The Language of Flowers

by Christy Carlyle

For the third time in as many minutes Violet Taylor reminded herself that she had not accepted the invitation to Milly Wilcox’s garden party in the hope of seeing him. She didn’t even know for certain he would attend. It was true that he was nearly a member of the Wilcox family due to his longtime friendship with Milly’s brother. But that made no odds. He was a taciturn man whose behavior was unpredictable on the best of days.

With no thought to his attendance, she had come because Milly invited her, and it was the perfect opportunity to renew their friendship. Though, as she thought on it more, they had never truly developed a deep and meaningful friendship. Their families moved in different circles. Indeed, the Wilcoxes were the kind of family her mother called “the right sort.” The Taylors, on the other hand, were a few crucial steps behind. But that had never bothered Violet. It kept the penurious men away and allowed her a modicum of freedom to do as she pleased. Unfortunately, it also kept the quite well to do men away, and even one who was simply the best friend of a wealthy Wilcox.

He would certainly not attend a garden party. They were too spritely and colorful for such a dour, mirthless man. Of course, he would not have to spend time admiring the Wilcox’s flowers on this afternoon as the April weather had turned rainy and cool. The drawing room curtains were open so that the handful of guests could admire the gardens, but the glass obscured their colors, running them together like watercolor paints under a too damp brush.

He liked the rain, but disliked gardens. He adored the Wilcoxes, but loathed social gatherings that involved more than a couple guests. No, he would most definitely not attend. Indeed, if he did plan to attend, he was now unfashionably late. But it would be just like him to behave abominably.

“He’s here!” A chill trickled down Violet’s back as if she’d been stripped bare in a cool breeze. Her fingers gripped the delicate handle of her teacup so fiercely that she reached out to put it down before crushing the painted porcelain into dust. Watching her hand as she set the cup down, trying to steady it, she noticed that the dainty thing was painted with purple flowers. Were they violets? Not with those ruffles. Purple carnations. How apropos. They stood for capriciousness, whimsy, unreliability. Just like the man who was going to walk through the Wilcox’s drawing room door any moment.

Milly had taken her hand and leaned in close to whisper. “This is precisely why I invited you, Violet.” 

“Yes,” Violet heard herself speak but did not know how she had formed the word. Her mind was busy, racing through every memory of him: every tender moment, every sweet word spoken, and every tear shed. Milly tugged at her hand, scattering memories. The poor girl was beside herself.

“Oh, Violet, I needed you here in case he came. I cannot believe he accepted my invitation. Violet, what should I say to him? I simply have no notion what to say.” In the face of Milly’s high-pitched giddiness, the haze of memory continued to fade and Violet considered the young woman’s words. She could not mean him. He was a frequent, almost constant guest of the Wilcoxes. His presence might set her world off kilter but it would not be cause for Milly’s rapture.

The Wilcox’s elderly butler appeared, silent as a wraith, at Milly’s side. “Miss Wilcox, Lord Greville has arrived.”

The man himself followed the announcement, striding into the room as if he meant to plant a flag and claim it for England. “Do forgive me, Miss Wilcox. I am unforgivably late.” The assembled guests could not take their eyes off of him and his presence was such that it encompassed the entire room. Thomas, Lord Greville, was not only the handsomest man in the county, but also one of the wealthiest. He would be forgiven anything. In two giant strides, he stood before Milly and gallantly took up her hand to brush a kiss along her knuckles. Violet felt the girl’s shiver through her glove, where Milly still clung to her.

As Greville turned away to greet the other guests, Milly found her voice and rasped out a plea. “Violet, please go and fetch Will. He and Edmund are in the billiards room. Do tell them they must put down their silly game and make Thomas...Lord Greville, that is, feel welcome.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to shiver. He was here. Edmund Carrick. The most appealing and maddening man of her acquaintance. The man who’d held her heart, her very future, in his hands. Until he’d changed his mind. Without a word, an explanation, or even an excuse, their courtship had ended. But the questions in Violet’s mind never ceased. They all began with why or what if, and she never found satisfactory answers. Only he had the answers. And now she’d been tasked with fetching him like a nanny chasing after an errant schoolboy.

Violet wasn’t even certain where to find the billiard room. How long had it been since she’d last visited the Wilcoxes? As she exited the drawing room as inconspicuously as possible, she guessed that the faithful butler, Higgins, would surely appear and send her in the right direction. The dining room snagged her attention as she passed. Two maids and a footman circled the table, placing gleaming plates and sparkling crystal just so. They spied her and finished quickly, leaving the room to her in all its glory. Spring flowers spilled from silver bowls and a grand chandelier lit every surface with an amber glow. Even the name cards at each place setting were gilded around the edges. She couldn’t resist looking down the row for Edmund’s card. That’s when she saw it.

A single sprig of flowers lay on one of the plates. Forget-me-nots. Tiny, perfect five-petaled blooms stared up at her with their bright yellow center eyes. They were a stunning blue, as bright as a robin’s egg and lighter than periwinkle. She stepped closer and read her own name on the card in a looping, elaborate hand. Who would leave flowers on her plate? And not just any flowers. These flowers represented true love and constancy. Her pulse began to flutter and she felt suddenly breathless, as if she’d run all the way across the heath. Edmund? Could Edmund have left these flowers as a declaration?

