Chapter Fifteen #3
“My affections are no longer under my control. I cherish you with a force that defies reason and scorns propriety. It is a devotion that utterly unmans me.”
"Martin…"
"I am not finished." His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone.
"I adore the way you argue with me and the way you laugh at me.
I worship the way your eyes light up when you are about to say something cutting.
I cherish that you wrote letters to me for six years and never once lost hope, even when you had every reason to. "
"I lost hope many times."
"But you kept writing. That is what matters.
" He pressed his forehead to hers. "I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.
I want you to know that. Whatever comes…
whatever challenges we face…I will never stop trying to be worthy of the woman who threw a cushion at my head and changed my life forever. "
She was crying now…soft, silent tears that slipped down her cheeks despite her best efforts to contain them.
"You are going to ruin my reputation," she whispered. "Dukes are not supposed to be this romantic."
"I am redefining expectations." He kissed away a tear from her cheek. "Besides, I have a reputation to rehabilitate. What better way than excessive devotion to my wife?"
"I am not your wife yet."
"A technicality I intend to remedy as quickly as possible." He pulled back slightly, reaching into his coat pocket. "Which reminds me…I believe I promised you a proper proposal. With a ring and candlelight and all the romantic trappings."
Vanessa's breath caught. "Martin…"
"This is not the most romantic setting, I admit.
We are hiding behind a curtain while your mother's guests consume alarming quantities of champagne.
But I find I cannot wait another moment.
" He withdrew a small velvet box from his pocket.
"I have carried this with me all day, waiting for the right moment.
I suspect there is no such thing as the right moment, there is only the moment you choose to take. "
He opened the box.
Inside, nestled against dark velvet, was a ring. It was not the ostentatious display she might have expected from a duke, no massive diamonds or elaborate settings. Instead, it was elegant and understated: a deep green emerald surrounded by small diamonds, set in delicate gold filigree.
"It was my grandmother's," Martin said softly. "She was, by all accounts, a formidable woman. Sharp-tongued, quick-witted, utterly unimpressed by rank or fortune. My grandfather used to say she was the only person who ever told him the truth." He met her eyes. "She would have liked you, I think."
"Martin…"
"Vanessa Wayworth." He took her hand in his, his grip warm and steady.
"I have held you in the highest esteem you in silence for six years.
I have adored you through arguments and dances and countless small moments you probably do not even remember.
I have cherished you when I thought I had no right to, and when I thought you could never return those feelings. "
"I always returned my sentiments for you.”
"I know that now. And I intend to spend the rest of my life making up for the years we lost." He raised her hand to his lips.
"Will you do me the honours of becoming my wife?
Will you argue with me and challenge me and throw cushions at my head when I am being insufferable?
Will you let me cherish and worship you, openly and completely, for as long as we both shall live? "
The tears were flowing freely now. She did not bother to wipe them away.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I will become your wife. Yes to all of it."
His face transformed showing his immense relief and joy and something that looked almost like disbelief, as though he had not quite allowed himself to believe she would say yes until the word left her lips.
He let out a long sigh. "I was beginning to worry I had ruined the moment with excessive verbosity."
She laughed."You were perfect."
"I was terrified." He slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly, as though it had been made for her. "There. Now it is official. You are mine, and I am yours, and nothing in this world can change that."
She looked down at the ring and the emerald that caught the light, at the delicate filigree that wrapped around her finger like a promise. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
It was real.
“You have captured my heart…I cannot fathom my life without you.”
"Then do not try." He pulled her into his arms, holding her close. "Cherish me forever and allow me to cherish you back. Let us never, ever waste another moment in silence or fear or the belief that we do not deserve each other."
"That sounds like a reasonable plan."
"I thought so." He tilted her chin up, his eyes dark with emotion. "Now, I believe there is a tradition associated with this moment. Something about sealing the betrothal with a kiss?"
"Is there? I had not heard."
"Oh, yes. Very ancient. Very important." His lips curved. "Shall I demonstrate?"
