Louisa, beside her, nudged gently. “You’re looking for him.”
“I am not.” Alexandra folded her arms tightly, but her eyes flicked toward the path despite herself, betraying her.
“Then why do your eyes keep wandering toward the garden path?”
Alexandra hesitated, a flicker of longing coiling low in her stomach. Was she hoping to see him walk around the bend, hat in hand, ready to undo her resolve with one look? Or was she afraid that if he did come, she would not have the strength to walk away?
Alexandra opened her mouth to respond but paused.
Music drifted from a small quartet.
And then she saw him. Magnus stood framed by late-spring blossoms, sunlight catching in his dark hair, posture easy but eyes locked on her like she was the only person who mattered. Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the world slowed—the distant clink of china, the murmuring guests, even the music all faded into a hush. Time condensed into that single glance.
Magnus stood near a flowering arbor, dressed not to impress but simply, perfectly. He caught her gaze and smiled—not a smirk, not a tease, but something reverent.
Louisa whispered, “Oh dear.”
A tingling awareness skimming across Alexandra’s skin. “That is the look of a man about to do something reckless.”
And indeed, it was.
For Magnus crossed the lawn without hesitation, without faltering.
And in front of half the ton, he went down on one knee.
Gasps echoed.
Alexandra froze.
He looked up at her, eyes solemn.
“I do not offer you safety or predictability,” he said. “I offer you storms. Passion. A love forged in honesty and fire. I offer you every ounce of my heart.”
A hush fell.
Alexandra stared at him, every defense she’d ever built crumbling beneath the weight of his words. In a rush, her mind flickered back to the oak tree—the rain soaking her gown, his hand on her cheek, the kiss that had unraveled everything. That moment had felt like surrender, like a beginning disguised as a mistake. And now, in front of everyone, he was offering her the rest of the story.
Then she laughed. It bubbled out of her before she could stop it—a release of nerves, disbelief, and something dangerously close to joy. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if trying to contain the emotion spilling from her chest. For all her protests and stubborn refusals, something inside her had already begun to say yes.
“You utter fool,” she said, her voice thick with affection and something she wasn’t quite ready to name.
“Is that a yes?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a tentative smile.
“It’s a maybe. You’ll have to prove yourself.”
He stood, took her hand, and kissed her knuckles.
“Challenge accepted.” He brought her hand briefly to his chest, his gaze steady and filled with promise.
And the ton, ever hungry for scandal and romance, burst into applause.
Somewhere in the crowd, Arthur Cavendish wiped away a tear.
“This is the kind of love poets die for,” he whispered.
James rolled his eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Chapter 6
