by Amy Andrews
John nodded. “In her sewing room. Through the kitchen to the end of the hallway, last door on the left.”
Bodie nodded. “Thank you.”
“Good luck.” John clapped him on the back in a way that led Bodie to believe he was going to need it.
…
Eleanor was working on a recent commission, her shoulders hunched over her machine, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on the tuck that she couldn’t get to sit right. The dress had proved to be damn difficult but she relished the challenge.
Anything to occupy her brain at the moment was welcome.
She didn’t hear Bodie’s footsteps in the hallway. Normally, she’d hear anyone walking her way, as well as cattle calling, cars approaching, dogs barking. But she had earbuds in, listening to an audio version of Venetia, one of her favourite Georgette Heyers. The fact that it was read by Richard Armitage was no hardship, either.
He was no Bodie Webb, but…
Gah! Bloody Bodie again.
She’d taken to listening to audiobooks when she worked so she wouldn’t think about him. Because sewing was so automatic for her, her brain tended to wander. Normally she’d just tune into the sounds of the bush and the farm, but since returning from Sydney it wandered straight to Bodie.
So audiobooks had been a way to distract herself from such thoughts. And from the huge, gaping hole she had in her heart.
Running home to her mother had been restorative in many ways. Her body was back to normal and the unconditional love and support from her family had soothed her aching soul. But it hadn’t stopped her wanting Bodie. Hadn’t stopped her loving him, either.
Or thinking about him every spare minute of the day.
She didn’t know what she was doing, exactly. What she wanted. Or how to go forward with her life. What was she waiting for, for Pete’s sake? She loved him. He apparently loved her.
Did it really matter that he told her the way he had?
And yet it did.
God…she was such a cliché… She should be in Sydney, going after what she wanted. Instead here she was, hiding in the back of beyond, chasing a fairytale in an era that didn’t believe in fairytales. Where almost two out of three marriages ended in divorce.
Where happily ever afters were on the endangered list.
Annoyed at the never-ending circular train of her thoughts and her complete inertia, Eleanor forced her attention back to the recalcitrant tuck and the audiobook. But the natural light spilling in from the open wraparound veranda reminded her of Bodie’s apartment and her mind drifted to where it shouldn’t.
Again.
A short, sharp knock cut through the audio and she lifted her foot off the foot plate. A sudden eerie sensation prickled at her nape and bumped through her heart. She looked over her shoulder.
Bodie.
She blinked. Bodie Webb. In a frock coat. In the frock coat. And…breeches. And…boots.
And a black eye.
Her pulse fluttered like crazy at her wrists and temples. Had she gone mad? Had she actually conjured him up?
She dragged her gaze back to her Elna before peeking over her shoulder again. He was still there, smiling at her, turning her stomach to jelly.
It was him.
If there was any doubt that she loved him, that she’d been swayed by being pregnant and the romanticism of being a family, it completely disintegrated.
“Bodie?”
She stood as if she’d been hit by one of the farm’s cattle prods, pulling the ear buds out, blinking at him, trying to assimilate all the clashing thoughts in her head.
God…even with a black eye, he looked amazing. So tall and broad and sexy in a bloody frock coat—the frock coat from the exhibition, she’d know it anywhere—and she was in her faded jeans and a baggy T-shirt, her flyaway hair scraped back in that stupid giant plastic claw that was the ultimate in daggy.
“Hey.”
She took a step toward him, frowning at the puffy bruise beneath his eye. “Are you okay?”
He waved a dismissive hand, and she halted. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“What…” She shook her head, trying to still the pressure of words in her brain all clamouring to get out. “What are you doing here?”
His smile turned lopsided and it was as if a magnetic channel had been opened between the two of them. “You have to ask?”
She nodded.
“I’m here for you.”
He strode into the room and walked right up to her, the cut of the coat magnificent on his frame. He reached for her hand and clasped it tight. Eleanor practically swooned at his feet. He’d always been sexy but now he was dashing—the kind of dashing she’d only ever read about.
