swallowed. His expression softened, his gaze candid and exposed. His touch was near reverent, and yet she trembled.
“Yes, I love you, Evie. You know I do.”
And she did. He hadn’t said a word about her wit, her intelligence, her abilities, or her competence, all the qualities she had spent her life honing and polishing so that she would have some boon to bring to a relationship—any relationship, whether with a friend, companion, or God-willing, lover.
No. He’d ignored all her wonderful attributes and spoken only about an ephemeral—and to her mind very suspect—beauty that he freely admitted he expected to fade. And yet, she’d never been so certain anyone spoke the truth as when he’d said, “I love you.”
“There is only one question, really, isn’t there, Evie?” he asked in a sure, quiet voice. “And that is, do you love me?”
She couldn’t deny it. She didn’t want to, and yet she was still afraid. She’d spent a lifetime protecting herself from potential pain, and now it stood shoulder to shoulder with a love she’d never dreamed possible. But that was probably always the way with true love, she thought with sudden clarity.
“Yes. Oh, yes. I love you. I think I’ve loved you since I was fifteen. Yes.”
He hadn’t been as confident as he’d sounded, because his eyes squeezed tightly together and his jaw pulsed in a hard little muscle. Then he was kissing her, raining kisses down upon her face, her cheeks, her eyes, and her mouth, and she was kissing him back as if there was nothing else in the world but him.
Only after a long, long time, after their kisses had finally grown less ardent and they more quietly confident, did she pull back and look long and lovingly into his face and say, “Do we really have to retire from spying?”
“Well, Mr. Beverly,” Merry whispered from where she stood by the French doors leading into the courtyard, “a job well done, to my mind.”
Beverly rolled his eyes and muttered a heavenly invocation against interfering women. Merry chuckled and turned to the little clutch of romantically inspired spectators who “happened” to be by the door just as Justin enfolded Evelyn in a passionate embrace.
“See, Lady Broughton? There was never any need to worry. I am most knowledgeable about the human heart, and I could see from the very first that this would be the end result. So alike. Both so . . .” She struggled to find the word.
“Peculiar?” Lady Broughton supplied.
“Yes,” Merry agreed happily. “And oblivious. The only question is what two such naive, sweet, and guileless souls should do to make their way in this wicked, wicked world. A thief at the wedding! I worry for them, I do indeed. Someone is bound to take advantage.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t fret too much about those two,” Lord Stow muttered enigmatically, and, with one last contemplative glance, he left.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Connie Brockway is the author of The Bridal Season, the debut novel in the Bridal Season series. She is also the author of the McClairen’s Isle trilogy, which includes the acclaimed novels The Passionate One, The Reckless One, and The Ravishing One, and four other historical romances: My Dearest Enemy, winner of the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award for Best Historical Romance, All Through the Night, As You Desire, and A Dangerous Man. She loves to hear from readers. Please write her at P.O. Box 828, Hopkins, M
N 55343, or visit her website for excerpts and reviews of all her Dell books at www.conniebrockway.com
Also by Connie Brockway
THE McCLAIREN’S ISLE TRILOGY
McClairen’s Isle:
the ravishing one
McClairen’s Isle:
the reckless one
McClairen’s Isle:
the passionate one
AND . . .
a dangerous man
as you desire
all through the night
my dearest enemy
the bridal season
Praise for
The Bridal Season
“This frothy literary confection sparkles with insouciant charm. Characters, setting, and plot are all handled with perfect aplomb by Brockway, who displays a true gift for humor. Witty and wonderful!”
—Booklist
“Letty is one of the most thoroughly likable heroines you will come across. The author writes a fast-paced story filled with terrific characters that will leave you smiling for sure. Letty's close calls are a delight, and there is one scene where Letty and Elliott's ex-fiancée play a deadly game of croquet that alone elevates this book to keeper status. It's a whole lotta fun. One of the most well-told, entertaining stories this year.”
—The Oakland Press
“The heartwarming way the people of Little Bidwell band together to handle the situation will have you standing up and cheering. This intelligent, sassy, sensual and utterly delightful read will lift your spirits.” —Romantic Times
“THE BRIDAL SEASON hooks you from the beginning . . . a fun and spunky read that will delight you.”
—Rendezvous
Praise for
The Mc Clairen’s Isle Trilogy
“Exquisite . . . Brockway’s lush, lyrical writing style is a perfect match for her vivid characters, beautifully atmospheric settings, and sensuous love scenes.”
—Library Journal on THE RAVISHING ONE
“[Filled with] skulduggery, bitter English-Scottish hatred and harrowing cat-and-mouse pursuits.”
—Publishers Weekly on THE RAVISHING ONE
“With her usual skill and marvelous gift for storytelling, she has given us an unforgettable, empowered woman to admire and a ‘keeper’ for our bookshelves. Few others have Ms. Brockway’s ability to craft characters so beautifully and write so eloquently as to enthrall readers so easily. Bravo!”
—Romantic Times on THE RAVISHING ONE
“Anyone who read the first volume in this masterful trilogy, The Passionate One, will devour The Reckless One. Complex, fascinating and gripping, this is memorable storytelling. Connie Brockway simply gets better and better as she creates characters and a plot that draw you in like a fly to a spiderweb. Reading The Reckless One is a surefire way to start off the next century as Ms. Brockway raises her standards and our expectations for her next book.”
—Romantic Times on THE RECKLESS ONE
“Those looking for a little more substance in their plots will relish this one; there’s intrigue, adventure and betrayal all woven into a story with characters you won’t soon forget.”
—The Oakland Press on THE RECKLESS ONE
“A fine story peopled with interesting characters, a good old rambling, falling-down castle and
some really bad, bad guys.”
—The Dallas Morning News on
THE RECKLESS ONE
“A very good read.”
—Rendezvous on THE RECKLESS ONE
“Rich, romantic and intense, a beautifully passionate love story.”
—Jill Barnett, bestselling author,
on THE PASSIONATE ONE
“The characters are dynamic and compelling,
the descriptions vivid, and the sexual tension sizzles. . . . Connie Brockway writes with passion and power. McCLAIREN’S ISLE: The Passionate One is terrific!”
—Barbara Dawson Smith,
author of Too Wicked to Love
“Connie Brockway is truly an innovative, wonderful writer whose work belongs on every reader’s shelf.”
—Romantic Times
“Never predictable, always refreshing, wonderfully touching, deeply emotional, Ms. Brockway’s books never fail to satisfy. Connie Brockway is simply one of the best.”
—All About Romance
Published by
Dell Publishing
a division of
Random House, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Connie Brockway
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Dell Publishing, New York, N.Y.
Dell® is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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eISBN: 0-440-33438-1
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