Evan and Marina spent the next hour or so talking about their childhoods and families. He told her all about Nora and their baby. Shared stories about Rosa and his parents. In turn, Marina told him about her childhood, she shared both the worried and happy events that shaped her life in the same way he had.
By the time they'd finished, it seemed as though he'd always known her. Evan finished his wine and stood. He reached a hand out to her. “May I have this dance?”
She held her hand up and his fingers closed around it helping her to stand. “I’m not sure that I can in my condition.” She glanced down at her belly.
“I am certain we will manage,” he said, as he swept her into his arms.
Her laughter mingled with the piano music.
Evan inhaled the sweet scent of her then pulled her closer as he led her around the polished floor. Heat spread through him as he brought his mouth close to her ear. “You feel right in my arms. As if you’ve always belonged there.”
She glanced up, her lips slightly parted.
He captured them beneath a gentle kiss. They were soft and sweet just as he’d imagined her lips would be. His feet ceased to move as he slanted his mouth over hers. When she parted her lips, he accepted the invitation to deepen the kiss.
Her hand came up to tangle in the hair at the back of his head as her tongue met his. The kiss went from sweet to passionate as he devoured her mouth, taking all she would give. With his heart thundering, Evan broke the all-consuming kiss to gaze into her eyes. “Marry me, Marina. I cannot imagine the rest of my life without you in it. Say yes.”
Marina stared at him, her eyes glistening. “What of love?”
“You stole my heart almost immediately upon my finding you. I was simply too afraid to admit it. Even to myself.”
“You hold the key to mine as well.” She beamed up at him, her smile reaching all the way into her eyes. “Yes, I'll marry you.” She stood on tiptoe, bringing her lips back to his.
Evan had found his duchess and now that he had her, he’d never let her go.
Epilogue
Christmastide,
Four years later
“They look like angels when they are asleep.” Marina stood next to Evan as they watched their children. “Seth favors you so much with his dark crop of hair and long eyelashes.”
He tugged her closer to his side. “And Rosalee is the spitting image of her mother. It is like we have mini versions of ourselves running through the halls.”
She grinned up at him. “Let us hope they do not find nearly as much trouble as we did.” Her mind went back to the night she accepted his proposal and her heart pattered. She’d been so afraid. Scared to say yes, scared to say no. Terrified he’d come to resent her. Thank God she’d accepted for she could not imagine how her life would have worked out without him beside her.
She glanced from their daughter to their son. Evan had done as promised and gave Rosalee his name, making her legitimate. More than that, he loved their daughter and son with equal fervor. She often wondered at how accepting and loving he was. It was as if he did not believe that another man had sired Rosalee. The thought made her fall in love with him all over again.
Evan gave her a little squeeze. “What are you thinking about?”
“How lucky I am that you saved me.”
“You have it backward, duchess.” He gave a mischievous grin. “It is you who saved me. I was not living before you, but merely existing. You reawakened my heart and soul, brought love and laughter back into my life.”
She placed her hand on his chest, instantly regretting the fabric that separated their skin. “You did the same for me.”
He dropped a kiss on her forehead then met her gaze. “We have a ballroom full of guests awaiting us and there is a woman I am dying to dance with.”
“Is that so?” Marina laughed as he led her from the nursery.
When they entered the ballroom, all eyes turned their way. Evan ignored the crush of guests as he led her onto the dance floor. When he pulled her into his arms, her soul fairly melted. It had always been that way with him and she suspected it always would be. Marina could not help but marvel at the love she had for him as she rested her cheek scandalously close to his chest. She was the luckiest woman to ever live.
“I have a surprise for you.” The dance ended and Evan swept her from the polished floor.
Marina slanted a curious glance his way. “What is it?”
He chuckled. “If I told you it would not be a surprise.”
“Oh, very well.” She feigned annoyance, releasing a breath for show. "I suppose I will have to find a way to contain my curiosity."
Evan led her across the room then through an adjoining door. “Close your eyes.”
She nibbled at her lower lip as she pressed her eyes shut. Holding onto his arm, she kept pace as he led her farther from the ballroom. Just when she thought she would not be able to stand another second of his torture, he stopped.
“Open them.”
Marina’s lashes fluttered, her gaze landing on her parents. Before she could think, they smiled. Mother dipped a curtsey as Father bowed. “Your Grace’s.”
Marina turned wide eyes on Evan. He’d once vowed to her that someday her Father would bow to her, but she’d never believed the day would come. Now that it had, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She held her breath as Father approached. He came to stand in front of her with regret-filled eyes. "I am truly sorry for the way I treated you, and while I do not expect your forgiveness, I do so hope that you will allow us back into your life. We love you. I love you. I was just never good at showing it.”
