Authors: Jo Ann Ferguson
Rhyme and Reason (29 page)
“Yes.” Miriam’s chin rose again as she walked with Mr. Simpkins into the outer room. “But not here. In Town with a big wedding so all our friends might come.”
Emily rolled her eyes.
Damon’s chuckle warned he had not missed her reaction. “Such a wedding is not cheap.”
“I will explain that to her once we are back in Town.”
“Are you in a big hurry to return to London? I thought we might stop at Wentworth Hall for a few days.”
She smiled. “An excellent idea. That will give us some time to come up with a way to explain all this.”
“And time for a honeymoon.”
“Yes, and—” She gasped as she saw his broadening smile. “A honeymoon? Whose?”
“Ours.”
“You want to marry me?”
He pulled her to him, ignoring the chuckle from the bald-headed man in black who still stood by the hearth. Kissing her fiercely, he murmured, “Tell me you will marry me, Emily.”
“No, I cannot,” she choked as she pulled away.
“Why not?” He pointed to the man who was watching them with a smile. “We need only to speak our vows before this gentleman. Or do you wish a grand wedding, too?”
“It is not that.”
“Then what is it?” All humor left his voice. “I thought you loved me as I love you, Emily.”
Pain seared her. “I am not what you think.”
“I think you are lovely and loving and spirited and intriguing. I know you write silly poetry as Marquis de la Cour. Is there more I should know before you share my name and my life?”
When Emily looked past him, the bald man closed his book and left them alone. Damon scowled and took a step toward the door to recall the man. She put her hand on his arm. “Do not cause a scene, Damon. No matter what you do, I shall not marry you.”
“I deserve, at least, an explanation.” When she started to speak, he added, “An honest explanation.”
“I will not marry you because I love you.”
He laughed gently and took her hands in his. “But marrying is what people in love do. Is that not what you write in your poems? ‘Be my love and spend every day with me/Be my love and share every drop of moonlight with me/Be my love and let eternity flow around us, unseen and untouched by time.’” He grimaced. “I hate that poem more than any of the others, which may be why I cannot get it dislodged from my mind.” He brushed her lips with his. “Nor can I dislodge you from my mind and heart, but that is because I love you.”
“Damon—”
“The truth, Emily. No more hiding behind a frog poet.”
“The truth,” she whispered. “As you know, my father, like yours, spent time in America. There he married.”
“So you have told me. That explains nothing.”
She swallowed her tears as he tipped her chin up. She could not avoid his gaze or the truth. “My mother was what they call a
métis
, for her father was French and her mother an Ojibwa. An Indian.”
“Yet your father wed her,” Damon said softly as his finger slipped along her cheek.
“He loved her with a heart that cared nothing for anything but the love within it.”
“As I love you.”
She started to smile, then turned away. “Damon, this is not America. I saw what happened when we lived in Boston. What was accepted there reluctantly would be reviled here. You could ruin your family by making me a part of it.”
Gently he took her by the shoulders and brought her to face him. “So, because of this, you have given up your life while you oversaw your father’s house and launched your sister? Is that the real reason you began writing your drivel about a love you were sure you never would have for yourself?”
“Mayhap.”
“My dearest Emily, do you think
I
care about the whims of the Polite World?” His hands encircled her face as he whispered, “I ask you this again, my love. Marry me.”
“Damon, I—”
He claimed her lips as he pulled her to him. When he stripped her breath from her with his fevered kiss, her heart’s demand to belong to him resounded through her. He lifted his mouth from hers only far enough so he could say, “Marry me. Let us show the
ton
that we care nothing for their opinions.”
“Yes,” she whispered, unable to fight both him and her heart. “If you want me as your wife, I want to be your wife.”
Emily stood by the window and looked at the topiary garden of Wentworth Hall, which was redesigned by the moonlight. As she rested her hands on her chin and propped her elbows on the deep sill, she could see the glories that Damon had spoken of. Someday they would be reality, but, for now, her imagination brought the dream to life.
Warm lips teased the back of her neck, and she was spun into Damon’s arms. His cravat had been tossed along with his collar onto the dresser by the high bed in the chamber belonging to the master and mistress of Wentworth Hall.
“Welcome home, Lady Wentworth,” he whispered.
“I cannot believe we are married.” She clasped her hands behind his nape. “I thought we never could be more than friends.”
“We can still be friends. The dearest of friends.” He laughed as he bent to tease the pulse at the curve of her throat. “I suppose you think I should have gotten down on one knee to propose as prettily as Simpkins did.”
“I never would expect the usual from you.”
He drew her to the larger window which overlooked the bridge leading to the village. Flinging it open, he said, “You should know that no one there will be surprised to learn that the viscount has taken a wife.”
“No?”
He put a penny in her hand and smiled. “I was not quite honest with you, my love.”
“Really? That is no surprise.”
He laughed. “I failed to tell you tradition states the viscount’s wife should pay the quit rent on the bridge to Wentworth Hall.”
Emily gasped, “Even then you wished to marry me?”
“I have wanted you as mine from the moment I first saw you lamenting about your father’s condition in your foyer.”
With a sigh, she said, “There still is the problem of Papa.”
“’Tis no problem.” Cupping her elbows, he drew her into the warmth of his arms. “Emily, I can promise you that your publisher hopes you will pen more of your poems in the years to come. Your royalties can pay your father’s gambling debts while my profits shall help with the completion of the topiary garden and restoration here at Wentworth Hall.”
Laughing, she asked, “Is
that
why you married me, my lord? So you could share in the profits of my talent?”
“Talent!” He snorted gracelessly. “That drivel? The maidenly dreams of a young woman who has never savored the ecstasy of love?” His smile returned as he whispered, “Dear wife, I believe, after tonight, your poetry is due for a change of style.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1998 by Jo Ann Ferguson
Cover design by Neil Alexander Heacox
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0905-8
Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
