She glanced down at the ground. “All I can say is that, for a village girl who was thrust into the gilded world of the London aristocracy, I was enchanted by it all.” She dared to look at him. He hadn’t moved from where he was, but at least he hadn’t gone inside and dismissed her pleas either. Emary took that as a positive sign. “I was charmed by the gentlemen and their endless compliments, and I enjoyed outwitting the other debutantes. I suppose it became a game of sorts, but please believe that I never meant to hurt you. I never imagined that…” Her throat closed up, so she shook her head and held out the leather satchel. “I brought something for you.” Tears pricked the backs of her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. “It’s my story, but I fear it’s not quite finished. I was actually hoping you could help me with the ending. You see, my vicar is about to become married, but his fiancé betrayed him, used him quite ill actually. He has to decide whether to show up at the altar, or send her back home in disgrace.”
At long last, the duke slowly moved toward her. He accepted her offering, his turbulent eyes searching her face, but said nothing. Emary swallowed down the raw emotion clawing its way up her throat and turned toward the carriage, unable to take anymore, but a hand on her arm caused her to pause.
She closed her eyes, waiting.
Donovan’s breathing was harsh when he said, “It takes two to err, Miss Pageant. The truth is—” He gently turned her around to face him. As he lifted her chin, she opened her eyes. “—you have nothing to be sorry for. Something in your eyes captured my soul from the very first moment I saw you. I allowed myself to be captured. And were I to have the choice, I wouldn’t change anything, because I want to be with you.”
Emary’s pulse leapt. “Are you sure? Because—”
“You talk too damned much,” Donovan nearly growled, right before he kissed her. Time was endless as he held her close to him, their mouths fusing, their bodies melting into one. When they parted, as her body was tingling with renewed hope, Emary decided it was time to enact Plan B.
With a tentative smile, she grasped his hand and bent down on one knee. Looking up at him, she said, “I would ask that you consider marrying me in truth. Will you, Donovan Wainwright, Duke of Windwood, make me the happiest woman in England and consent to be my groom?”
His amused laughter rang out and lit her up from within. He bent down and joined her on the ground, reaching out and touching one of the curls that was visible from beneath her bonnet. “I thought this sort of proposal was only allowed on leap year.”
She shrugged, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “I never was very conventional.”
His eyes shone with mirth as he tugged on her hand, catching her off balance and straight into his waiting arms. “You can say that again. And thank God for it.” He brought his mouth down on hers yet again, and Emary felt it all the way to her toes, warming her blood with renewed anticipation. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, his breathing labored.
Emary sighed softly. “Does that mean yes?”
He nibbled her mouth and murmured, “Yes, you maddening woman, I humbly accept your proposal, even if you may come to regret it someday.”
Emary’s chest bloomed with elation as she reached out and traced a gentle finger down Donovan’s scar. “Never,” she whispered. “Whatever storm may brew on the horizon, we will face it together.” Finally, the words that she’d long held back tumbled forth. “I love you.”
He instantly cupped her face in his hands, his blue eyes intent and filled with an emotion that she couldn’t name, but one that made her heart soar even higher. “My dear, sweet Emary, I never thought it was possible to feel love, but you’ve opened my eyes to the prospect of true happiness. Letting you go would have been the greatest mistake of my life, but it wasn’t until you stepped out of that carriage just now that I realized just how important you are to me. I love you to the point of madness. You are the air that I breathe, the blood in my veins, and the reason my heart has started beating again. Rest assured, there is no one else on earth that I’d rather share my life with.”
Emary was crying at this point, but it wasn’t due to sadness.
It was pure joy.
Chapter 10
Christmas Eve
One week later
“You look beautiful, Emary.”
Emary turned at the sound of her mother’s voice, followed by some rather suspicious sniffles. She instantly closed the distance between them and put her arms around her. “Don’t cry, Mama. Today is my wedding day. It’s supposed to be a celebration.”
“Of course, it is,” Lady Armenton agreed. “But you’re still my daughter even if you are about to become a wife and a duchess.” She wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief. “And I meant what I said. You are a truly beautiful bride.”
Emary glanced down at her cream silk gown, embroidered about the hem with greenery and holly berries. The design was actually her husband-to-be’s idea, for he’d remarked that it was fitting for the occasion, as she would be the only present he’d look forward to unwrapping this night. Her face had instantly heated several degrees — as did certain other areas of her body.
A knock at her chamber door interrupted Emary’s musings. Althea walked inside and curtsied. “The duke’s carriage has arrived.”
Emary put a hand to her stomach where hundreds of butterflies were fluttering madly, but she let her mother guide her downstairs, the long veil of her matching satin bonnet flowing behind her. Her father was waiting in the foyer to escort her down the aisle once they arrived at St. Paul’s, and he looked regal in his formal black and white attire.
He smiled broadly at Emary. “Didn’t I tell you that you had snagged a duke?” He teased, bending down to kiss her cheek. “You look lovely, my dear. Windwood is a lucky man.”
Emary beamed with his praise, and took his arm as he escorted her into the carriage. She heard bells somewhere in the city proclaim the hour of ten o’clock in the morning. While they weren’t a great distance from the church, she didn’t want to be fashionably late for her own wedding. But no matter how long it took them to arrive, she was confident that Donovan would be waiting for her at journey’s end.
After Windwood had accepted her proposal, she had returned to London with a warm, fuzzy feeling in her chest. The moment she’d walked in the front door, she had reassured her anxious parents — who had found her hastily scribbled note about where she’d gone — that the wedding would be taking place as planned.
The next day, Donovan returned to town and called on her with her manuscript in hand. They had sat down in the drawing room and he’d handed her the satchel, his blue eyes warming as he regarded her. “This was quite an enchanting story, Miss Pageant. I think you might truly win our wager.”
“I don’t care about that anymore,” she’d said honestly. She’d reached out and took his hand in hers. “I have everything I want right here. Besides,” she’d shrugged. “I told you that I don’t know how it ends.”
“I disagree,” he’d countered, reaching out to bring her hand to his lips for a sensuous kiss, his blue eyes nearly glowing with promise. “I think you know exactly what happens next.”
Considerable warmth flooded her cheeks. “I can’t possibly write that into a novel.”
“Why not?” he’d urged with a mischievous grin. “I can only imagine it would sell rather well.”
She’d merely rolled her eyes at him. “You’re a wicked man.”
But that evening, Emary mulled over what Windwood had said. So she’d returned to her desk and scribbled furiously long into the night. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning by the time she’d finished, but she sat back and grinned at what she’d written.
Who would have thought that two simple words — The End — would hold so much exhilaration!
After a few hours of sleep, Emary had woken bright and early the next morning, dressed in her light blue velvet gown, and her fur-lined sapphire blue cloak and walked down to the first publishing house she’d come across. After being forced to cool her heels for nearly an hour, Emary had walked into the editor’s office with purpose and set her finished manuscript on his desk. “I wish to publish this story by Saturday.”
The man’s bushy, gray sideburns and heavy jowls had shook as he’d laughed. “You’re mad! Leave my office this instant!”
She had been prepared for his reaction of course, so she’d took a small purse from her reticule, the pin money she’d been saving for some time, and plopped it on the desk. “This should expedite the process and make it well worth your time.”
While the jingling of coins had gained his attention, he was still unconvinced, especially after he read the scandalous title and understood that she wished for it to be printed under her name and not a pseudonym. “Why…this is unheard of! A woman doesn’t write these kinds of stories! It will never sell.”
