He squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you felt it, too. And it all combines to this feeling…” He waved a hand in front of his heart. “I know this sounds daft. But it feels like this, likewe, are meant to be. I’ll be honest, I’ve never considered marrying before.” He looked at her then, and his eyes were intense. “But that’s only because I hadn’t met you.”
It was the most wonderful moment of her life.Toowonderful, in fact, to believe it was real. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, and she wanted to cast her accounts simultaneously, in equal measure.
But the thing about Rosalie was that when she erred, it was never for lack of daring. Given the choice between taking an audacious risk that might turn out to be a disaster and stayinghome and playing it safe, she chose the disaster, every single time.
This was no exception. She was going to take the risk.
She was going to choose the disaster that was Lucian Deverell.
He was still speaking. “What can I say to convince you that I am sincere? I’ll do anything. I’ll swear on my grandfather’s grave, or?—”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Lucian’s eyes sharpened. “Yes? Is that a yes, I should swear on my grandfather’s grave? Or a?—”
“Yes,” Rosalie said more firmly, “I will marry you.”
It took a moment for her words to register, but then, a smile blossomed across his face. If Rosalie had thought him handsome before, it was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the combination of his fine features with an expression of incandescent happiness.
He hauled her into his arms and pulled her close. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered into her hair. He lifted his head so he could give her a crooked smile. “Maybe you’re not as clever as I supposed if you’re taking a chance on a bad apple like me.”
She laughed. “Goodness knows I have any number of flaws. But I’ve never been a coward. And with you…” She waved a hand, struggling to explain. “You’re the only man I’ve ever met where I honestly believe there’s a chance I could be happy. That’s worth the risk, I think.”
He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “You won’t be sorry. I promise, you won’t.” He grinned. “I’m so excited! I never thought I would feel excited about the prospect of getting married. But this… butus…” He kissed her again. “We’re going to be happy, Rosalie. I know we are. How do you feel about Stratford-upon-Avon?”
“Stratford-upon-Avon?” she asked, startled.
“That’s where the living is,” he said quickly. “Will you mind?”
“Not at all,” she answered honestly. The thought of exchanging London, with its vapid social whirl, for a charming riverside town with ties to Shakespeare was appealing indeed. “I daresay Stratford-upon-Avon will suit me just fine.”
“Good. Good!” He looked almost boyish in his enthusiasm. “I’ll call upon your father tomorrow. When can I see you again?”
“Mama is dragging me to the dressmaker’s tomorrow, so there is a possibility that I might be out when you call on Papa. But I’ll be at Mrs. Bloomfield’s ball in the evening.”
“I’ll find you there.” He kissed her, deeply but briefly. “You’d best head back before we’re discovered.Again. I’ll wait ten minutes, then follow.”
She made a show of looking him up and down. “When did you become such a stickler for propriety?”
His eyes gleamed. “I’m saving all of my wickedness for our wedding night.”
It was her turn to kiss him then. She lingered over it, nibbling on his bottom lip before lifting her head. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
She could hear his laughter behind her as she hurried back toward the house.
Chapter Fourteen
The following day, Rosalie was a wreck with anxiety. She knew her mother would disapprove of a match between her and Lucian, but she thought that her father might give his consent if he understood that Rosalie wanted it. She therefore needed to speak to her father alone.
An opportunity did not present itself after the ball, and although Rosalie rose at dawn, Stephens informed her that the duke had already departed. He was currently negotiating the terms of the Appropriation Act, which was coming up for a vote, and hoped to catch certain Members of Parliament at their favored coffee houses. Rosalie spent the morning skulking about the foyer, but Papa did not return before Mama declared it to be time to head for the dressmaker’s.
Attending a fitting was always a tedious task, but it seemed doubly so when Rosalie’s nerves were frayed to threads. She could not even feign interest in whether her new ball gown was to be of mauve crepe or cerulean taffeta.
When Rosalie agreed to the dressmaker’s suggestion for a new riding habit without even glancing at the suggested fabric, her mother intervened. “We absolutely will not be gettinganything in such a lurid shade of orange, as it clashes with my daughter’s hair. As you ought to know.” The duchess turned toward her daughter, narrowing her eyes. “What is the matter with you this morning, Rosalie?”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Rosalie said halfheartedly.
“Hmph.” Her mother’s expression suggested that she doubted the sincerity of Rosalie’s apology. “Perhaps I should choose the designs for your gowns.”