"If you insist."
He kissed her.
It was not like the desperate, hungry kiss on the terrace.
This was softer, slower, a promise rather than a confession.
His hands cradled her face as though she were something precious, something infinitely valuable.
She melted into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, her heart so full she thought it might burst.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing unsteadily.
"We should return to the party," Vanessa said. "People will notice we are missing."
"Let them notice." Martin pressed another kiss to her forehead. "I have waited six years to hold you. They can wait a few more minutes."
"My mother will send a search party."
"Your mother is currently holding court with half the aristocracy. She will not notice our absence for at least another quarter hour." He tucked her against his side, his arm wrapped around her waist. "Besides, I rather like this moment. Just the two of us, hidden away from the world."
"We cannot hide forever."
"No. But we can hide for a little while longer." He rested his chin on the top of her head. "Tell me something. Now that we are betrothed and you are contractually obligated to tolerate me, what was your favourite letter? The one you were most embarrassed for me to read?"
"I am not answering that."
"Come now. Fair is fair. I have confessed all my secrets. It is your turn."
"You have not confessed all your secrets. You have confessed one secret, which is that you read my letters. That is hardly equivalent."
"It felt like all my secrets at the time." He pulled back to look at her, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Very well. I shall guess. Was it the letter about my shoulders?"
"No."
"The one where you described my smile in rather excessive detail?"
"No."
"The one where you…"
"It was the one about the Worthington ball," she said quickly, her cheeks flaming. "Where I…where I described what I wanted to do after the supper waltz. In... considerable detail."
Martin's eyebrows rose. "Ah. Yes. I remember that one."
"I was half-asleep when I wrote it. I had consumed far too much champagne, and I was not thinking clearly, and…"
"You were very creative."
"Please stop."
"I am merely complimenting your imagination." His grin was wicked. "I had no idea you had such a thorough understanding of…"
"If you finish that sentence, I will throw something considerably harder than a cushion at your head."
"Noted." But his eyes were warm, fond. "For what it is worth, I found that letter... illuminating. And not at all unwelcome."
"I despise you."
"You adore me."
"Those two things are not mutually exclusive."
He laughed a full, delighted laugh that made her heart sing despite her embarrassment.
"Come," he said, offering her his arm. "Let us return to the party before your mother does indeed send a search party. I believe we have a betrothal to celebrate."
She took his arm. "And after the celebration?"
"After the celebration, we begin planning our future." He covered her hand with his. "A wedding to arrange. A life to build. A thousand arguments to have and a thousand more to resolve."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It sounds perfect." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "It sounds like exactly what I want."
They stepped out from behind the curtain, into the light and noise of the drawing room. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Lady Wayworth spotted them from across the room and let out a small shriek of excitement.
"There you are! We have been looking everywhere!
" She descended upon them with alarming speed.
"Vanessa, your hair is mussed. Were you…
never mind, I do not want to know. Lord Montehood, you must come speak to Lord Haberton.
He has questions about the wedding venue, and I cannot be expected to answer everything myself. "
"Of course, Lady Wayworth." Martin caught Vanessa's eye, his expression long-suffering but amused. "Duty calls."
"Go," she said. "I will survive without you for a few minutes."
"I doubt that very much." But he released her hand and allowed himself to be swept away by her mother's relentless enthusiasm.
Vanessa watched him go, her heart full.
Six years. Six years of silence and longing and desperate, hopeless affection. Six years of letters never meant to be sent and feelings never meant to be spoken.
And now—this. A ring on her finger. A future spread out before her. A man who treasured her exactly as she was, who had read her most embarrassing confessions and still wanted her nonetheless.
Helena appeared at her elbow, a glass of champagne in each hand.
"You look happy," she observed, handing Vanessa one of the glasses.
"I am happy." Vanessa took a sip, watching Martin navigate her mother's interrogation with admirable grace. "Deliriously, impossibly, terrifyingly happy."