by Cheryl Holt
He stared at her, then he grinned. “Are you done?”
“Maybe. It depends on what other absurd comments you’re about to make.”
“It’s your turn to hear this: I learned who you were, and I overreacted which you might have noticed is a common issue with me. My temper is on a short leash. I was rude and horrid to you, and I will always regret that I was.”
“Thank you for that.”
“Also, I proposed to you and then—like the worst cad—I flew into a rage and retracted my offer. But…I’m putting it back on the table.”
She was vastly confused over what was actually occurring. “What’s on the table? A proposal of…of…marriage?”
“Yes. I recognize that I’m not much of a catch, that I’m capricious and impulsive and I have massive problems controlling myself, but I’m begging you to forgive me and give me another chance.”
“To what?”
“To wed you and love you until my dying day.”
He dropped to one knee, and he clasped hold of her hand. He was smiling up at her, looking so handsome and so wonderful that her pulse began to race.
“What are you doing?” she asked, and she started to tremble.
“You know what I’m doing. I’m proposing again.”
“Don’t tease me, Alex. I have such a tender heart, and I can’t bear to have you jesting like this.”
“Jesting!” He rolled his eyes with exasperation. “You are the most aggravating female I’ve ever met. Will you hush and listen to me?”
“I might—if you’d stop talking like a lunatic.”
“When I was in London—in jail for fighting with Price I might add—I had quite a bit of time to think about the state of my life.”
“What have you decided?”
“I want to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I was happy before all my troubles with Eugenia and your brother, but over the prior decade I lost my way.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“Abigail, you make me happy.”
“No, no, you’re wrong. I make you miserable.”
“Hush,” he repeated. “I was a fool and an idiot in how I treated you. Can’t you admit that I was?”
“Yes, I absolutely admit it. You were a fool and an idiot.”
“I’m a man, Abigail. It’s beyond me to behave in any other fashion. I’m aware that I can be bossy and domineering.”
“You can be.”
“But I can be kind too. I can be generous and caring and loyal.”
“Yes, you can be,” she grudgingly concurred.
“You were fond of me once.”
“I might have been.”
“You might even have loved me.”
“Perhaps.”
“All of that deep emotion can’t have vanished. It’s impossible.” He kissed one of her palms, then rested it on his cheek. “Tell me you still love me. Tell me you’ll marry me.”
His blue eyes were beseeching, luring her in, chipping away at the walls she’d erected to keep him at bay.
There was nothing more thrilling than to have Alex Wallace’s undivided attention. There was nothing more riveting, and she couldn’t prevent a river of memories from washing over her.
From the first day she’d arrived at Wallace Downs, she’d fallen under his spell. They shared a potent bond, as if Fate had forced their paths to cross. She’d never been so content as she was when she was with him. She’d never been so glad or fulfilled.
Yet he scared her. What if she consented to wed him again, but he reneged again? She couldn’t live on such a wild ride of erratic character.
“I might still love you,” she cautiously confessed.
“I love you too, Abigail. I love you so much it’s killing me.”
“Oh, Alex, don’t say that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.”
“It makes me want to please you. It makes me want to give you whatever you’re asking.”
“You should give me what I’m asking. Say yes. Say you’ll marry me.”
“Get up, get up.”
She couldn’t stand to have him prostrate before her, and she tugged him to his feet. He towered over her so she seemed small and in dire need of his protection.
“What if I agree,” she said, “and you change your mind again?”
“I’ll never change my mind.”
“How can I be certain?”
“I have applied for another Special License. We didn’t use the last one so I sent for a new one. For it to be valid, we have to wed at eleven o’clock. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s in a few minutes.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “What do you mean?”
“We can proceed with the ceremony as soon as the clock chimes the hour.”
“You were sure you could convince me?”
“I had some help from the twins. They insisted I had to be shrewd in how I asked you.”
“They knew about your plan?”
“Yes. They’re outside, waiting to learn your answer.” His grin grew sly again. “If you refuse me, imagine how disappointed they’ll be.”
“If we were husband and wife, how would we carry on?”
“How would you suppose? I will live here in my home with my bride—and my two daughters.”
“You’d claim them? You’d let them belong to you?”
“Abigail, haven’t you guessed? They’ve always belonged to me. It just took my meeting you to realize it.”
It was the best remark he could have uttered, and as she pondered his announcement he swooped in and kissed her. She hadn’t expected it, and for a brief instant she nearly pushed him away, but she didn’t want to push him away.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, and immediately it was as if they’d never been separated a single day.
He continued for an eternity, until her knees were weak and her resistance completely vanquished. Eventually, he drew away, and he was smiling.
“Does this mean you’ll have me?” he inquired. “Does this mean you’ll be mine?’
“I will be yours, Alexander Wallace. Forever yours.”
“Forever. I like the sound of that.”
He picked her up and twirled her in a circle, and she yelped with surprise. The twins must have heard her because the door was flung open, and they rushed in. As they saw Alex holding her, they laughed and clapped their hands.
