38. In the Grip of Love
In the Grip of Love
Though victorious against the Bittermanns, Alex, Miles, and Johan quit London the next day.
The ton murmured that Lord Sinclair, having reappeared so abruptly after such a long absence, had withdrawn to the country out of deference to the Dowager Lady Sinclair.
In truth, he had only one destination in mind.
While drawing rooms still buzzed over the Bittermanns’ fate, Alex was already bound for Kent—riding with the fixed purpose of a man determined not to make the same mistake twice.
He had tarried too long, spurred by a resolve that had sharpened with every passing day.
Once, he had let Lucinda slip through his fingers. He would not make that mistake again.
Lucinda’s departure was nearly as swift, though delayed at her father’s insistence for reasons he declined to explain.
When they finally set out, three days later, she watched the countryside unfold with satisfaction.
The ripened fields glowed beneath the late August sun, and the scent of hay and warm earth drifted through the window.
After enduring the ton’s relentless scrutiny, the open air of Kent felt like freedom itself.
The carriage creaked over the last rise, the clean countryside unspoiled by city smoke or scandal.
Admiral Harrington, seated opposite, puffed on his pipe, wholly at peace, watching his smoke waft out of the open carriage windows.
“Finally!” he said, enjoying the view. “Another week in London, and I’d have run someone through.”
“Papa,” Lucinda chided, with a trace of amusement.
“London society is composed of halfwits.”
She suppressed a smile. “You cannot dismiss the ton as halfwits.”
“Can and do,” he replied. “Mark my words, the hullabaloo they’re making will all blow over. A few months, a year at most, and no one will remember a thing.”
“That is kind of you, Papa. But a woman’s reputation, once smirched, is never truly restored.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “Any man worth his salt wouldn’t give a brass farthing for what society whispers.”
She said nothing, only resumed her contemplation of the passing fields.
She had done what was right—intervened to save Periwinkle, outwitted the Bittermanns, and braved the witness box—but society would never forgive her for the impropriety.
Worse still, she could never ask Alex to share in her disgrace.
It would be better for him to find a bride untouched by scandal.
The admiral exhaled a plume of smoke. “Incidentally, we’re pausing briefly before we reach home.”
Lucinda turned. “A pause?”
He smiled vaguely, his eyes twinkling beneath thick brows. “A stop at Jackson’s Barn.”
“Papa, why?” she asked warily.
“I have a mind to see it, that’s all.”
The carriage slowed, then halted. The footman opened the door, and the Admiral descended first, offering his hand to his daughter.
Lucinda hesitated before taking it, stepping onto the sun-warmed grass.
Before them, Jackson’s Barn stood in the late afternoon light, its wooden beams burnished honey-gold with age.
A figure emerged from within—Alex.
He was all careless elegance, his shirt and waistcoat lending him an air of rakish informality. His dark curls were tousled by the warm August breeze, his blue eyes steady and intent as he stepped forward.
Her throat tightened. She turned to her father, who, to her astonishment, was grinning. “You knew he would be here?”
“Indeed, I did. And I suggest you hear the man out before you bolt back into the carriage.”
“Thank you, Admiral. I’ll escort Lucinda home a little later.”
“Right, you are, Sinclair. See you in a bit, pet.” Sir John kissed his daughter’s forehead and climbed back into his carriage.
Alex extended a hand. “Come inside, Lu.”
Something in his voice—soft, coaxing—made her obey. The barn was just as she remembered: the scent of hay, the beams smoothed by time, the quiet hush of an old refuge. She had not been here in years.
Alex leaned against the door frame, gazing at her as she stared around at the familiar space. “Don’t, I implore you, start looking for sugarplum sticks. I won’t be so gullible a second time.”
At the conjured memory, they shared a smile.
“The flavor’s in the bite,” she teased, rolling her eyes.
“You do remember!”
“I remember a barrage of curses and an impossible patient.”
“Yes, well, taking me by surprise how you did—that could not be helped.” He stared, admiring her somber beauty.
“You made quite the impression, that stormy afternoon. I recently had a dream about that rescue, you know. I was in Brussels, and the lightning was overhead, just as it had been that afternoon we sheltered here. It was so real and vivid—how you cared for my arm, I felt transported back in time. And when I came out of it, I realized something.”
“That your broken arm will always ache when it’s stormy?” She tried to sound flippant, but her facade was melting under his intense stare.