“Miss Taylor, you’ve found my offering.” Violet jumped at the sound of Lord Greville’s smooth, deep voice. She turned, her skirts brushing against his legs. He stood shockingly near.

“Lord Greville. I...” Her voice came out as a squeak, laced with as much panic as Milly’s had been just moments before.

Greville grinned down at her with the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. “I missed my mark, Miss Taylor. You see, I meant to leave those on Miss Wilcox’s plate, but that butler of theirs is quite too efficient. He swept me into the drawing room before I knew what I was about.”

He reached around her and took up the pretty blooms, moving them to a plate near the head of the table. “There. My deed is done. Do keep my secret for now, Miss Taylor. Will you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Based on his status, Violet could deny him very little, but his blue eyes, a deeper shade of forget-me-not blue, were persuasive in their own right. Good for Milly. Now, if only the girl could manage a few coherent words to the man.

Just as Greville took her hand to drop a perfunctory kiss of gratitude, another voice rang through the dining room. Deeper than Greville’s, with a distinctive rasp and a complete absence of Greville’s easy joviality, it was a voice Violet could never mistake.

“Greville. Welcome. Tom will be along soon.” The man hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, the intervening months had brought more character to his face. His dark hair was longer, but it suited him. And for a man of such height and bulk, Violet couldn’t help but notice Edmund Carrick’s grace of movement. Nor could she stifle a tiny gasp as he moved toward her. Though he had spoken to Lord Greville, his eyes were on her, boring into her, looking beyond her plain chestnut hair and pale green eyes, into her essence. She had always felt that he, more than anyone she had ever known, saw her, Violet, for who she truly was. Who she wished to be.

He cut her off, positioning himself so that he faced Greville and was neatly situated between them. “Miss Wilcox must be missing your company in the drawing room.” He paused as if expecting Greville to jump at his command. “I will escort Miss Taylor back. We are old friends.” Old friends! Violet’s mouth fell open and she snapped it shut, stifling the urge to let out a very unladylike scream.

The moment Greville strode from the room, Edmund turned to face her. Before she could speak a word of her hurt, her anger, or her many questions, he cut her off. “I have missed you, Violet.” Instantly warm syrup filled her veins and she opened her mouth to speak words of affection that had been bottled up with her pain. He reached his hand up to touch her cheek and she turned her head slightly, pressing against his warmth, relishing his familiar scent. Then, ever changeable, he snatched his hand away. Her cheek burned where he had touched her.

“What on earth were you doing exchanging flowers with Greville?” His voice was as angry as she’d ever heard it and possessive, as he had no right to be.

“We weren’t exchanging flowers.” Her tone was meant to be dismissive, but she heard it waver and felt the sting of tears she’d stifled too long. “I thought they were from you!” She shouted the final word and the release felt glorious.

He moved closer and looked toward the door, as if he feared they would be overheard. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that their brown depths were tender. “Why did you think they were from me, Violet?” His voice had lost all trace of anger.

He reached for her again and she moved away from him. “I have no idea. It was a silly notion considering what they symbolize.” All the anger of his abandonment began to simmer, threatening to bubble over into words she could never take back.

“Symbolize? What do they symbolize?” She watched his eyes as he turned to glimpse the lovely cluster of forget-me-nots. “I would guess their name tells the meaning.”

“Yes. They mean ‘stay true to me’ and ‘don’t forget me.’”

“I could never forget you, Violet.” His deep voice was soft now, seductive. But she would not give in.

“They also symbolize constancy. So you can see why I was foolish to think them from you.” She expected him to wince or retort in anger. She was certain her arrow would sting. Instead he moved closer, his voice still low.

“What flower would you have me give you, Violet?”

“I am long past wishing for posies from you, Mr. Carrick.” If she called him Edmund, she would break. She would melt into him and lose herself again. Her anger protected her like armor, and she could not let it slip.

“Come, my lady, you know the language of flowers. Tell me what flower I should give you to say...” He paused just when she needed him to continue. “To tell you what you must already know, Miss Taylor. I am a fool.”

Violet’s throat burned with unspoken words, all of them flooding to get out, but he gave her no time to speak. Instead, he stepped forward and clasped her hand, his long, firm fingers curving into her palm. He tugged and she followed. They crossed the room and he opened the French doors along the wall. Like the drawing room, the dining room looked out onto the Wilcox’s expansive gardens.

The rain had stopped but the grass and every shrub and flower was drenched from the day’s showers. The air smelled rain-scrubbed fresh and even in the waning afternoon light, the array of colors was breathtaking.

He left her standing on the low balcony beyond the French doors and made his way into the garden. When he was knee-deep in blooms, he called back to her. “Which one, Miss Taylor? Which would you have me give you?”

The other guests in the drawing room must have heard his call as Violet saw the window slide open out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the voice of Tom, Milly’s brother, as he shouted to his friend. “Give her a rose, Carrick. All ladies love roses.”

Edmund shot her a questioning glance. “No,” she answered. She did not want a rose. Based on its color, the meaning might be lost, and the only bud visible this early was a bright pink. A rose that shade symbolized passion and desire. She wanted more than that from Edmund Carrick.

He moved onto a lovely jonquil, it’s sunny trumpet bowed by the rain. Its message was “return my affection,” but her affection for Edmund was never in question. She shook her head and he moved away, nearly tripping over a clump of poppies. Their papery petals had been battered by the rain, but a few had recovered, the bold red cup of their bloom revealing only a glimpse of their silky black center. He leaned down toward one of the tall, brazen poppies, but Violet stopped him again. Red poppies were beautiful and exotic, but they symbolized only pleasure. She wished for pleasure with Edmund, certainly, but still more.