“You were right. I didn’t know you, but I do now. I know that you’re a romantic heart, that you want to be wooed and courted. That you want a romantic proposal and a grand wedding with a big dress and a guy who’ll ask your father for permission to marry you.”
Yes. She did. Or she had. All she really wanted now was to climb Bodie like a tree and never let him out of her sight. The rest just did not matter. “I don’t need it. Not anymore. I just need you.”
Bodie shook his head, his indulgent smile cupping her heart in its glow. “Yes you do. And so do I. I’ve already asked your father for his permission, which just leaves this.”
Bodie reached into an inner pocket of the coat and pulled out a small box. He sunk to one knee and Eleanor’s heart almost stopped.
“Miss Davis, I love you.” He grabbed her left hand and held it in front of him. “They’re three pretty simple words and I’m sorry—so unbelievably sorry—I screwed them up first time around, but please, please believe me, I did mean them when I said them. As I do now. I have loved you since our first night together, and I want to share the rest of my life with you.”
He opened the case, and Eleanor gasped at the ring cushioned amidst the rich burgundy velvet. It was a replica of Queen Victoria’s engagement ring. She knew that because it was featured in the header of her website, and she had a whole section on her blog devoted to her wedding jewellery.
The gold band was in the shape of a snake, which symbolized eternal love, and the head was set with a deep sparkling emerald, which had been Victoria’s birthstone.
“Bodie,” she whispered.
“I’m asking you to marry me because it would be my great honour to be your husband, but I need you to know that I’m going to court you first. For as long as you like. And I know that’s all ass-backwards, but you deserve it. If you don’t want to live together while I do that, hell, if you want to live here during our courtship, then I’ll fly back and forth. I’ll make it work. If you want to save yourself for our wedding night, I’ll make that work, too. And when we finally do get married, I want it to be the biggest and the grandest in the land.”
Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes as she stared at the ring. He’d done everything right. Everything her heart had ever desired. The declaration, the getting down on one knee, the perfect ring, asking her father’s permission.
He’d even worn a frock coat.
“Bodie.” Her chest was too tight to hold in all the love.
“Will you marry me, Miss Davis?”
“Yes,” she whispered, nodding her head, his face blurring before her as tears spilled down her cheeks. “A hundred times yes. I will marry you and court you. I love you.”
Bodie let out a long, audible breath and Eleanor laughed. “Thank God,” he murmured. “You have no idea how good that is to hear.”
Eleanor grinned at him, light as air now the tightness in her chest had evaporated. “Yes. I do.”
He took the ring out of its box and slipped it on her finger. It fit perfectly, the emerald in the snake’s head glittering in the sunny room. She stared at it. It was hardly desirable as far as modern day engagement rings went, but she was an old-fashioned girl through and through. “You couldn’t have picked anything more perfect if you’d tried.”
“It might have taken me a while to figure you out, Eleanor Davis, but I’m on your page now.”
She pulled her gaze off the ring. He was watching her like…like she was everything, and it took her breath away.
“I’m sorry I walked out. I should have stayed. I should have told you I loved you and worked through it. But I didn’t trust my feelings. I was so confused and raw and…”
“Shhh.” He pressed a finger against her lips. “It’s okay. You were right to give us time and space. It wasn’t the right time to be making declarations.”
He removed his finger then and kissed her. A brief, light brush of his mouth on hers, perfectly chaste in every way. But it jolted like electricity to all her erogenous zones. She mewed when he pulled back. “Is that it?”
He grinned. “Well, a gentleman would never presume in a lady’s private chamber.”
Eleanor grimaced. “I should have known this was going to come back to bite me.”
Bodie laughed and it was such a deep, rich noise, and she’d missed it. “I love your laugh,” she said, her finger tracing over his jaw.
“Well, plan on hearing it a lot more, because you make me very, very happy, Miss Davis.” He bent and kissed her on the mouth, gossamer light, and her eyes fluttered shut. Then his lips brushed the tip of her nose. “Miss Davis.” Then they moved to her cheek. “Miss Davis.”
