Dearest Miss Sterling,
The time is upon us. I cannot wait longer for you to be made aware of who I am, and for your heart to, perhaps, open for me, as mine has been open for you. Open, aching, and waiting for any chance at all that you might step into its void. There can be no one there but you, and I would spend my entire life awaiting your arrival to that desolate location if there was a glimmer of hope.
I have loved you for so long that I could not know myself without you. Your smile, your impulsiveness, your towering strength, your ability to find wit and humor in any circumstance whatsoever, and even the maddening stubborn streak you cannot completely hide, all combine into a rare beauty equal to your physical loveliness, if not far above it, and I thank God Almighty that I have the eyes to see it, that I am graced with the eyes to behold you, to know you, to hope for you. Even now, in writing this, I am the most fortunate of men.
My love, I will never be worthy of you, and well I know it, but I cling to the hope that you might find the discrepancy not insurmountable. From the day I first learned which window of Hazelwood was yours and found the ability to perfectly aim pebbles at it, I wanted to spend every waking hour with you, and nearly did so, if your memory will serve. That night at the ball in Colchester to celebrate the queen, I knew I was yours in every way conceivable. The friendship I so treasured deepened with every heartbeat until I could no longer fathom or describe it, and to this day my heart has never heard sweeter words than these: “Well, Matthew, I think I may have to lay claim to you the entire evening.”
Beloved Abigail, lay claim to me this evening at the queen’s ball. Lay claim to me any day or night or hour that you wish. Lay claim to me for all the days of our lives. For I am and ever have been yours to claim.
Tears coursed freely and unchecked down her cheeks, falling onto the paper in a barrage of emotions, blurring the precious lines in places. It made no difference, as she would never be able to forget a single word of it. The entire letter would be emblazoned in her mind and in her heart, and the echoing burn radiated from limb to limb, roaring into more intensity in the center.
The very core of her screamed out in joyous relief and vigor.
Matthew.
Matthew all along, Matthew the entire time, Matthew both here and there . . . The answer to every question and every need was Matthew.
Part of her considered that she ought to have been peeved at the deception, at the onslaught he had set about in her life, but in this moment, all she could feel was unfettered joy.
This man knew her heart and soul and loved her as thoroughly as any man or woman has ever loved. Their past was behind them, barely in her recollection, and the forgiveness that had eluded her thus far filled her now. She felt light as a wisp of cloud, laughter bubbling up amid the symphony of every other emotion and sensation cascading through her being.
The queen’s ball. Tonight. Oh, but she had to see him, to tell him, to hold him, to run at him, if there were not too many easily scandalized ladies about. She wanted very much to apologize and make amends for refusing him . . . for him. He would undoubtedly find the whole thing rather amusing and tease her about it endlessly.
Horror suddenly washed over her in a frigid wave, gooseflesh rising on every inch of her skin.
Did he know that the man she had been talking about was the man in the letters? Had he puzzled it out that she had unwittingly fallen in love with him in writing? Or had her words the other night given him further reason to fear and doubt?
Lord, she had made a mess of everything!
Well, technically he had done so, but she was more than willing to accept part of the blame this time.
They would share it. Share everything. As they always should have done.
Abigail inhaled slowly and exhaled the same, calm and sense returning, only for a wild grin to dance across her face and send her heart ricocheting through her chest once more.
Matthew loved her, just had he had said, but with a completeness that stole her breath. And she loved him just as much.
And tonight, they would both know it.
***
The ball was an absolute crush. As it turned out, having a ball for the queen when the Queen is actually in attendance tends to increase the number of guests who attend. And apparently all of them wished to stand in the middle of the room and block her view of absolutely everything.
It was a pity that she had not inherited the height that made her father so imposing.
Still, she was here, and Matthew would be here somewhere. She only had to find him.
“Steady, Abs,” Thomas murmured, yet again escorting her about. “You’ve already been presented to the Queen ages ago. Surely being in her presence tonight isn’t so bad.”
Abigail shook her head, her tight ringlets twirling with it, one long, dark lock bouncing against her bare shoulder. “It isn’t the Queen I’m worried about.”
Thomas placed a hand over Abigail’s, momentarily ceasing her attempt to mangle her fingers together. “He’ll be here, Abs. He’s not going anywhere.”
She jerked her head around to look up at him. “What? How did you know?”
Her brother smiled ruefully. “You didn’t think I knew? And even if I didn’t, you’re wearing the same gown from the last time you were anxious to see Thomas at a queen’s ball. The significance isn’t lost on me.”
“How did you know what I wore then?” she demanded after gaping for a long moment.
Thomas shrugged a shoulder. “Every now and then, I do pay attention to details.”
Abigail returned her focus to the room in general, reeling from this revelation. Yes, she was wearing the same gown, which miraculously still fit without her having to sacrifice herself to the corset gods, but she had only expected Matthew to notice.
She was counting on Matthew to notice.