He began to move further into the garden and nearly overlooked a neat row of graceful tulips in a variety of colors. They had held up well in the rain and stood tall, like little sentries guarding a sharply trimmed hedge of boxwood. She called out to him. “Wait. There. The tulips.” She saw his mouth shift in a momentary grin, his full lips broadening across his handsome face.

            He reached down for a yellow one and then picked another. He stood as if to return to her and she stopped him. “One of the red, too, Mr. Carrick.” Though the Wilcox’s gardener would probably be appalled at Edmund’s raid on his fine work, the assembled guests seemed to take great pleasure in the spectacle he was making. Violet glimpsed Milly leaning out the drawing room window and the girl shot her a knowing smile.

      

      In a moment he was before her, holding out the vibrant red and yellow tulips as an offering. “Now you must tell me what they mean, Miss Taylor. I hope they mean forgiveness. Perhaps even a second chance to put things right.”
      Violet reached for the tulips, but he would not release them. Instead he covered her hand with his own. “Will you forgive me, Violet?” His voice was so lovely, deep and strong. It rumbled through her, though he spoke softly. She felt his warm breath skittering across her cheeks and realized she was breathing as heavily as he.

            She swallowed hard, sifting the sentiments bursting the seams of her heart. “The yellow tulip symbolizes hopeless love. That is what I have been since last we met. Quite hopeless.” A hot tear slid from the corner of her eye, but she could not stop the words she needed to say. “The red tulip stands for undying love. That is what I feel for you, Edmund.” On a broken whisper, she finally said, “And what I wish from you in return.”

            When he pulled her into his arms, it was an intoxicating relief. Like lead weights, the pain, anger, and hopelessness fell away and the love she’d always felt for him could lift its head once again, as vibrant and strong as the tulips she held in her grasp. She fit with him, against him, as if his body was fashioned with spaces only she could fill.

            He pulled away enough to look down at her, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “You are named after a flower, my darling Violet. Tell me what a violet symbolizes.”

            Violet took a long breath and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of the rain-soaked garden and the fresh cut tulips, imprinting the moment on her mind and heart. When she opened her eyes, she saw all that she hoped for and needed reflected back in his own dark eyes.

            “Faithfulness.” She spoke the word quietly, reverently.

            His jaw tensed and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Then he lowered his head, his lips just inches above hers. “I should have known.” The words had barely left his mouth before he pressed his lips to hers. Her whole body reacted, tautening like a tightly drawn bow, but he gave her only a taste before pulling back. “Will you still have me, Violet? Will you be my wife?” Her eyes widened at his words and he added, “We have wasted enough time, Miss Taylor.”

            Violet pulled back and offered him the red and yellow tulips. With her eyes and the wide smile on her face, she echoed their message: hopeless and undying love.

Christy Carlyle on Facebook

The language of flowers was a means of communication, particularly popular in the Victorian-era, by which individuals sent coded messages to share secret feelings or express what could not be spoken.

Lord Pennington's Proposal

by Christy Carlyle

     

London, 1867

            Lord Jonathan Pennington had always considered himself a patient man, but as he sat listening to the steady drone of Arthur Lanham, he began to reconsider. Perhaps impatience was the better choice. In this instance at least, brevity was certainly preferable. He cut the man off just as Lanham took a breath to begin another sentence.

            “Yes, of course, Lanham.” He had no idea what he had agreed to, but it seemed to satisfy the man and, more importantly, silence him. “Do let us get to the matter at hand.”

            Lanham smiled at that, and Jack noticed that his lips were inordinately wide. It made him look hungry. Voracious even.

            “Isabella,” Lanham said, still smiling.

            Jack hated the way Lanham said her name. His tongue stuck on the s, and he hissed a moment before continuing on to the other syllables. Like a snake—a voracious snake. Jack leaned forward in his chair, the buttons on his brocade vest clicking against the edge of his desk, and stared directly into Lanham’s pale blue eyes. “Miss Danvers, if you please.”

The man’s overfamiliar way of addressing Jack’s ward would most definitely count against him. Jack dipped his pen into his inkwell and scratched far too familiar onto the piece of paper in front of him.

Lanham leaned over as if to read Jack’s writing.

“Are you compiling notes about me, old man?”

It was Jack’s turn to smile, but it was a gesture that held no warmth, no true mirth. His every impulse told him to turn the young upstart out on his ear and forbid him from ever calling on Isabella again. But he had done that with the five other men who had asked for her hand in marriage over the years, and he could no longer shirk his responsibility. Though she was beyond the age when any young woman should require a guardian, her dear, foolish father had insisted Bella’s guardian remain her caretaker until she wed. The late Harold Danvers could never have imagined his daughter would remain unmarried at four and twenty.

“I am a busy man, Lanham. I take notes on virtually everything. Helps me sort out what’s what. I have two estates to run and a ward to marry off. Too much for a man to remember without the aid of paper and ink.”

“Well, I am more than happy to take Isa—, er, Miss Danvers off of your hands.”

            The smile was back on Lanham’s face, broad and gleaming. The very sight of it made Jack’s stomach churn and he took up his pen again. He wrote Unpleasant smile and underlined the words before settling back in his well-worn desk chair and giving Lanham his full attention.