“Did she say yes?” Mary asked Alex.
“She said yes,” Alex replied as he set Abigail on her feet.
“And we’re having a wedding? Right now?”
“Yes, Mary”—Alex was beaming with delight—“we’re having it right now.”
Faith walked in behind them. “What’s this about a wedding?”
“I finally wore her down,” Alex boasted.
“Thank goodness,” Faith scolded. “If you hadn’t, I’d have beaten you with a stick for being such an idiot.”
“I couldn’t refuse him,” Abigail told them. “Not when the end result is that I’ll have all of you as my family.”
“You’ll have me too,” Alex said.
“Yes. I get to have you most of all.”
The twins dashed over, and Alex scooped them up. The three of them hugged Abigail, and she hugged them back as Faith nodded her approval from across the room.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Wallace?” Alex asked Abigail, reminding her she was about to have a new name.
“It looks to me as if everything is just about perfect.”
“Yes, perfect,” he agreed. “Perfect from this moment on.”
THE END
Don’t Miss the Second Novel in
Cheryl Holt’s “FOREVER” Series!
FOREVER MINE
The story of Catherine (Barrington) Henley
and Christopher Wakefield
FOREVER MINE, CHAPTER ONE
“It’s our very own mar
riage market.”
Catherine Barrington Henley smiled at her companion, Libby Markham, and said, “Our own marriage market? Really?”
“Why shouldn’t we call it that? Girls find husbands here all the time.”
“Name one who has.”
Of course Libby couldn’t think of a single person, but Catherine wasn’t about to be disheartened by Libby’s inability to substantiate her claim. In Catherine’s view, every young lady ought to have the chance to wed. Why should spoiled, rich girls—who possessed fat dowries—be the only ones allowed the security of matrimony?
She and Libby were at the entrance to the public pavilion at Vauxhall, and they handed over their pennies and went inside. The orchestra was up at the front, instruments being tuned, the first dance set about to begin.
The large room was packed with people, which had heated the June air to what could have been a stifling degree. But there were huge doors that opened out into the gardens. They’d been pulled back, and an occasional gust of wind blew in.
Normally, she wouldn’t have dared such a risky venture, but it had been two years since she’d attended a dance. When Libby had mentioned the event, when she’d encouraged Catherine to go with her, Catherine had been seized by the most pressing desire to join in.
She’d just suffered the most frustrating day, in what had been a lengthy string of frustrating days. She often felt as if she was suffocating, as if she was becoming invisible. It had been an eternity since she’d had a Saturday night free, and the idea of spending a few hours flirting and laughing and perhaps chatting with a handsome gentleman had been too intoxicating to resist.
They were with a group of Libby’s acquaintances. Catherine was a very elderly twenty-four, Libby eighteen, and the other women were in between those two ages. They were all in a similar condition: unattached females of limited means. They earned a wage as governesses or nannies or—if they didn’t toil away—they were educated and appealing and might eventually be excellent wives, but they had no dowries to attract a spouse.
Catherine was working for Miss Priscilla Bolton who was engaged and marching toward her wedding in September. Catherine served as her chaperone, confidante, fashion adviser, and nag, but it was a thankless situation.
Priscilla was arrogant and stubborn, and she treated everyone—Catherine included—like a low sort of vermin. There was no task Catherine could complete in a satisfactory manner and no word she could utter that didn’t draw a stinging rebuke.
Luckily, the job would end after the wedding, and she would move on to yet another post, to observe and assist another wealthy, snooty debutante who was preparing to marry the man of her dreams.
Libby was a ward of Priscilla’s father. Her own father had been a poverty-stricken vicar who’d left her orphaned and penniless. Her greatest wish was to wed despite her lack of a fortune, and she’d devised many creative ways to cross paths with potential beaux.
The dances at Vauxhall were just one place where she might garner what she craved, that being a home of her own and an escape from the tedium of the dreary Bolton household.
Catherine was older and more pragmatic than Libby so she’d given up any hope of ever being a bride. With how her life had fallen apart a decade earlier, she’d lost any benefit she might have offered in nuptial calculations. But she liked to make new friends and would deem it an enormous boon if she could simply stumble on a charming fellow who didn’t annoy her to death.
“What now?” she asked Libby.
“Now we locate our table.”
“A table! My goodness.”
“I didn’t reserve it,” Libby said. “I know some young men who come here regularly. They invited us to sit with them.”
Catherine scowled. “Should we, Libby? Are you sure?”
“It will be fine to socialize with them, Catherine. I met them at church.”
Catherine was trying not to sound like a prude, but in light of her being a lady’s companion her behavior had to be above reproach. She obtained her positions through Mrs. Ford at her employment agency, and the persnickety matron sent out females with the highest reputations for moral character and probity.
