Amanda McCabe (27 page)

Rosalind hoped she was not listening at the keyhole. She smiled a bit at the image of her elegant friend kneeling on the floor, straining to spy on them, as she stood and held her hands out to Michael.

He was certainly every bit as handsome as he always was, with his dark hair tousled by the wind and an emerald twinkling from the folds of his mint green cravat. Yet there was an agitation about him, a nervous energy that fairly crackled in the air around him. He took her hands tightly in his, but did not raise them to his lips. They just stood there in the middle of the room, hands clasped, like figures in a
tableau vivant.

Rosalind herself felt oddly unable to move, or talk, or even breathe. She had rehearsed so carefully in her mind what she wanted to say when this moment came. That was gone now; she remembered not a syllable. She saw only him. He alone filled all her mind.

What would the rule be?
she asked herself. She had no idea. She could scarcely even remember what a
rule
was.

“Is that true? Would you enjoy a—chat with me?” he asked thickly.

“I—well, yes, I suppose. I did hope you might call at some point today.”

“I wanted to come at the break of daylight! Oh, Rosie, there were so many things I wanted to say to you. I could have written an epic! Now I find that I must begin with this—I apologize.”

Rosalind opened her mouth, all set to answer him—and she tripped over her tongue. That was
not
the question she was about to reply to! “You apologize? Michael, whatever for? Are you…” A chill settled an icy grasp around her heart. “Are you withdrawing your offer to me?”

“What!” His clasp tightened convulsively. “Never, Rosie. You shall not escape from me as easily as that. I saw my father this morning, and he told me something so abominable, so evil, I could not credit it even from him.”

“Did he tell you about the man he paid to follow me?”

“Yes. But how did you know?” Michael’s face darkened. “Did the bast—the earl come here? Did he threaten you?”

Rosalind laughed. “No, indeed! In fact, Georgina drew a sword on the poor hired spy and threatened to, er, ‘spit him like a wild boar.’ Your father was obviously too cheap to pay for a true master spy, because the man acknowledged the whole scheme to us at once.” She laughed again, at the memory of his terrified expression when Georgina brandished her blade.

Michael laughed, too, though it was decidedly bitter. “And you were not angry at all?”

“Of course I was angry. No one likes to be followed about, and for him to involve Georgina and her family was truly infuriating. Yet it helped me to see something even more clearly.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

Rosalind smiled up at him. “That I love you and want to spend my life with you. That you could become the man you are—so openhearted, and kind, and funny—after growing up with such a father is nothing less than a wonder.”

Michael threw back his head and laughed, and this time there was no trace of bitterness. There was only a pure, crystalline joy. “Say it again!” he demanded.

Rosalind giggled. “What part?”

“The part where you said you love me.”

“I love you! I adore you. And I will marry you, before you come to your senses and see what a poor choice you have made.”

“I have made the best choice, for I am marrying the most beautiful woman in England, and the most clever and the bravest.” Michael sat down on the nearest chair and pulled her onto his lap.

Once she would have been truly appalled. This was a most blatant violation of the rules! A lady should never behave like a tavern maid, especially not in a ducal drawing room. Now she giggled like a schoolgirl, and twined her arms about his neck. “The bravest?”

“Most ladies after meeting my father would run the other way,” he answered, nuzzling a kiss against her throat. “Not you, my redheaded Valkyrie. My beautiful defender.”

“Then it would seem we are well and truly betrothed,” Rosalind said, with a happy sigh. All her doubts, her old weaknesses, were fallen away. This was the right thing to do—this was her future.

Michael took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. He turned it over—and paused. “If we are truly betrothed, my Rosie, then where is your ring? Never say my father’s spy stole it from you!”

“Of course not.” Rosalind reached up into the tight long sleeve of her gown and pulled out the ring. She placed it in his hand. “It is silly, but I just wanted you to put it on my finger again, now that there is no doubt about either of our feelings.”

He grinned at her. “Very well. Mrs. Rosalind Chase, will you marry me?”

“Viscount Morley, I will.”

Michael slid the ring back onto her finger, where it dazzled in the sunlight from the tall windows. He lifted her hand and kissed it lingeringly, moving his lips over her fingers. “You are truly mine now.”

Rosalind leaned her cheek against the silk of his hair. “As you are mine?”

He stared up at her intently. “I am always and forever yours, Rosie. When will you marry me? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow!”

“I am sure I could procure a special license. Perhaps the Waylands would let us have the wedding here?”

Rosalind was quite sure Georgina would be delighted to have the wedding here, and would immediately launch into arrangements. It was a good thing Georgina’s taste was so excellent, for Rosalind’s own head was spinning far too much to think of licenses and flowers and cake. “It is all so sudden…”

“Or we could make a dash for Gretna Green! Anything you want, Rosie. Anything—if you will only marry me. But I know you have arrangements you’ll need to make.”

“So I do. I have already written to Miss James, one of my teachers. She is a very competent young lady, and I am sure she will be able to look after the Seminary for the next term. I only have to let Allen know, so he can be here for the wedding.”

“Next week, then,” Michael said eagerly. “And not a day later! We will wed here, and then I am taking you to Italy.”

Rosalind gasped. “Italy!”

“I trust there are no objections? If there is someplace else you would rather go…”

“Oh, no. I have always dreamed of seeing Italy. Georgina says that Venice is the most romantic place in the world. It is so full of history, so warm and sunny.”

“So far from my father.”

“Indeed. Another great advantage of Italy. I have no objections at all. Perhaps Violet would care to join us? Travel can be so educational.”

“You
are
an extraordinary lady, my Rosie. Not many women would want their sister-in-law along on their wedding trip.”

“Violet is a dear. I cannot see that she would give us any trouble, unless she falls in love with some dark-eyed Italian. And Italy
is
very far from your father. I am sure it would vex him greatly to have us all so far out of his reach.”

Michael gave a whoop of laughter, and kissed her again and again. And yet again, longer and sweeter. “You
are
a sly one. In fact, I am sure such deviousness must be against the rules,” he murmured, when he at last raised his lips from hers.

Rosalind leaned back against his shoulder and sighed happily. “Ah, but my darling Michael, I have discovered that there is really only one rule that should never be broken.”

He nuzzled her cheek, blowing lightly on the loose curls at her temple. “And what rule is that?”

“The rule of true love, of course.”