A tear slid from Marina’s eyes as her heart warmed. She gave a nod then stepped into Father’s open arms. She did not know how Evan had managed to bring her father around, or why after all these years Father had finally accepted an invitation, but she was grateful. Marina backed out of Father’s embrace and stepped into her mother’s waiting arms. She’d missed her immensely and could not imagine a better gift than being reunited with her.
Mother hugged her tight as she said, “I have missed you every second that we’ve been apart.”
“And I you,” Marina said, her voice cracking with emotion. She released mother and returned to her husband’s side. Gazing up at him, she said, “You have given me everything that my heart ever desired.”
“You deserve to have everything.” He smiled at her before looking at her parents. “Do join us in the ballroom as we celebrate our anniversary.”
“Nothing would please us more.” Father offered his arm to Mother.
Mother beamed as she stared at Marina. “My daughter, a duchess. Imagine that.”
Joy bubbled up in Marina until all she could do was smile like a fool. Evan and her babies would have been enough to keep her happy for the rest of her days, but now she longed for nothing.
Evan swept her back onto the dance floor, pulling her so close they might-as-well be one. Marina stared up at him in wonder as heat flooded her body. He would do the impossible for her. This generous, warm, intelligent man had made her whole—healed all of her wounds, and showed her how marvelous life could be.
She met his darling gaze and her heart melted all over again. “I love you, Evan.”
“And I you.” He brought his lips to hers, kissing her senseless as they swayed to the music.
USA Today Bestselling author Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pace. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word. When she is not writing she can be found reading, crocheting, traveling, practicing her photography skills, or spending time with her family.
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Excerpt
***Christmas Wishes is a six book series that spans the centuries. Each book is written by a different author and only connected in that every plot includes a wish. They can be read in any order, and/or as stand-alone books. That said, we do hope you choose to read them all and find great enjoyment in doing so.
Turn the page for an excerpt from book five in the Christmas Wishes series:
The Magic of Gingerbread
Written by Sandra Sookoo
Chapter 1
The Magic of Gingerbread by Sandra Sookoo
December 17, 1888
London, England
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Excited, happy chatter cycled through the telegraph offices of the General Post Office in London as collective thoughts centered around the upcoming Christmas holiday. The sounds competed with the clatter and noise of the many telegraph machines and the four telephone switchboard lines in the room.
Mrs. Eleanor Redding attempted to ignore the bulk of it as she concentrated on transcribing a message. Once she'd typed it on a piece of paper, she added the current date, a timestamp and put her initials on the upper right-hand corner. Then the missive went into a basket to one side of her desk. A clerk would come around at the top of the hour and distribute them to the appropriate couriers and runners.
As a lull came over the lines—Saturday business hours would come to a close in a few minutes—she sighed. The work at Western Union Telegraph Company as a telegraph specialist was better than wages given in the factories, but the long hours under stressful conditions became trying after a while. As did the lack of variety. Messages were all the same: someone was traveling to see someone else, someone needed to tell another that someone else had died, congratulations or felicitations for a milestone event reached, or some mentioned urgent commerce-related information such as banking that was all time-sensitive. Such messages became mundane after months of transcribing—a far cry from the Morse-coded missives her father had told her about during her childhood. Still, receiving and sending messages kept her brain occupied, and that was a good thing. A busy mind meant she had no time to dwell on thoughts and silly dreams.
And no time to descend into the doldrums that Christmas would bring.
“I hope you have a happy holiday season, Mrs. Redding.”
Eleanor turned toward the sound of her tablemate’s voice and flashed a small smile at the young woman who sat across from her. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. And you as well.” Lucky Mrs. Anderson. She’d been given permission, along with a handful of other operators, to take the next ten days off. Since there wouldn’t be much traffic over the lines, their supervisor had deemed it more cost effective to send the bulk of the workers home rather than pay them wages for sitting around the office chatting.
Not that I’d have anything to do if granted unpaid leave for the holidays but sit around the boarding house.
“Oh, I do love this time of year,” the other woman continued to enthuse with stars in her eyes. “It’s ever so cozy and homey and romantic.”
Christmas. The time in December when dutiful sons and daughters went home to gather with family over food, conversation and gifts, and generally enjoy togetherness. Where talk would turn to the newest matches within the fold, who had recently become engaged or married, who had expanded their nurseries, and who had managed to spend yet another year as an old maid… or unwanted widow.
At least the guise of widow afforded her more kindness than a divorced woman who’d been thrown over for a mistress, and one who was effortlessly fertile at that. Procreation. Her heart squeezed in an unseen vice-like grip. Another area of Eleanor’s life she failed at.
Bah humbug. Never had she felt more in sympathy with that Dickens’ character as she did now. There was more to life than family, especially if the ones who claimed that title consistently made her feel small and useless.