Catherine had been on her own for many years so she didn’t require a chaperone and didn’t have anyone to scold her over her choices. She could pick her activities, and she was very sensible. She would never participate in conduct that might get her into trouble with Mr. Bolton or Mrs. Ford, and she’d traveled to Vauxhall with six other women. What could happen?
Still though, she couldn’t help being skeptical. “You met them at church, Libby? Seriously?”
“Well, maybe outside a church. They were standing right next to it.”
Catherine chuckled and shook her head. It was her first adventure with Libby. In the month Catherine had lived with the Boltons, Libby was the only one who’d been kind or cordial. She was also funny and caustically blunt, and Catherine liked her.
But she didn’t necessarily trust her. A housemaid had whispered that Libby had a penchant for landing herself in jams. Apparently, she’d had a very strict upbringing and was shucking off the remnants of a difficult childhood. Yet Catherine never listened to rumors, and so far Libby hadn’t demonstrated any traits that would leave Catherine uneasy.
Libby took her arm, and they wandered through the crowd. After a bit of searching, a man waved at them. He was seated at a table on the verandah outside the building. There was a little fence around it to block it off from other revelers.
Libby waved back, and they hastened over. Introductions were made, and Catherine did her best to memorize names and faces. There were a dozen men present who all looked to be in their twenties, and her trepidation vanished.
They would be from the world she’d previously inhabited before disaster had struck. They were probably third or fourth sons, freshly graduated from university and living in London on meager allowances. Some would be studying law or commerce.
Eventually, they would have incomes and homes of their own. They would be seeking wives like Libby who were pretty and vivacious and sufficiently educated that they could run a house and keep the ledgers up to date. Libby was very popular with the group. Everyone knew her and was glad she’d arrived.
The orchestra began to play, and most of the girls were whisked off to dance, Libby included. Catherine wasn’t asked for the initial set, but she didn’t mind. She wanted to relax and assess the surroundings as she mentally debated whether it had been wise to accompany Libby.
Priscilla had been sick in bed with a headache, and Catherine’s job was to escort women to social functions. Why shouldn’t she have escorted Libby?
Except that—just as she was persuading herself all would be fine—she saw Libby slip away from the pavilion with a man who must have been a decade older than she was.
The furtive pair was swiftly swallowed up by the shadows, and Catherine hesitated, wondering if she should chase after them. She wasn’t Libby’s nanny, and she hadn’t come as a chaperone. What was her role?
If Libby snuck off with a sweetheart, was it any of Catherine’s business? She didn’t think so, but if Libby suffered a mishap Catherine would never forgive herself and she’d definitely be blamed.
She sighed with exasperation and left the relative safety of the enclosed box. There were many groomed paths leading into the gardens, and very quickly she was away from the noise and the crowds. It grew dark and quiet, and she had no idea which direction Libby had gone. It would be madness to stroll about, hunting for her.
She spun to return to the safety of the lights and the party when a female laughed seductively. She froze, assuming she’d located Libby after all. Brazenly eavesdropping and feeling like the worst voyeur, she tiptoed into the trees.
“You are such a flirt,” the woman murmured, “and you’re cruel to torment me.”
“You love my torment,” a man replied. “It brightens your day.”
“You’re vain too.
And horrid.”
“Vain and horrid? Can I be both?”
“Yes.”
The woman wasn’t Libby so Catherine should have crept away, but suddenly the duo started kissing, and she couldn’t stop herself from watching them. The episode was strangely thrilling, like nothing she’d ever witnessed before.
They were both stylishly dressed, but the female’s face wasn’t visible so Catherine couldn’t discern if she was fetching or not. But she figured she probably was. If she wasn’t pretty, why would he bother?
She had a clearer view of the man. He was tall, six feet at least, with black hair worn longer than was proper. It hung over his collar and was tied with a ribbon. He was slender and muscular, and she was betting he was very handsome.
She’d seen people kissing in the past, and she had been kissed several times back in the era when she’d been a rich man’s daughter. But she’d never seen anyone kissing as they were kissing.
The man was holding the woman very close—his hands were actually gripping her bottom—so her entire body was pressed to his. His lips moved over hers in a mesmerizing way, as if he was drinking her in, as if they were locked together and he couldn’t free himself.
They were moaning, sighing, giving and receiving an enormous amount of pleasure, and Catherine’s pulse was racing. The sight was exhilarating, and she could have stood there all night, gawking and spying, but off in the distance a sharp summons rang out.
“Mary Anne! Mary Anne! Where are you?”
The woman drew away and frantically whispered, “That’s my aunt. I have to go.”
“No, not yet,” he insisted.
“I have to! She’s looking for me.”
“Mary Anne!” The person sounded much nearer.
“When can I be with you again?” the man asked.
“I’m not sure. Next Saturday perhaps? I’ll try to come for the dancing.”
“I will pine away until then.”
He clasped her palm and kissed the center of it, then she yanked away and ran toward the pavilion. Catherine ducked behind a tree or the fleeing woman might have bumped right into her.