Eleanor’s eyes opened with a start. “Oh my God, you watched Pride and Prejudice?”
“The Keira Knightly one as well as the BBC one.” He grinned. “And several other Austen adaptions. As well as three more of her books and quite a few Heyers. She was a bit of saucy minx, wasn’t she?”
Eleanor smiled, sliding her arms around his neck and raising herself on her tippy toes. “Speaking of saucy minxes.”
“Why, Miss Davis, this isn’t appropriate behav—”
Eleanor yanked on his neck to cut him off. “Shut up and kiss me.”
And he did. A very twenty-first century kiss. But there were advantages to living in modern times, and Eleanor planned to exploit them thoroughly.
Their happily ever after started today.
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Glossary
I’ve probably used some words in here that some readers may not know—both rugby ones and strange Aussie-isms alike. So I thought a handy dandy glossary might help. It is, of course, written entirely from my perspective so is heavily biased, female-centric, and quite possibly dodgy. It probably wouldn’t stand up to any kind of official scrutiny…
Footy—We love this term in Australia. The confusing thing for most non-Aussies is they never know which game it refers to because we have three separate but distinct codes of football in Australia:
1. Rugby League (Jarryd Hayne played this code before he went and played Gridiron).
2. Rugby union—The code the Sydney Smoke play and the one this series is based upon (Jarryd Hayne tried his hand at this code for a bit after the whole Gridiron thing didn’t work out but is now back playing League).
3. Aussie rules football—Different altogether. Tall, fit guys in really tight shorts.
There is also soccer but we don’t really think of that as football in the traditional sense here in Australia.
The confusing thing is we refer to all of them as the footy, e.g. “Wanna go to the footy, Davo?” And somehow we all seem to know which code is being referred to at any given time. Even more confusing, the ball that is used in each code is often also called the footy, e.g. “Chuck me the footy, Gazza.”
Pitch—Apparently the rugby field is called a pitch but colloquially here we just call it the footy (see, I told you we liked that term) field. A pitch is more a cricket term. No, don’t worry, I won’t ever try to explain a game that lasts five days to you…
Ruck—No, not a typo. That’s ruck with an R, ladies! Happens after a tackle as each team tries to gain possession of the ball.
Line-out—That weird thing they use to restart play where each team lines up side by side, vertical to the sideline, and one of the guys throws the ball to his team and a few of the guys from that team bodily lift one dude up to snatch the ball out of the air. It’s like rugby ballet. Minus the tutus. And usually with more blood.
Scrum—Another way to gain possession of the ball. I’m going to paraphrase several definitions I’ve read: A scrum is when two groups of opposing players pack loosely together, arms interlocked, heads down, jockeying for the ball that is fed into the scrum along the ground. It’s like a tug of war with no rope and more body contact or, as I like to call it, a great big man hug with a lot of dudes lying on top of each other at the end of it all. Very homoerotic. Win/win.
Maul—The good kind. It’s when at least three rugby players from either side—one with the ball—are in contact together to challenge possession. Yes, another man hug! Sounds positively delicious, doesn’t it?
Try—A goal. Except in rugby union we don’t say someone scored a goal, we say someone scored a try after they’ve dived for the line and a bunch of other guys have jumped on top to try and stop it from happening. Very homoerotic. Win/win. A try is worth five points.
WAGs—Wives and girlfriends. These are partners of the dudes that play rugby. Although we also use the term here in Oz to refer to partners of our cricket players. I think in the UK WAGs is also a term used for football (soccer) partners.
Akubra—An iconic Australian brand of hat worn by country guys and gals. Vaguely similar to the Stetson but I’ll probably have my nationality revoked for saying so! It has a distinctive shape that’s about as Aussie as vegemite.
Arvo—In that long tradition of shortening everything and sticking an O on the end, this is Aussie for afternoon, eg. “Hey Robbo, whatcha doin’ this arvo?”