            “You make her sound like a pony I wish to be shot of. I have known Miss Danvers since we were children, Mr. Lanham. I will not give my approval lightly, and she is quite discerning. Tell me, what do you find to admire in my ward?”

            “Pardon?” The man looked truly befuddled, but not enough for Jack to feel an ounce of sympathy.

            “Why do you want to marry her, man?” Jack knew that Bella’s dowry made her an appealing catch for most bachelors of her acquaintance, though it was, thankfully, not great enough to attract fortune hunters. Yet he was determined to secure her a betrothal based on true admiration. He couldn’t bear the thought of her wed to a man who did not appreciate her many fine qualities, especially her sharp mind and even sharper wit.

            Lanham cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. Jack clasped his hands in front of him and waited—impatiently.

            “Well, she is a very fine-looking lady. Isn’t she, my lord?”

Good God, did the man truly need confirmation of Isabella’s beauty? She was a vision, truth be told. Jack always found pleasure in looking at her, yet it was only one of her many fine qualities, and the one she least concerned herself with. Jack knew Bella wished to be loved for her mind, for her character, not for the blush of her cheek nor the extraordinary shade of her violet-grey eyes.

Lanham droned on. “Her hair is a most attractive shade of brown…”

Chestnut, actually. Bella’s hair was chestnut, richly burnished with hints of gold and red. When she wore it in a braided coil and left a few tantalizing curls to brush her shoulders, those strands shone like gold. The man hadn’t even bothered to identify the true color of her hair.

“And her skin is so very—“

            “Yes, thank you, Lanham. That will be all.”

            “My lord?”

            “The answer is no, Mr. Lanham. I will not give my approval for you to marry my ward, and I ask you not to call here again.”

            The young man sat gaping, his mouth open and eyes wide. He did not look like a snake now. More like a fish that had inadvertently flopped onto the riverbank. When he made no move to leave, Jack stood and approached the door of his study. He opened it and turned back to Lanham.

            “Good day, Mr. Lanham.”

            The young man stood, straightened his tie, and tipped his chin a notch, recovering all of the over-confidence with which he’d entered Jack’s house less than an hour before. He moved toward the door and Jack itched with eagerness to close it behind him, but Lanham stopped just on the threshold. He did not look at Jack and spoke in a clipped, tight voice.

            “It is no wonder Isabella is an old maid at four and twenty. You turn away every man who wants her. Take care, sir. Soon no one will.”

            Wilkins, Jack’s ever-watchful butler, scuttled down the hall, presented Arthur Lanham with his coat and hat, and escorted him to the townhouse’s front door. Without another word, the young man strode out—chin still aloft—into the frosty London morning.

            Jack closed the door of his study and sank into his comfortable chair, stretching his legs until the heels of his boots rested against the grate of the fireplace. The fire had waned long before, but there was enough heat to provide a measure of comfort.

            He had to tell her, had to acknowledge that he had turned away another of her suitors. Would she understand he had no choice? Would she see that he could not give her away to any man ignorant of her true worth?

            As he pondered what to say, how to explain, he heard the study’s door handle turn and the slight creak of hinges as it swung open. He knew she was there without turning. Her presence ignited his senses, as if the air around him had changed, and he could smell the faint scent of rosewater she wore.

            He heard her footsteps approach and sensed her standing behind his chair.

            “I take it I have reason to thank you.”                       

            Jack turned to look at her and Bella moved to take the seat next to his, her favorite chair. As he met her gaze, a burst of relief surged through him. He read nothing like regret in her expression. If anything, she looked relieved and slightly bemused.

            “You did not wish to marry Mr. Lanham?”

            She gave him a look—the look she gave him when he said something ridiculous and she could barely conceal her disdain.

            “Certainly not. But I would have done so if you told me to. Papa trusted you to help me choose a worthy husband, and so do I.”

            Jack tried not to stare at her. Bella was highly animated whenever she spoke, and she said as much with her eyes as she did with her mouth. They had known each other so long that much of what they said to each other was contained in gestures and glances; even the silences between them held meaning.

            “What if I find no man worthy, Bella?”

            She settled back in her chair and stared into the fire, though there were only a few glowing embers to draw one’s eye. Jack turned his gaze from Bella’s face and glanced into the fireplace too. One ember glowed particularly bright and suddenly burst into a tiny dancing flame. He saw Bella grin out of the corner of his eye and wondered—not for the first time—if she affected everyone and everything as she did him.

            She turned her head to gaze at him. “Then I suppose you will have to do the deed yourself.”

            Jack didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his heart began a frantic tattoo. He could hear it pounding in his ears and felt certain it would burst from his chest.

            Bella gave voice to the notion he had kept hidden away in his heart and mind for so many years.

When he returned from the war, he had been determined to ask her. Then word had come of his brother’s death. He had never expected to be heir to an earldom, never anticipated the responsibility. Never wanted it.

            After a year he had come to London with one thought—to ask Bella to be his wife. But then her father had died and left a will naming Jack as her guardian, the man tasked with finding her a husband. Harold Danvers had seen them simply as childhood friends, or perhaps he thought only of their six year age difference. It was a difference which had seemed so much greater in their youth than it did now.

