How many times had he dreamed of this exact moment? Of holding Abby in his arms. Of feeling her heart beat against his chest. Of matching every breath he drew with hers. To finally be with her after all these years… it was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle he had no intention of wasting. “You never answered my question,” he said quietly.
She lifted her head from the nook of his shoulder. “What question?”
“You know exactly which one.”
“Oh.” Her nose wrinkled adorably. “That question.”
He skimmed a hand up the middle of her back, caught a handful of curls, and gave a gentle tug. “Marry me, Abby. Marry me and be with me for the rest of my life. Marry me,” he persisted when she remained silent. “Abby, you have to marry me.”
Reaching behind him he took the ring he had already given her once from the pocket of his discarded trousers and held it out in the flat of his palm. It shone a dull gold in the candlelight, reflecting the Ashburn insignia worn smooth by time. His voice gruff, he said, “This was always meant for you. Only you, Abby. Wear it and be my wife, now and always.”
Abby’s voice was small, her hazel eyes luminous. “I wore it once, and I took it off.” She extended her left hand. “I will not take it off again.”
Reginald’s heart pounded as he solemnly slipped the ring onto her finger, but it did not beat with anxiety or regret or wayward second thoughts. It sang with joy. Pure, unadulterated joy and a happiness so pure it felt as though a light were bursting inside of him. He gathered Abby close to his chest and kissed her temple before he whispered the words he had been waiting thirty years to speak aloud. “I love you, Abigail Mannish.”
With a contended sigh Abigail rested her head over his heart. “I love you as well, Reginald Browning.” She left her left hand, twisting her wrist until the ring caught the light. “I cannot believe it still fits.”
He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. His gaze steady on hers, he said, “We always fit, Abby. Ring or no ring, we were always meant to be.”
And so they were.
Epilogue
One month later to the day, Reginald and Abigail were married in a small village church with all of their loved ones in attendance. Abigail wore a gown of pale blue – it was, after all, her new husband’s favorite color – and Reginald was properly dashing in formal gray.
The reception was held at Ashburn, where Abigail had already been warmly received. The staff took to her instantly and within a matter of days she had transformed the dark, gloomy estate into a warm, sunny home.
The curtains were the first things to go.
“I cannot believe we are truly married.” Glancing sideways at Reginald, Abigail reached under the table and grasped his hand. After dancing for nigh on two hours straight they had retired to a secluded table at the back of the ballroom where they could watch the festivities while indulging in a few moments of privacy.
Threading his fingers through hers, Reginald squeezed tight. “How does it feel to be a duchess?”
“Wonderful. After all,” she said impishly, “that is why I married you.”
“Is that the only reason?” Reginald asked, his eyes bright with amusement.
Abigail feigned a shrug and swallowed back a bubble of laughter. “There are a few more, I suppose, but they are hardly worth mentioning. I – Rocky!” she hissed, tugging up the sleeve he had just pulled down to expose the top of one breast. “People are watching.”
With a lazy grin Reginald folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “They have already forgotten all about us. No doubt they think we retired early. We are old, you know.”
“Speak for yourself,” Abigail snipped. “I have never felt younger.”
“Or looked more beautiful.”
She sighed, then sighed again when his fingers closed around the nape of her neck and began to rub in small, soothing circles. When his thumb worked into a particularly tight muscle she could barely contain a moan. “Do not stop.”
But Reginald did, and quite abruptly at that.
“What is it?” she asked when he shoved his chair back and stood up.
“I need you. Now.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed as she twisted in her seat to face him. “The reception will not be over for at least another three hours.”
“Now,” he repeated.
To be wanted so fiercely… It sent a thrill of delight shooting through her and she allowed Reginald to pull her up out of her chair without another word. Arm in arm the newlyweds swept through the ballroom, intent on reaching their bedroom as quickly as possible.
At the entrance to the main foyer, however, Abigail suddenly paused, a line of worry appearing between her brows. “Have you seen Dianna?” she asked, belatedly realizing she had not laid eyes on her niece for quite some time. Turning, she did a quick survey of the guests in attendance, but did not see a petite blonde among them.
“Perhaps she went out for a breath of fresh air,” Reginald suggested, his mind clearly on other things as he caressed the small of his wife’s back. When his hand slipped lower and playfully pinched Abigail squealed, all thoughts of Dianna’s whereabouts vanishing as she hurried out of the ballroom and up the stairs with her husband right behind.
Reginald was right – Dianna had stepped outside, although it was not for a breath of fresh air. Escaping out a side door, she sprinted across the grass towards the stables, soaking her dancing slippers and hem of her ball gown with evening dew.
Her heart pounding, her breath coming in fits and starts, she collapsed against the far wall of the barn and drew in a ragged breath. Her chest felt unbearably tight and she clawed at the bodice of her gown to loosen it, but the heavy ache that had descended upon her with all the weight of an anchor had nothing to do with the fit of her clothes.
“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “No, no, no.”
The pounding of footsteps had her muscles tensing and she fought against the frantic urge to flee. She would have run to the ends of the earth if she thought doing so would save her. But you could not outrun your past, no matter how fast and how far you went. It was a lesson Dianna knew better than anyone. After all, she’d been trying to escape her past all of her life and now, at long last, it had finally caught up with her.
Steeling herself against the inevitable, she opened her eyes to stare at the last man on earth she ever wanted to see.
“Hello Dianna,” he said quietly.
“Hello… Miles.”
About the Author
Jillian Eaton grew up in Maine and now resides in Pennsylvania. When she isn't writing, Jillian is doing her best to keep up with her three boys. She loves horses, coffee, getting email from readers, ducks, and staying up late finishing a good book.
She isn't very fond of doing laundry.
www.jillianeaton.com
Spinster and the Duke (London Ladies Book 2) Page 9