Wank—To wank is to masturbate. Pretty much always referring to a guy. Although we embrace all terms for this biological process. Jerking/jacking/tossing off are well known, as are spanking the monkey and choking the chicken (or chook as we say here). There’s also the term wanker which is actually rarely used to describe one who wanks. We much prefer to use this as an insult for someone who is a bit of a jerk, eg. “That Johnno is a wanker.”
Boardies—Shortened (of course) from board shorts, the knee-length shorts worn to the beach by blokes, although women wear them as well.
Togs—Some Aussies call swimming suits togs. No one knows why.
Starkers—Completely, utterly, 100 percent naked.
Bum bag—Known as fanny packs in the USA. But a fanny here in Australia is a “front bottom” on a woman and none of us can keep a straight face calling them that…
Hard yakka—Yakka is work. So, any job that’s heavy or difficult or requires muscle is hard yakka. Also a rugged brand of clothing designed to survive said yakka.
Cattle station/property—A farm or a ranch where cattle (and sheep) are raised. Usually has to be a big-ass property to be considered a station. When someone’s taking a betting game too serious here, we’ll often say, “Come on, Richo, we’re not playing for sheep stations.”
Woop woop—Out in the middle of bloody nowhere. Usually where you can find most cattle stations!
Out past the black stump—another way of saying woop woop. No, nobody knows where the black stump is exactly…
Jackaroo—a station hand on farm/station/property. In other words, an Aussie cowboy. Yeehaw!
Softdrink—this is what we call a soda. Soft refers to it being non-alcoholic/wussy.
Ute—Short (just for something different) for utility vehicle. Similar to the pickup.
Fair dinkum—Slang for something that is true or genuine. “Fair dinkum, mate, that bloody cattle station out woop woop got six inches of rain last night.”
Cooee—An Aussie bush call used to attract attention. Or a way of describing how near or far something is. “I was within bloody cooee of
Bazza.” Or “I wasn’t in bloody cooee of Bazza.”
Yobbo—An uncouth individual. Or Aussie for dickhead.
Dill—an affectionate term for a fool/idiot. “Don’t mind Robbo, he’s a bit of a dill.”
Trackie daks—trackie refers to a tracksuit and daks refers to trousers. So these are tracksuit bottoms. Generally not the most sophisticated choice of clothing, usually just something to slop around the house in.
Dag/daggy—a dag actually refers to the matted wool around a sheep’s ass but we also apply it to people, usually affectionately. A person can be “a dag” which means someone who’s funny but not very hip or fashionable. And you can “look daggy” by wearing your oldest/ill fitting/ill-kept/out-of-fashion clothes (trackie daks is a classic example) and generally just not really care about how you look.
Acknowledgments
My thanks, as always, go to the team at Brazen. A hell of a lot of work goes on behind the scenes to get these fabulous books into your hands and it’s much appreciated. Special thanks to Riki Cleveland and Shayla Fereshetian and everyone in publicity and marketing and to Curtis Svehlak for being my go-to guy.
As always, to Liz Pelletier for her collaboration, her cheerleading, her faith and her editing insights. She knows when to give me free reign and when to reel me in. She “gets” me and that’s a true gift in an author/editor relationship. Extra thanks to Hannah Lindsay for her copy editing and coping with my eye wincing penis references.
Thanks to my Austen fan club women—Rachael Bailey, Jodi McAlister, and Clare Connelly—your insights were valuable. And to David Grice and Jon O’Brien, who continue to promptly answer my crazy rugby questions with head-spinning thoroughness. It’s nice to have a couple of gurus on speed dial.
About the Author
Multi-award-winning and USA Today bestselling author Amy Andrews is an Aussie who has written fifty romances, from novellas to category to single title in both the traditional and digital markets for a variety of publishers. Her first love is steamy contemporary romance that makes her readers tingle, laugh, and sigh. At the age of sixteen, she met a guy she instantly knew she was going to marry, so she just smiles when people tell her insta-love books are unrealistic because she did marry that man and, twenty-odd years later, they’re still living out their happily ever after.