She knew she looked well; in this gown, how could she not? It was a silk of the palest green with streaks of gold weaving in and out in lines that drew the eye to her bodice and waist. The neckline swept about her shoulders gracefully, gathering and dipping slightly at the center, where an intricate bow was tied. The skirts were of exactly the same pattern as the bodice, the lines dipping with each fold, and the gold details becoming more pronounced as they neared the hem. Her dark hair had been curled, pinned, and folded about, a sheer gold ribbon weaving in and out while small white flowers and pearls were scattered among the tresses. Pearl drop earrings and the same gold ribbon tied about her neck were the only other embellishments.
No less than three members of her family had told her how lovely she looked, but she could never trust familiar appraisals. Ages of time had been spent poring over her ensemble, desperate to be as close to perfection as she could get, and while she knew she did not look at all perfect, she hoped it was enough to strike Matthew speechless. For a moment or two, at least.
Abigail heard Thomas ask her permission to leave her so he could dance, and mutely she nodded, not caring in the slightest where he went or what he did. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she had no energy to focus on anything other than finding Matthew.
“Oh, my sweet girl, what a vision you are!”
Abigail whirled, the voice as familiar and unexpected as anything else. Her grandmother stood there in resplendent blue, grinning without shame. “Miranda? What are you—?”
Miranda came to her and kissed her on both cheeks. “Beloved Abigail. You didn’t think I’d miss the queen’s ball, did you? Especially when it will be so monumental for you.”
Abigail blinked unsteadily. How in the world could Miranda possibly . . . know?
“I do hope you find Matthew soon,” Miranda said with a wink. “He looks positively glorious. Come and find me later, won’t you, dear? I want to hear everything.”
Again, Abigail’s cheeks were kissed, and Miranda swept away in a rustle of skirts, moving on to greet the other members of the Sterling family.
There wasn’t time to properly consider what in God
’s name Miranda was doing here or how she knew or anything at all surrounding her, and Abigail forced herself to return her attention to the ballroom. To the people.
To Matthew.
Where was he?
The group in front of her moved then, and despite all her efforts, she found that she was the one without speech or breath.
Matthew stood in the new opening, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in the most perfect evening wear she had ever seen on anyone. And he was staring at her. Clearly had been doing so. He smiled at her, and in that smile she felt every ounce of love and affection she had ever craved in her life. Gentle and warm, reassuring, adoring, and perfectly Matthew.
His eyes stayed on her, waiting for her to take the first step. More than that, they stayed on her face, never once travelling down the length of her. Steady and direct, and filled with a power that sent her slippered feet moving.
Slowly, but moving all the same.
Every step came with a heartbeat, the pulse of which echoed loudly in her ears and at her wrists. Her throat constricted and her eyes burned, but she refused to swallow or to blink, for fear that something would change, that this magic would vanish.
Matthew exhaled when she reached him, his shoulders nearly heaving with the motion. Then, and only then, did his eyes move across her, achingly slow and taking in every single aspect as though to commit all to memory. As they returned up the length of her, the skin they brushed over burned with pleasure, sending a shiver down her spine.
“I . . .” Matthew cleared his throat, then shook his head. “Abby . . .”
Speechless after all. Her heart swelled, and she reached a shaking hand out, which he immediately seized, the power in his grip stealing her breath. “Well, Matthew, I think I may have to lay claim to you the entire evening.”
His smile returned in a flash, and with it a marked degree of heat. “Do you really?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I must.”
“Why?” he replied as his fingers moved over the hand he held. “Why must you?”
Now the burning in her eyes intensified, and she tried to clear them with a shake of her head. Tears began to fall with a single blink, and he brought his free hand up to brush them away, cupping her cheek when he had done so. “Why, Abby?”
Abigail’s jaw trembled, and her lips parted. “Because I love you, Matthew. I love you. And I want to claim you for the rest of my days.”
His smile turned somehow tenderer, and his thumb stroked her cheek. “Oh my love, you already have. I’m yours for always, don’t you know that?”
She turned her head and kissed his thumb, then the palm of his hand, holding it to her and closing her eyes on more tears. “Then claim me, Matthew. I want to be yours as well.”
“Darling . . .” He pulled her to him, gathering her close and kissing her brow, then one cheek. “If you’ll have me, I’ll claim you until the end of time.” Another soft kiss fell on her ear. “I meant every word I said and every word I wrote. I’m sorry for the deception, but I was so desperate to have you that I used whatever means necessary.”
“I’m glad you did,” she told him as she pulled back, hands at his chest. “Those letters meant more to me than anything I could think of. Then when I spent more time with you, I began to forget, and I wanted you. I’ve been tormented over choosing between you. I didn’t even want to open the last letter for fear that I had made a mistake refusing you.”
Matthew shook his head and stroked her cheek again. “Never. Never, Abby.”
She smiled at his delusions. “And then it was you, and I cannot tell you the joy that it brought me. I love you. I’ve loved you all along.”
And she was done with waiting. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him to her for a long, slow, soul-searing kiss that sealed her fate with his. Claimed them both. Made them one.
He held her just as tightly, his hands clenching almost rhythmically against her, his lips molding to hers in a perfection that extended far beyond bliss. This even transcended exhilaration, of all things, and a gentle weight began to press against her heart.