Mrs. Anderson did up the long line of buttons on her brown coat before adding an unremarkable hat decorated with an ivory stuffed bird, flowers and ribbons. Why someone so stunning in appearance wanted to hide behind drabness, Eleanor would never understand. “Are you quite certain you wish to spend the holiday here?” She cast a glance about the large open room where multiple people were donning coats and wraps in preparation for departing.
“It’s as good a place as any. And I will have Christmas Day off. My landlady has promised a veritable feast on that day for her boarders.” Not even the Western Union people were as heartless as to have their operators work on the blessed holiday itself. Eleanor shrugged. “Besides, my family is in New York. They won’t miss me.” And hadn’t for the few years she’d been living in London as a refugee of sorts, from scandal. In the bustling city full of distinct class separation and expanding commerce, no one picked her out of a crowd, and no one cared to molest her. Twice a year, on her birthday and on Christmas, letters would come with all the breezy news one could expect, but none ever contained questions asking about her welfare, her hopes or dreams, or even if she was happy.
She didn’t offer anything personal when responding. Somehow, it was easier that way. Out of sight and out of mind, easily swept under the proverbial rug.
It had been her idea to promise to work the offices as part of a skeleton crew. Most of the other operators had families and children; she did not. She offered another smile at her companion, to soften what could be construed as an icy demeanor or outlook. Most people didn’t understand the careful art of concealing one’s heart, locking it away to avoid potential feelings. “Have a wonderful time with your little ones. And your husband,” she added as an afterthought, for that’s what people who cared would say.
Men. Even more of a humbug.
“Thank you. I cannot wait. Fred is such a dear man, and he’s as excited as the children for Christmas,” Mrs. Anderson effused. The holiday fervor took years off her face. Her grin brought light dancing in her eyes and twin spots of color blazing in her cheeks. “It’s one of the reasons I’m sweet on him.”
“Wonderful.” Eleanor stopped short of rolling her eyes at the gushing in the other woman’s voice. “It is nice to know there are good men out there.” Where did women find the good ones? It seemed to her they were as mythical as a unicorn.
A calculating gleam appeared in her companion’s eye. “I wish you would let me set you up with my older brother. He’s beyond manly and everything a gentleman should be. He would make a nice husband for you.”
Eleanor gritted her teeth, and when her jaw ached, she forced herself to relax. “I am doing well enough on my own, but thank you.” Why did every woman in love think all of her female acquaintances need to immerse themselves in that much-lauded state too? “I have had my fair share of what ‘gentlemen’ can offer, as well as husbands, and I want no part of the wedded state again. Or anything a man can give.” In the back of her mind, she cautioned herself not to let the bitterness in her soul show, for thirty-two was much too old to even care about such things. “Perhaps I shall acquire a handful of cats if I find myself lonely.”
“Cats are a poor substitute for a man, Mrs. Redding.” Mrs. Anderson’s forehead wrinkled with distaste. “They cannot keep you warm on a winter’s night like a man can.”
This time Eleanor did roll her eyes. “Yes, but they won’t betray me, or worse, either.”
Two marriages that ended on scandalous notes, plus an affair of unrequited love, left a bad taste for romance in her mouth. Not that she’d ever known true romance. Neither of those unions had been based on deep feelings. Instead, they’d been a means to an end. Since then, she’d more than discovered that men were vile creatures who didn’t know what trust was. They were best l
eft at arm’s length.
“I see, and am heartily sorry for your ill luck.” The other woman sighed as if Eleanor were a hopeless cause. “If you should change your mind, let me know. He’d be perfect for you. Enjoy your holiday.” Then, with a wave, Mrs. Anderson moved over the dusty floor, her heels ringing in the sudden silence brought on by the mass exodus.
“No, I will not change my mind,” Eleanor muttered to herself. “I merely want to be left alone. Why is this a concept that is beyond most people?” Yet, a twinge worked itself through her stomach muscles. Stupidly, there was a tiny bit of silly hope buried deep inside that she might finally find a man who’d value her. She snorted and shoved the thought away. Romance wasn’t for her; life had certainly taught her that.
With a sigh, she returned her attention to the office. A few workers remained, and they made inroads into packing up their stations for the night.
The drone of voices faded as the workers made their way down the stairs from the second-floor offices. Eleanor turned back to her machine. No chatter or sounds had come over the line in the last handful of minutes, and as she reached up to remove her ear piece, the unmistakable tapping of a Morse-coded message echoed in her ear.
Odd, that. Most messages were transmitted using a bizarre alphabet of shorthand or missing vowels that took skill to translate and then type into some semblance of a missive the recipient could understand. It had been months since she’d transcribed such a coded missive. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. What could it be?
She cast a furtive glance at the other operator in the room—Mr. Gibson. He was busy working his own machine. Then, Eleanor listened intently to the dots and dashes. Since they were faint, she strained to hear. Must not have been sent down her line but had become crossed with another. Such things happened with alarming regularity.
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