He covered her hand with his, then turned his head and, lids lowering, pressed a kiss to her palm. “And you haven’t mistaken this?”
“No.” As he looked back at her, she caught his eyes. “I love you. Even had you not spoken—even had I departed still alone—I would still love you. I will until I die.”
His slow smile, the one she’d realized was always genuine, curved his lips. His hazel eyes seemed to brighten. “Good. That’s only fair. Because I love you, Constance mine, and will until the stars collide and the earth is no more.”
She laughed—more joyous and carefree than she could remember being since childhood. Then she shook her head at him. “I can’t think of words to trump that.”
“Never mind.” He shifted onto his back, lifted a muscled arm over her head, and tucked her against his side. “We can keep a running tab. We’ll have years to continue the competition before we need to tally it.”
She chuckled, spread one hand on his chest, and settled her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
Alaric sighed. Contentment of a degree he’d never known before slid through him. Along with the realization that she was his perfect mate—his counterpart, the lady who made him whole and complete—and that she would be with him forevermore.
“I’m thirty-seven. I never expected to find love.” He didn’t know where the words came from; the depth of his contentment had, apparently, loosed the reins on his tongue. “I never truly believed in it, not even as a concept. Moving through the ton as I did, I saw too much to place any faith in what is commonly held to be love. The few genuine cases I stumbled across—like the Adairs—I viewed as aberrations, the exceptions that proved the rule.” He paused, then said, “You have to admit that the Adairs as a couple are singularly unconventional.”
“Yes and no—it depends on your perspective.” Constance tapped his chest. “But go on—you were saying…”
“That being thirty-seven—and you’ve met Monty, so you’ll understand the necessity—I’d accepted that I needed to find a bride. Over the last weeks, while organizing everything in preparation for making an offer, I’ve been trying to define what sort of lady would be the ideal wife for me.” He paused, then said, “Don’t laugh, but I’d concluded that the right sort of wife for me would be a sweet, gentle, and compliant lady. Then I met Glynis. After I spoke with her, I realized she would have fitted the bill I’d drawn up, but that she or any like her would, in short order, bore me to tears. On Monday night, after I left Mandeville Hall and returned here to my cold bed, I discovered that I had absolutely no idea what criteria I should look for in my perfect wife.”
He waited, but she neither moved nor spoke; knowing she couldn’t see, he allowed his lips to curve. “Then I met you, and I knew. I didn’t need to cudgel my brains further. And despite my past skepticism, once Cupid struck, I—like you—discovered that I couldn’t deny what I feel. Not just what it is, but that it’s so much more than simply afeeling.”
After a second, she said, “Love is a connection.”
“Yes. Just that. I felt it the first time I laid eyes on you—even over Glynis’s dead body with you all but accusing me of having killed her.”
“I know. I felt it, too. It was as if a link clicked into place, and thereafter, whenever anything at all happened, the very first thought to pop into my head was what you would think of it.”
He tightened his arms around her, gently squeezing, and dropped a kiss on her curls. “Sharing. Love is sharing.”
“And partnership—like the Adairs, but scripted for us. Working together.”
“Learning of each other and exploring life together.”
“Trusting.” Constance knew she’d finally put her finger on what was, for her, the most vital aspect. She turned in Alaric’s strong arms and raised her head to look into his eyes. “Love is trusting implicitly and never fearing to be betrayed.”
His hazel eyes held hers. “Love is belonging, heart and soul, to the other. You are my other half, and as long as we live, no power on earth will set us asunder.”
Constance read that truth—that vow—in his eyes, then stretched up and set her lips to his.
They sealed their troth—pledged their future and their lives—in a kiss that came from the depths of their souls.
* * *
Alaric and Constance would have happily spent the following day entirely at the manor, putting the necessary arrangements in place for the announcement of their betrothal and for the wedding they were determined would follow soon after.
But both had unstated commitments at Mandeville Hall, and neither was the sort to let such matters slide.
In midmorning, they walked back through the woods. They walked around the Hall, passing the entrance to the shrubbery with a single long glance.
The front door stood wide, and when they stepped into the front hall, they found it abuzz with maids and footmen running this way and that, and a faintly harassed-looking Carnaby directing the gathering and sorting of the guests’ luggage.
Luckily, there were no guests hovering to see Constance arrive in the same gown she’d worn the previous evening.
Alaric met her eyes. “I’ll find Percy and see how he’s faring. And I need to speak with Monty as well.”
She arched a brow. “To tell him our news?”
Alaric smiled and inclined his head. “That and other things.”