“No,” he said quietly, “it was my heart that ached, reliving the memory. I realized that I loved you. That I will love you, always.”
She swallowed against the emotions tightening her throat. “Alex, I—”
He took her hands in his. “I love you, Lucinda. Your courage, your kindness, your maddening stubbornness. Whatever you believe about your reputation, know this: I want no one else. I never have. I never will.”
“You’re so changed, Alex.” Lucinda looked doubtfully into his eyes. “For the better, I mean.”
“And you,” he countered, “are just the same.”
Lucinda did not take this as the compliment it was. “No,” she said. “I’m not.” Her fingers trembled against his. “Alex, after everything—the whispers, the scandal—I am ruined.”
He laughed softly. “Are you? Because I could have sworn I was standing before the most brilliant woman in England. The one who bested Lilith Bittermann, who saved Periwinkle, who has owned my heart since she pelted me with snowballs at eight years old. If that is ruin, I embrace it.”
A lump formed in her throat. “You truly mean it?”
“With everything I am. Marry me, my darling, Lulu.”
She saw his gaze flicker downward—to her mouth, just for a second. Silence stretched between them. Then, his voice steady, he asked again, “Lucinda, will you marry me?”
Sensing her struggle, Alex continued with a soft, earnest plea.
“Can you forgive me for taking so long to realize your worth? For my disgraceful behavior on your seventeenth birthday? For staying away like a coward for two years? Will you see past my foolishness and see the man that now loves you, completely and without reservation?”
A teasing glint lit her eyes. “But what if I say yes and lead you into more misadventures?” She blinked, her fingers tightening against his. “What if I say yes, and you tire of my escapades?”
“I shall count myself lucky, for I never wanted a quiet life. I love every childhood memory I have with you in it, from climbing trees to our secret hideouts. And I should like to spend the rest of my days rescuing you from misadventures if it means being by your side.”
A laugh escaped her, perilously close to a sob. And just like that, the fear, the doubt, the hesitance melted away. “I have only ever desired to be permanently by your side, Alex. Yes, I will marry you.”
A luminous smile broke across Alex’s countenance as he drew her close.
“I don’t deserve this second chance at your love.
” They lingered together in an embrace, the balmy summer breeze twisting about them.
At length, Alex withdrew to look at her.
“I love you, my darling Lulu,” he avowed, his gaze locked onto hers.
“And I love you,” she replied, her eyes shimmering. “Forever and always.”
His lips found hers, not in the reckless, beer-scented blunder of his first proposal, but with the careful reverence of a man who feared he might shatter something precious.
He kissed her tentatively, unselfishly, as though uncertain of his welcome—until her fingers curled at his nape.
A breath of laughter escaped him, and he gathered her close, the kiss deepening into something unguarded, wholly theirs.
Strolling homeward, Alex and Lucinda took their time, as if they had been granted an eternity. Nearing the Sinclair Mansion, they stole kisses in the shadowed arches of the Italian garden, whispering old confidences along the gravel path.
“Aha!” A satisfied voice, thick with a Dutch accent, rang out.
They paused in their ambling, though neither sprang apart. A few feet away stood Johan, arms folded, an insufferable smirk upon his lips.
“ Yah , I thought so,” Johan said, rocking back on his heels like a self-satisfied cat.
Alex beamed. “Johan, meet the future Lady Sinclair. This vision of loveliness has accepted my romantic proposal.”
Johan’s brows shot upward. “Romantic? Was it not in a barn? Pfah! A barn is for cows, not declarations of love.” He made a theatrical shudder. “ Mein Gott , the romance of it! Next you’ll tell me you knelt in the hay. A man of your means might at least have sprung for chandeliers and a violinist.”
“You wound me,” Alex protested, clutching his chest. “That barn is hallowed ground to us now.”
Johan waved a dismissive hand, his usual sardonic self.
“If she accepted you amidst the scent of livestock and old hay, it speaks either to remarkable affection or questionable judgment.” Then, quite suddenly, his brusque manner softened.
He stepped forward and took Lucinda’s hands in his own, his voice dropping to unexpected tenderness: “My dear girl, nothing could give me greater joy. To see two such hearts united…” He trailed off, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.
Lucinda stared, utterly unprepared for this transformation from teasing cynic to sentimental friend. The sudden warmth in his pale eyes was most disconcerting.
“That is very kind of you, Count,” she glared at him in wonder.