This was right.
She sighed against his mouth with relief and satisfaction, and drew him closer for more.
“Have you no shame? The Queen is here, and you are in full sight of her!”
They broke apart, perhaps a bit reluctantly, and gave each other rather dazed smiles before turning toward the scandalized majordomo. He eyed them both with the same disgust one might a mangy dog in the gutters.
Matthew linked his fingers through Abigail’s, and even through the gloves, she felt the heat of it. “Apologies, sir.”
The majordomo sputtered. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the Queen!” He waved a dramatic hand in the direction of the far wall, where, sure enough, the small but mighty Queen Victoria and her tall, stately husband Prince Albert stood.
Abigail swallowed a laugh and proceeded forward with Matthew by her side. He bowed and she curtsied deeply when they neared the royal couple.
The majordomo moved in front of them. “I am told, Your Majesty, that these persons are Mr. Matthew Weber-Grey and Miss Abigail Sterling.”
The Queen’s lips quirked in a bemused smirk. “Charmed indeed.”
Abigail opened her mouth to apologize but found a sharply raised hand before she could do so.
“No, my dear, I don’t wish to hear a single word of apology.” The Queen’s smile spread just a little, tucking against her cheeks on a laugh. “Not from a couple so clearly in love. I’ll not hear of it. What do you think, Albert?”
Prince Albert didn’t look nearly as amused as his wife, but he wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist and nodded once, which seemed something monumental.
The Queen covered her husband’s hand with her own and winked at Abigail. “I am quite fond of all things love and romance, aren’t you, Miss Sterling?”
Abigail bit her cheek as Matthew squeezed her hand. “I wasn’t always, Your Majesty,” she confessed, her face heating, “but I found I have recently come round to the notion.”
Now the Prince seemed to be stifling a laugh, and the Queen beamed outright. “As you should. Well done, Mr. Weber-Grey. Well done, indeed.”
Matthew bowed again. “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“Have you proposed matrimony yet?” the Queen asked with a twinkle in her eye.
“Victoria . . .” Prince Albert murmured, still smiling.
“I was just getting to that, Ma’am,” Matthew assured her, “but I have reason to be hopeful.”
A soft giggle came from the Queen. “I should think so, and I dearly hope you will invite us to the wedding. Otherwise, I may not give the marriage my royal blessing.”
“We would be delighted, Ma’am,” Abigail told her eagerly.
“There now, Mr. Weber-Grey,” the queen said slyly. “I do believe you have your answer.”
Matthew looked at Abigail with such adoration, she nearly wept again. “I can see that I have, Ma’am. And if you will forgive a moment’s less-than-proper impulse under these circumstances . . .”
Without waiting for royal sanction, Matthew tugged Abigail back into his arms, and kissed her quite soundly.
And Abigail, not to be outdone, wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back.
Epilogue
As it happened, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were invited to the wedding, actually came to the wedding, and requested, with all politeness, to come to the christening of their first child.
They were, of course, invited there as well.
And Victoria Georgiana Miranda Weber-Grey was the most delightfully spoiled girl ever born to parents so madly in love.
When she was old enough, her parents had walked her out to the boundary between Chisolm and Hazelwood very early on and instructed her as to the finer points of sneaking into her grandparents’ estates undetected.
Which she eventually employed with great success.
More Books by Rebecca Connol
ly:
About the Rebecca Connolly
Rebecca Connolly writes romances, both period and contemporary, because she absolutely loves a good love story. She has been creating stories since childhood, and there are home videos to prove it! She started writing them down in elementary school and has never looked back. She currently lives in Minnesota, spends every spare moment away from her day job absorbed in her writing, and is a hot cocoa addict.
Visit her online:
Facebook
Coming Home
Jennifer Moore
Chapter One
Spring 1890
Isle of Wight, UK
Grant Mason frowned, pulling away as his mother’s elbow poked into his arm.
“Do you hear that?” she hissed. “Right behind us.”
The instant the hymn had begun, the unknown woman’s voice sounded clearly among the others in the congregation. Of course he’d heard. It was impossible not to when she sat directly behind them, only a few pews back. Grant did not consider himself an expert on music by any stretch of the imagination, but even he could tell her singing was remarkable.
His mother continued to squirm. “Have you ever? That voice. Such perfect pitch.” The feathers on her wide hat brushed his face as she turned her head for a better view. “Who is she?”
“Mother.” Grant’s whisper was rather loud, but he had no choice if he wanted to be heard with the congregation singing on all sides. “Turn around.”
The woman’s voice stopped, though the hymn continued.
Grant rolled his eyes. Obviously Mother’s backward glances had not been discreet.
“She is sitting with the Wickershams,” his mother whispered. “Do you suppose she is a relative?”
He shrugged, hoping his mother would imitate his silence. Her not-so-quiet whispers were drawing glances from other parishioners.
“I have never heard them speak of extended family, and surely they would have told me if a relative was coming for a visit,” she continued.
“We can ask them after the service.” Grant cocked his head, listening, but the woman’s singing had not resumed.
The Queen's Ball Page 15