            “Don’t look so frightened, Jack.” He heard the smile in her voice, though he could not meet her gaze. “I was only jesting. It’s nearly time for tea. Shall we have walk in the park after? I won’t mind the cold if you won’t.”

            His heartbeat began to steady as a soothing sense of certainty rushed through him. Marry Bella. It was there before him all the time. How could he ever approve of any of her suitors when he wanted her for his own?

            “Jack, please say something.”

            He had lost track of time and was unaware of how long he sat pondering their future, leaving the woman he loved to mistake his silence. He turned and reached for her hand.

She smiled at him—that warm, open Bella smile—and lifted her hand to meet his.

            “Marry me, Bella.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will Bella accept Jack's proposal? Check back in October for Miss Danvers Decides

Courting the Outlaw's Wife-Part Four - by Paty Jager

Courting the Outlaw's Wife - Part Four

 by 

Paty Jager

copyright 2014

Part Four

Sara Lynn knew the town was talking about her and the sheriff. When she’d walked into town leading his horse with his unconscious, bleeding body hung over the saddle, the tongues and rumors had started flying. It wouldn’t be long and they’d figure out who she was. She wanted to stay in Grass Valley. Wanted to see if the fluttery, warmth she felt when she looked at and touched Shaw was more than an infatuation like it had been with Chet.

If she married again it would be because she loved and respected the man, not just found him a means to escape a dull life.

When she’d expressed the notion of moving on, Shaw had asked her to stay. She hadn’t missed the flare of desire in his eyes. A man like him wouldn’t lead a woman on. If he had notions he wanted to spend time with a woman, he’d tell her straight out.

Sara Lynn nodded to Mr. Franks, her clerk, as she carried a tray with eggs and toast past the registration desk and down the hall to her quarters at the back of the hotel.

The proper thing would have been to put the sheriff in a room upstairs, however, the first couple of days he’d needed constant care, and it was easier for her to do with him sleeping in her bed. She’d had Betsy Watson, the young woman who cleaned the rooms, make a bed for her on the couch in her sitting room.

Sara Lynn opened the door to her rooms and entered.  Dr. Smith walked out of her bedroom.

“Mrs. Star, our patient is healing quite well. I think he’ll be ready to move back to his residence tomorrow.” 

“That’s wonderful news,” she said, with more enthusiasm than she felt. She’d miss their long conversations. Chet had never taken the time to listen about her childhood or her likes and dislikes. The past four days and nights, she and Shaw had learned everything there was to know about one another as they sat together talking.

“I’ll let the deputy know that Sheriff DeRai will be moving back in tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I’m sure he will appreciate that.” Sara Lynn set the tray down on a side table and walked Dr. Smith to her door.

“You should change the bandage on his shoulder tomorrow before he leaves. I don’t see any reason for me to check on him for a couple days.”

“Thank you, again. I’ll see to the bandage change and that he is moved tomorrow.” Her heart pounded in her chest. She didn’t want him to leave. Even in his incapacitated condition she felt safe with him sleeping in her bed.

“Good day.” Dr. Smith walked out.

She shut the door, leaning her back against it. If only there was a way to keep Shaw here…

“Do I smell breakfast?”

Sara Lynn jumped. Shaw stood in the bedroom doorway. His upper body was bare except for the strip of white sheet wrapped around his torso to hold the bandages in place. His pants weren’t completely buttoned and rode low on his hips.

Drool pooled in her mouth as she stared at the man. The last few days nursing him, he’d been shirtless with a sheet covering his lower limbs, but him standing and looking handsome with an unshaven face, had her heart prancing around like a filly in a field of clover.

“Sara? Sara Lynn? What’s wrong?” He strode toward her, bringing that tantalizing body closer.

Her gaze traveled up his lean stomach, over the bandage on his wide chest, and lingered at his mouth. She couldn’t stop her hands. Her fingers made contact with his bare torso and all good sense flew out of her head. Taking care of him she’d touched him, let her hands linger longer than necessary, but having him on his feet and oozing manliness, she wanted to feel his arms around her and his lips pressed to hers.

Shaw saw the desire in Sara Lynn’s beautiful blue eyes as her hands caressed his chest. He couldn’t have walked away if a gun was held to his head.

He pulled her into his arms and bent his head, capturing her full, pink mouth with his. The last few days, layin’ in her bed, catching whiffs of her scent, having her taking care of him, telling him about her childhood; he wanted her in his life every night and day.

She pressed against him as if she couldn’t get close enough. He wanted all she was willing to give. Deepening the kiss, he opened his mouth, tracing her lips, coaxing for an intimate taste. His hands roamed over her body, wishing she had as few clothes on as he did.

Her lips parted, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth, tasting, savoring. She moaned and her hands gripped his shoulders.

Banging on the door, he pressed her against, broke through the haze of desire he was wrapped in. Shaw withdrew from the kiss and rested his forehead against Sara Lynn’s. He wanted her, but not because they had to marry from his carrying on.

“Mrs. Star! Mrs. Star,” Betsy’s hysterical voice called. “There’s a man out here insisting you come out.” She banged on the door. “Mr. Franks has a gun on him but I don’t like the looks of the man.”

Sara Lynn shoved out of his arms. “Quick! Get dressed and get out the back way. It has to be Boyd,” she hissed in a loud whisper, pushing him toward the bedroom.  

She turned to the door. “Betsy, tell him I’ll be right out,” Sara Lynn said loud enough to be heard through the door.

Shaw’s heart stopped at the thought of Sara Lynn standing up to the outlaw. He caught her wrist, keeping her from going out the door. “You said you wanted out of that life. That you were scared of him. Stay here. Let me deal with him.”

Her eyes were wide with fright, but the stubborn set to her jaw and mouth told him she wouldn’t listen to reason.

“No. He wants me. If I go out there, he won’t come storming in here and harm you. You’re in no shape to go up against Boyd and however many men he has with him.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’ll remember the days we’ve spent together with fondness.” She placed a hand on his cheek.

He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her small hand. The next minute he heard the door shut and the lock click.

 Damn! He’d let his softness for the woman drop his guard. If she thought locking him in would keep him from going after her, she didn’t know him very well.

He stomped into the bedroom, donned the rest of his clothing, buckled on his holster, shoved his hat on his head, and opened the bedroom window. His shoulder twinged at the activity but there was no way in hell he’d allow the outlaw to ride out of town with the woman he loved.

~*~

Sara Lynn’s insides were squirming like she’d eaten a bad meal. She didn’t want to go with Boyd, but she loved Shaw and refused to have her past bring him harm. The only way she knew to do that was to go with Boyd and wait for a chance to get away.

She walked up the hall and saw her ex-brother-in-law glaring at Mr. Franks. She had to give the older man credit the rifle wasn’t wavering under the fierce glare of the notorious outlaw Boyd Star.

“Boyd, back on out and I’ll come with you.” She put a hand on Mr. Franks’ shoulder and lowered the rifle with her other hand. “Mr. Franks why don’t you and Betsy go on into the restaurant and make sure everyone stays put until we leave town. I don’t want anyone getting hurt on my account.”

Mr. Franks studied her a moment then nodded and grasped Betsy by the arm, hauling the girl over to the door leading into the restaurant.

“You always were soft, Sara Lynn,” Boyd said, taking a step toward her.

“No!” She raised her hands. “I told you to back on out and I’d join you. I want to make sure no one in this hotel is harmed. This is the closest I’ve come to having friends and a normal life, I won’t have my past taint any of it.”

The leering smile she loathed, curled Boyd’s lips and he backed to the door, holding it open for her.

Her legs moved like huge tree trunks, stiff and heavy. She didn’t want to leave her hotel, her life, especially now knowing what she felt for Sheriff Shaw DeRai was more than infatuation. It was pure and honest love. She’d realized that before he’d kissed her, but having tasted his kisses, she knew there would never be another stir her heart and soul like him.

“Come on. If you don’t get a move on I’ll have to haul you over my shoulder to the preacher.

She squeaked. “Preacher?”

He leered at her and grabbed her arm when she was within reach. “You and me are going to get married and then you can’t run away.”

Just watch me.

“Boyd, don’t you think this is a bit quick.” She scanned the street. As she’d feared, he’d brought the whole gang with him. That’s why it took him three days to get back here. Seeing the seven other men, she knew there was no way out of this marriage. Not if she didn’t want the townsfolk to die.

“Nope, I’ve wanted you for my wife since the day I laid eyes on you.” He wrapped his arm around her, digging his fingers into her waist.

She squirmed. “Ouch! If you want me to be a willing bride you shouldn’t hurt me.”

He loosened his grip but not much. She noted most of the townsfolk were staying inside. She hoped they all stayed there until the gang rode out of town.

She and Boyd walked down the street with the gang on horseback behind them.

“Where’s that sheriff I hear you been takin’ care of?”

He asked in a nonchalant way, but she knew he was fishing for information. “I don’t know. The Doctor moved him this morning.” 

“Billy, go check the hotel for the sheriff!” Boyd hollered over his shoulder.

“There’s no need. I said he was gone.” Sara Lynn dug her heels in and glared at Boyd.

He laughed. “By your actions I say he’s there and you’re hiding him.”

They stopped in front of the only church in town. Reverend Mann stepped out the door.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Star?” His gaze drifted over Boyd and the rest of the men.

“We want to get married,” Boyd said, drawing her forward.

“I see. Mrs. Star, is this true?” His faded blue eyes peered into hers.

She wanted to say no, but knew to disagree she’d unleash Boyd’s nastiness.

“Yes, please, Reverend Mann. The sooner we’re married the sooner we’ll leave.” She hoped he understood, she was trying to avoid trouble for the town.

The reverend nodded. “Very well. But I ask that all guns remain outside the house of the Lord.” His gaze landed on Boyd’s holstered gun.

“Pete, come get my holster.” Boyd unbuckled his holster. “The rest of you stand guard. Don’t let anyone in, you hear?”

They nodded and agreed.

At least he wouldn’t be armed. Maybe she and the reverend could render him helpless…

Shaw stood just inside the church door. He’d hustled to the church as soon as he heard Boyd’s marriage idea. He’d had just enough time to ask the reverend to make sure Boyd was weaponless before he came in the church before the outlaws arrived.

The reverend entered followed by Sara Lynn, looking scared and tense. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be fine, but first he had to take care of Boyd Star.

The man hesitated then walked through the door. Shaw gave him several steps before he walked up behind Boyd and slammed the butt of his pistol down on the outlaw’s head.

He dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Sara Lynn whirled around but covered her mouth, stifling a scream. When she registered who stood in the aisle, she leaped over the outlaw and landed in Shaw’s arms.

He hugged her tight.

“We need to do something with this man and the men outside waiting,” said the reverend.

Shaw released Sara Lynn. “Sit here while I tie up Boyd.” He eased her into a pew and followed the reverend to the back of the church to find rope.

“Is there a way out of here that his men won’t be watching?” Boyd asked as they dug a length of rope out of a broom closet.

“No.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to take him out through the front door.” Shaw hurried back to Boyd and Sara Lynn. The man might be knocked out, but he could wake up at any time. He dropped down beside the outlaw, tying his hands behind his back good and tight.

He sat down on the pew next to Sara Lynn. “I’m going to take him out the front door and hope the gang will not retaliate worrying they might hit Boyd.”

Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Shh, I’ll be fine. But only if you stay here with Reverend Mann so I don’t have to worry about you.”

She ducked her head.

“Look at me.” He tipped her face up with a finger under her chin. “When I get Boyd locked up, and his gang has either left or been locked up, I’m coming back here and we’re going to get married.”

Her eyes widened, and she sniffed back tears. “Are you asking me to marry you, Sheriff DeRai?”

The love shining in her eyes told him all he needed to know. “Yes, I am. Sara Lynn will you make me a happy man and become my wife?”

She flung her arms around his neck. “Yes!”

He kissed her lips and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Shaw’s chest filled with love and pride that this woman wanted to be his wife. First he had to deal with the one person who could ruin everything for them.

Drawing out of the kiss, he eased away from Sara Lynn. “Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She clung to his hand as he stood. Her fear for him would make his decisions more calculated. He didn’t want to make her a widow again before they were even married.

“I’ll be careful.”

He grabbed Boyd by the collar lifting him to his feet.

“Reverend, open the door when I tell you.” Shaw stood the outlaw in front of the door and pressed his pistol to the man’s side. “Now.”

The door opened and Shaw shoved Boyd’s body out the door in front of him. He had to look twice. All the outlaws had their hands in the air. Scanning the rows of horses, he noted his deputy and a dozen other men had rifles aimed at the outlaws.

“Good work, Hollister!” Shaw said, shoving Boyd ahead of him.

“I see you caught the leader,” Hollister said, coming forward and taking hold of Boyd.

“I had some help.” Shaw glanced over his shoulder and winked at Sara Lynn and Reverend Mann standing in the doorway.

~*~

Sara Lynn couldn’t stop smiling. They’d waited a day to get married at the request of the town. Everyone wanted to be at the wedding. And everyone wanted to tell her how they had all rallied around to make sure she wasn’t taken away by the outlaws.

“Mrs. DeRai, may I have this dance?” Shaw stood in front of her looking too handsome for any one man to look. Her heart spun in her chest. He was her husband. A good, honest man who loved her even knowing her past.

“I would love to dance with you Mr. DeRai, but,” she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I’d prefer dancing alone, in our bedroom.”

His chuckle in her ear and his hand grasping hers, told her he had the same idea.

“We are no longer needed here and it is our wedding night.” Shaw led her out of the hotel restaurant, down the hall, and into their living quarters.

The lock clicked, and she drifted into the arms of the man she loved. 

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A Constant Heart

by Christy Carlyle

London, 1881

No one attended Lady Granby's balls unless they wished to be noticed. It was one of the smallest ballrooms in London. Too small for much dancing, actually, and unbearably hot. And Lady Granby was known to be a determined matchmaker. If you accepted an invitation from Lady Granby, you desired to be seen.

Emma Prichard hoped to go unnoticed. She wasn't arrayed in colorful finery. She hadn't even dressed her hair, except to collect her dark brown waves into a neat chignon. One must always look acceptable, even if unremarkable. It was the Prichard way. And truly she did not wish to be invisible, merely unremarkable. Notice might draw questions, even pity, or, worst of all, an attempt at matchmaking. She had been brought up too well to be rude, so she simply met few eyes and nodded politely at those she did acknowledge.

When you were an old maid, going unnoticed wasn't really difficult at all.

As a frequent chaperone to her younger cousin, Emma's usual ballroom experience consisted of conversation and refreshment while seated in an uncomfortable chair along the far side of the room. She and a few of her fellow wallflowers had taken to calling their line of painfully straight-backed chairs Wallflower Row. Courteously, the wallflowers each gave the others a turn at walking the perimeter of the ballroom, retiring for a sip of lemonade, or catching a breath of fresh air on an obliging balcony. Emma had elected to take the first turn of the evening and spent much of it smiling reassuringly at Abigail as she whirled around the ballroom in the arms of the second gentleman on her dance card. Her cousin was a lovely girl but a painfully shy debutante. 

If all went well during her first season, Abigail would marry. The notion brought a bittersweet satisfaction to Emma. Fingering the locket at her throat, a familiar, hollow ache started in her chest as regret pushed its way into her thoughts. James. Her regret had a name. Shaking her head and dropping the metal onto the warm skin of her throat, she forced her thoughts back to the happier prospect of Abigail's future.

Taking the final steps toward Wallflower Row, the sound of her name rang out with surprising clarity across the din of music and gaiety.

"Emma Prichard? Oh no, she never did marry. Two failed seasons and then she gave up the hunt." 

