He took a small breath because he wasn't in the habit of apologizing. "One of the reasons I'm here," he added, "is to offer atonement for everything and anything I may have done to hurt you. There's no excuse, but I want you to know I'm deeply sorry."
"And?"
Another small breath. "You're not making this easy."
"Like our meeting at Green Abbey. As I recall, you didn't respond at all to my pleas."
"I did to some of them."
Her smile was tight. "But then, that's automatic with you, isn't it-the sex I'm talking about the part that requires empathy for another human being, I'm talking about you leaving me on the curb that morning with a casual good-bye. I'm talking about you not contacting me, not letting me know if you were alive, letting weeks go by without a word." Her voice sharpened. "You didn't care that I suffered for weeks… thinking the worst, thinking you were dead. But then, you never did care, did you?" she tartly declared. "So, you see, I'm not really in the mood to make anything easy for you. In fact, I'd take pleasure in having you-"
"Do you have something else you could put on?" His voice was constrained.
She snorted, disbelief flaring in her eyes. "You can't be serious." Her gaze raked him. "I'm raising holy hell, taking wrathful issue with your behavior and my frustrations, and you're getting a hard-on?"
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "But, Christ, you're practically naked in that damp, undersized robe-and looking incredible, as usual."
"And you've forgotten what you intended to say because your brains are in your cock."
He hadn't, of course, the ring burning into his rib cage. He'd only hoped to put her into a better mood first.
Obviously-that was a failure.
"I went to Higham to ask you to marry me," he brusquely said, because his unnatural, conciliatory pose had collapsed at her tart comment about the position of his brains. "And when I discovered you'd taken off with your bodyguards, one of whom the village of Higham considers your very special beau," he jibed, "I figured fuck it and fuck you and fuck all women in general. I was on my way back to Wight when I saw your-sweetheart, Joe, outside."
"He's not my sweetheart." The phrase marry me was ringing in her ears, the loud reverberation capable of drowning out a devil's chorus of resentments.
"It's damned hard to tell." He was sulky, aroused and sulky, or sulky because he was roused to no damned purpose.
"Well, now you know," she calmly said, "and there's a better robe in that satchel if you want to throw it to me."
He looked at her. Her tone had changed, and she was regarding him with a faint smile.
"Why don't you come and get it," he murmured, instinctively recognizing female goodwill.
"The robe?"
"The robe… and the ring… and me and my thousand apologies." He paused and smiled. "And all my love too."
"You're sure now."
He nodded. "I don't know what my mother wrote, but it's all true."
"A lady might like to have such a message personalized." Her gaze slowly drifted down his body and then up again, coming to rest on his eyes. "You look like you're old enough to speak for yourself."
"I'm very wet." An unconscious evasion perhaps, after so many years of avoiding the words. Nervously rocking on the balls of his feet, his boots squished.
"Does that affect your voice?"
Motionless now, he chuckled. "No… and not my cock either."
She smiled. "How fortunate on both counts."
"Will you marry me?"
She cupped her ear, tipped her head slightly forward. "Isn't there usually some flowery preface to a proposal?" she queried. "Something poetic that has to do with mountains and rivers and endless time?"
"I love you like a fast river running through a mountain valley forever."
She laughed. "I'm sorry I asked."
"I really do love you, Izzy," he softly returned, "and I will as long as mountains exist and rivers run. Every day seemed endless without you, every night empty without you, every breath I took useless without you. Marry me-please?"
"Only if you promise to never fight another duel." Her voice went very quiet. "I couldn't live through that again."
He blew out a breath and gazed at her. "Ask something else. There's always going to be some young Turk wanting to test his luck. I can't promise you that."
"Then we'll have to stay in the country, far away from all the young Turks."
"A pleasant solution." His brows rose. "Are you saying yes?"
She nodded.
"Isn't there usually some flowery response to a marriage proposal?" he teasingly mocked. "Something having to do with gratitude and devotion?"
"I know you're grateful I'm willing to marry you and you'll be eternally devoted to me."
He chuckled. "That's it."
"How nice that we agree."
"How nice to look forward to living again," he whispered. "And I am sorry for everything."
"I know." She moved toward him, leaving wet footprints on the floor, and when he took her in his arms, he softly said, "I'm going to make you happy."
"I know…" she repeated, twining her arms around his neck. "And speaking of happiness," she murmured…
EPILOGUE
THE LOVERS WERE MARRIED a week later in the Tavora House chapel so Isabella's grandpapa could see her married-in spirit at least. And the dowager Countess of Bathurst joined Molly-Mrs. Peabody that day-Isabella's employees, and a select number of the ton in celebrating the joyful nuptials.
The Leslie relatives found themselves thwarted in their plans, not only by the marriage but by the birth nine months later of a son and heir to the earl and his countess-followed in quick succession by two additional children. And during the course of their marriage, the earl faithfully kept his promise to make his bride happy and in the process found the blessed joy and contentment that had so long eluded him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUSAN JOHNSON, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds.
Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into the complicated machinery of the mind.
But perhaps most important… writing stories is fun.
