Page 81 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

His mouth twisted in something like pain. “Do you think me so unfeeling that I would of-offer you a lifetime, a shared lifetime, of cold obligation?”

“That is what I feared.” The confession slipped free, raw and honest. “I have always tried to be useful. As a daughter. As a sister. As…as a lady. And I thought—perhaps that is all this is. Another useful arrangement. Another way for me to be a problem solved, rather than a person someone wanted.” Her voice trembled. “I have never been anyone’s first choice. Not truly.”

He flinched as though she had struck him.

“Emily.” Her name left him on a breath. He reached for her hand, taking it gently in his own. “Look at me.”

She did.

“From the moment I met you, I wanted to know everything about you,” he said, the words rough but determined. “You were a miracle. To dance with you and speak with you was like a dream. I hated leaving London because I kn-knew others would see you and want to c-claim your heart, and that I would never have that chance. When you came to York, I had such hope. Every time you laughed, my heart soared. You have never been a burden to me. Not in any sense. You are the reason I want to be brave.”

She drew in a trembling breath.

“And if you tell me now that you do not w-wish to marry me, I will accept that. I will release you. I will protect your name as best I can. But do not ever think,” his voice broke as he leaned nearer, “do not ever think that you were forced upon me. I went to that garden determined to cl-claim you, selfishly, even if only with my words. I have wanted to ask for your heart since the m-moment I realized I had already given you mine.”

The tears she had been holding back spilled over.

Slowly, as though afraid of startling her, he reached into his coat and took out a smaller square of paper—scrap from his drafts, its corner filled with a small, intricate drawing in ink. A sprig of chamomile, each petal perfectly etched.

“I d-did this,” he said, voice gentling. “The night after the ball. I could not sleep. I kept seeing you with the blossoms in your hair. It seemed a p-poor substitute for having any right to keep the real thing.”

She looked from the simple drawing to his face. He held her gaze, love in his eyes. Her heart, which had been twisting in confusion and fear, settled suddenly with a sense of rightness so profound it made her light-headed.

“I want this,” she said, voice hoarse. “I want you.”

For a brief, stunned moment, hope flared so bright in his eyes she hardly dared to breathe. His hand trembled as he lifted it, hovering beside her cheek, not quite touching. “May I⁠—”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His gloved fingertips brushed her cheek with exquisite gentleness, as though she were delicate and precious. The touch was barely there, and yet it steadied her more than any firm grasp could have done.

“I love you,” he said, the words certain, each syllable careful and deliberate. “I have been a coward about admitting it. But I do. And if you will have me, not from obligation, but because you want me, then I will spend the rest of my life proving that you are my first choice. Always.”

She laughed then, the sound edged with tears. “You have put the most beautiful words on paper,” she said, lifting the letter slightly. “But this…this is what I will remember.”

He looked startled. “Even with the…” He made a small, helpless gesture near his mouth. “The st-stumbles?”

“Especially with them,” she said, fiercer than she meant to be. “You could have sent this”—she touched the letter—“and spared yourself the difficulty. Instead, you spoke the words of your heart out loud. For me.” Her throat tightened. “Lyness,” she said, tasting his name with new certainty, “I choose you too. Not because I must. Not because it is the sensible thing. Because I have not stopped thinking of you since our first dance in London.”

His eyes widened, a smile tugged at his lips. “You too?”

She nodded swiftly, her eyes tearing up and her lips curling. “One of the reasons I agreed to stay with Jack was because I knew you would be here. In York. And I wanted to see you again. But I thought I had to make a practical match, and your brother was showing interest, and I doubted if you would care for me⁠—”

“Emily,” he said again, her name a prayer.

At last she let the words escape her, giving them to him with her full heart. “I love you, Lyness.”

Something broke in his expression, a dam, perhaps, or a carefully constructed wall. Wonder flooded through, unguarded and reverent.

She did not know which of them moved first. Only that one moment she sat before where he kneeled, staring into his eyes, and the next his hand cupped her cheek more surely, and their lips met in a kiss that was sweet and utterly right.

It was not like the dramatic embraces in gothic romances, all thunder and tempest. It was a soft, trembling touch, careful and sweet. His lips were warm and hesitant, hers still salty with tears. His hand slid to the back of her head, fingers threading lightly through her hair, holding her as though he feared she might vanish.

She leaned into him, free hand laying against his chest, feeling his heart pounding against her palm. When they parted, barely an inch, their foreheads rested against one another. He was breathing as though he had run the length of the Knavesmire racecourse on foot.

“I am going to m-make a mull of this,” he murmured, a shaky smile tugging at his mouth, “if I attempt to say anything clever now.”

She smiled through the lingering dampness on her cheeks. “You do not need to say anything clever. Only stay with me. Tell me you love me as often as you like”