The voice was one Emma knew well. Constance Banbury was the mother of four daughters and, as the matriarch of so many marriageable ladies, she made it her duty to know the competition well. Those who frequented the races at Epsom Downs did not know their horses as well as Mrs. Banbury knew which gentlemen were eligible and by how much. Emma slowed her pace. A perverse curiosity made her want to hear what Mrs. Banbury and her companion might say.

"Oh no, my dear. 'Twas never a question of money. Her family has heaps. It does make one wonder. There is some scandal there, Elspeth, mark my words. It may be well hidden by all that Prichard propriety, but there is scandal nonetheless."

Biting back a rueful grin, Emma took the final steps toward the row and resumed her seat next to Penelope Rutledge, a good friend and fellow wallflower. Pen's dark, simple gown nearly matched Emma's, but her playful blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair set her apart from the plain brown of Emma's coloring. At least plain is how Emma always thought of her brown eyes and hair. James had said her hair was the color of chocolate and her eyes the shade of an amber jewel... But those sentiments no longer signified.

"Just in time!" Penelope chimed. "Frederick Jennings has been leering at me for the last few moments. If you had not returned, I think he might have actually summoned the courage to ask me to dance."

"Heaven forfend." Emma shot her friend a look of feigned disgust.

"You may jest, but I have danced with him, and I assure you it is not an experience I wish to repeat." Penelope huffed and straightened her gown fussily across her knees. Suspicion crept into her tone when she spied Emma's grin. "What is it? You look bemused."

Emma leaned toward Penelope to whisper conspiratorially. "I am a scandalous woman." 

"Really?" Pen pulled back in offense. "Since when and why was I not the first to know?"

 "Only according to Mrs. Banbury." 

 Pen settled back in her chair. She knew the barbed tongue of the Banbury matriarch well. "I am surprised you're smiling. Her comments usually cut to the quick. No matter how ridiculous they may be."

"You don't wish to hear it, then?" The question was hardly worth asking.

 "Well, yes. Of course, I do," Penelope blurted. Her outburst drew the eyes of a few ladies nearby. She added, in a quieter, more demure voice,"But only if you wish to share it."

"She supposes I never accepted an offer of marriage because I am mired in scandal." Emma spoke the words with a smile on her lips, still amused at Mrs. Banbury's ridiculous assumptions. "According to Mrs. Banbury, I never married because of some great and horrible secret."

Penelope looked at Emma, her bright blue eyes softening. Her voice had fallen to a whisper. "Is that better than the truth?"

It stung Emma to acknowledge Mrs. Banbury amusement at learning there was no scandal attached to her spinsterhood, just foolishness and a stubborn determination not to marry any man if she could not marry the one she loved. Unfortunately, the man she loved was equally stubborn and their last words had been spoken in anger. Stubborn pride. With James North so firmly in her heart, Emma had not even considered marrying another man in the three years since since their parting.

 "She would probably laugh to hear it was nothing as interesting as scandal." Emma had no need to hide the details from Penelope. In their common status as young women on the shelf, they had grown closer than sisters and Emma knew Pen's story was not so different from her own.

 "There is no shame in a constant heart." Penelope said the words emphatically and Emma knew she spoke for both of them. Pen had waited these past three years since her coming out for her brother's closest friend, Lucas Sharpe, to see her as more than a sisterly family friend.

 "She would laugh because I have turned spinster for a man I will likely never see again."

"I would not wager on it."

Emma turned to her friend in astonishment. "You don't think she would laugh?"

"Not that. I think you will most definitely see him again." 

"Ah, Pen. I do love your optimism." Emma gave her friend's fingers a light, reassuring squeeze, but Penelope clasped Emma's hand firmly and turned toward her with anxiety etched in her features.

"Emma, you do know he is here. Tonight."

The hollow ache in Emma's chest dropped into her stomach and she felt dizzy. Dizzy and yet restless with an uncontrollable energy. She stood, though Pen still held her hand.

"Em, do you think it's wise?" Emma glanced down at her friend, reading the concern on her face. Concern and understanding. Pen released her hand. "Yes, of course. You must go. Go and find him."

~ * ~

One inquiry to the kind and discreet Mr. Wimpole led Emma to a room Lady Granby had designated as the men's gaming room. Thick with cigar smoke and crowded with men chatting in clusters and gathered around card tables, the room still felt less crowded than the stifling ballroom.

It was not difficult to find him in the gathering of men. He was tall and stood a head above most around him. He seemed even taller now, more imposing a figure than Emma remembered. His hair was still the same onyx black, though long now and somewhat unkempt. It shone blue in the wall sconces lining the overcrowded room. His back was to her. 

Removed from those around him, Emma watched as he turned his head this way and that as if looking for someone. He would have a clear view above the heads of a roomful of shorter men. Suddenly, he turned and glanced toward Emma, as if he'd sensed her eyes on him. The crystal snifter he had raised to his lips fell with a soft thud to the thick aubusson carpet under his feet. 

Shock was clear in his features, his dismissal of the spilled drink at his feet. But was there more? Was his heart hammering in his chest too? Did he feel the invisible pull, like a magnet, between them?

Emma swayed toward him, unable to deny the magnetism. But before she could take a step, he approached in two long strides. A delicious scent, the bay soap he'd always used, swept over her and she bit back a moan at the exquisite pleasure of finally being near him again. He looked down at her, his dark blue eyes unreadable. Studying her, his gaze touched her hair, her lips, her neck before settling back on her eyes. Then he turned and moved past her. