Chapter 18 #3
Sebastian enters as I turn the page, and he dispatches the footman on an errand that will not be easy to complete.
Then he closes the door, strides across the room, takes me into his arms, and kisses me with little respect for either the broadsheet or its intrepid reporter who sat through three performances of Tartuffe.
It is a long kiss, a wild kiss, a kiss unbecoming the breakfast room or the footman’s errand or Vera Hyde-Clare’s daughter, and I begin to perceive that sometimes a ring is the most gorgeous, glorious, stunning, exhilarating, humbling, beautiful proxy in the entire world.
Thrilled by the knowledge, I pull back and murmur, “I will only be a moment.”
Then I walk sedately to the door, casting a flirtatious glance back as I step into the corridor, and run at breakneck speed to my room to fetch the necessary items. Taking them in hand, I dash back to the breakfast room, pause to regain my breath, and return as though nothing peculiar has happened.
Appearing to continue the previous conversation, I thank him for the display of affection.
“It was most gratifying,” I say with practiced dignity as I press pen to paper to make my list.
Sebastian takes my theatrics in stride, displaying not a hint of curiosity or confusion as he says with straightforward simplicity, “I love you, Flora.”
Does the hand holding the pen turn to jelly?
Of course it does!
It is a protestation of love from a kind and handsome man for whom I have developed a tendre.
I am not made of stone.
Indeed, I am made of the opposite of stone.
All mush and treacle.
Determinedly, I persevere, my fingers tightening on the implement as I continue to write, and I reply, “I love you too, Sebastian.”
It is a first—the first—and my beloved responds with all sorts of delightful nonsense, tugging me into his arms for another devastating kiss.
Oh, it is perfect.
Will everything always be this perfect?
I cannot wait to find out.
But first my schedule.
Breathing quite heavily, I pull away. “No, no, you must let me finish.”
Intrigued, he glances at the sheet of paper on the table, compelling me to hide it with my arm and chastise him for his impatience.
“That is not impatience,” he says huskily, tightening his arms around me before lowering his mouth again. “This is impatience.”
At the touch of his lips, all thoughts scatter from my brain.
How does he do that so easily?
It is a struggle, but I manage to regain enough self-control to jot down a few more times, and then I hand him the slip. He does not even glance at it, preferring to stare at me with his lush green eyes clouded with passion.
The look makes me tremble, which is lovely, but I am trying to do A Thing, and he is ruining it with his besottedness.
With a flutter of my lashes, I gesture to the sheet in his hand.
It does nothing!
He is too smitten to look away.
“Ahem,” I say pointedly.
As he is not entirely lost to reason, he perceives my meaning and consents to a fleeting glimpse. Then he immediately returns his attention to me.
“No, you must read it,” I say insistently. “It does not work if you do not read it.”
Now he is bewildered, which is all his fault.
If only he had shown proper interest when I handed him the document!
Sebastian examines the information I have arranged in nice, neat columns, then places the sheet on the table, seemingly uninterested in the contents.
“You are supposed to ask me what it is,” I say with exasperation.
Allowing a tolerant smile, he replies, “It is a schedule. I can see that because it has dates and times on it.”
Vexing creature!
“You are supposed to ask me what it is a schedule of,” I say, then pause for several seconds to allow him to comply, which he does not do, forcing me to say ahem yet again.
“Beg pardon,” he replies, making no effort to suppress his laughter despite the sternness with which I regard him. “Please, dearest, darling Flora, tell me what that is a schedule of before I expire from curiosity.”
I take the high road and answer smoothly as befits my dignity. “My father’s availability over the next two days,” I announce, though it is not strictly true. The itinerary is more of a prop than an actual representation of Papa’s plans.
But it is just strange enough to confound Sebastian, who draws his brows together and says without an air of comprehension, “All right.”
Graciously, I explain that should he like to make an offer to my parents first, he will know where to find them. “It is a necessary precaution, I think, as you made your declaration of love to them, not to me,” I say with remarkable calm.
And it is remarkable, because I am in effect proposing to him.
It is as outré as a young lady may be, short of appearing in her petticoat in Hyde Park.
He does not seem to grasp the import of the moment or the high courageousness of my actions, and instead points out that applying for permission from one’s legal guardian is the commonly accepted practice. “It is called asking for your hand, and I have already done it.”
I goggle.
The scoundrel, trying to steal a march on me!
But it is also the most monumental thing that has ever happened to anyone.
(Do not doubt it: I can be thrilled and riled at the same time—it requires no effort at all!)
Defending my ground, I exclaim, “I proposed first!”
Obviously, I want credit for my daring.
“All right,” Sebastian says agreeably.
But it is hollow. “No, no, you are humoring me.”
He grins at the accusation and tugs me toward him until I am sitting on his lap.
I blush.
So much for my daring.
“I really did propose first,” I insist a little breathlessly.
“Do you want to argue?” he asks, linking his fingers through mine. “Or do you want to enjoy the benefits of the newly betrothed? I know which I prefer but am eager to defer to your wishes.”
He is so close and so warm and so handsome in the morning light streaming in through the window, and my answer is not so much an answer as a prayer as I tighten my grip on his fingers and lean in for the kiss, and in seconds I am dizzy with passion and joy.
That is precisely how all great adventures must begin.