“Well, I don’t see what else we would do,” he retorted. “You may think you don’t want to marry me, but I insist on it.”
“Against my will?”
“Would you truly choose to turn me down?” He unfolded her hands, taking them in both of his and breathing on them. “Perhaps I will not be an easy husband, but I can promise one thing.” He sank to one knee, even in the snow. “Before you and you alone, I will kneel and offer you all that I am. My heart is yours, Pigeon. It always has been. So marry me. Humble me. Remind me what a lucky fool I have been to be privileged with your friendship. Allow me a chance to be better. I’m ill-practised at it, I’ll confess, but I love you as I never thought it possible for a man to love a woman. Marry me, Evie. Let me live out the rest of my days with you.”
Her breath caught in her lungs. Disbelief warred with hope, and her hand trembled in his. “I thought you were going to propose to Lady Rosamund. You—”
“I am a fool,” he said bluntly. “But about this, at least, I’m certain. I have ended the understanding between Lady Rosamund and myself. There is only one woman I ever intend to propose to, and she has yet to return an answer.”
“I—” She felt as though she must be dreaming. “What if I may never have children?”
“Then so be it.”
“How can you say that?” she demanded, half laughing, half crying. “When you have to marry for an heir.”
“I have siblings galore. There is someone to inherit the dukedom when I pass it on. I would rather a life with the woman I love than an empty life with someone I care nothing for.” He linked his fingers through hers. “Marry me, Evelyn Davenport. Marry me. Love me, if you can, but at least marry me.”
“Charles.” Her nose stung, and cold air slicked down her neck. All her senses told her this was real, but she found herself doubting every single one. Charles, Marquess of Rotherham, future Duke of Norfolk, wanted to marry her.Her. Evelyn Davenport, heir to nothing and no one, a lady whose hair was silver and whose prospects were limited. A lady whose friends she could count on one hand—who preferred reading by the fire to ballrooms.
“Evelyn,” he returned, eyes dancing now. “Evelyn, my sweet and lovely, tell me you will marry me. If you refuse me for a third time, my heart will never recover.”
“I only refused you the once,” she protested. “And you were drunk.”
“Idistinctlyremember you telling me under no circumstances to offer for you—after I had insisted that I marry you in exchange for your ruination.” He put a hand on his heart. “Instead, you ruined me.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. Now put me out of my misery and tell me you will marry me. My knees are getting cold.”
She tugged at his hand. He rose readily, head bent down to hers, and she curled her hands around his neck. “If you want me—if you truly want me—then of course I’ll marry you.”
He kissed her properly then, his mouth opening hers, his tongue hot against her own. She clung to him in case joy made her float away. The ache in her chest, the pain she had carried since news of his marriage and the knowledge that her love for him was terminal, dissolved into something that felt terrifyingly like happiness.
His mouth moved to her cheeks. “I love you,” he said, kissing away her tears, a smile in his voice. “So stop crying.”
“I don’t know why I am,” she said, mystified. “I’m happy.”
“Good. But you really must stop crying, my darling, or everyone will think I forced you into it.”
She jerked back, staring up at him. “Oh heavens. Who is everyone?”
“Oh, just a few souls. And, of course, Reverend Walters.”
“What?”
He grinned wickedly. “I have a marriage license in my pocket. I’ve waited twenty years for you, Pidge. I’m in no mind to wait any longer.”
Chapter Fifteen
Charles had known it was a risk to arrange a wedding on the same day that he proposed to his childhood love. So great a risk, in fact, that it had taken him quite some time to convince his mother to go along with his plan.
“And what if she says no?” she had asked.
“Then I will not marry her.”
“And the reverend?”
“Can stay to dinner.”
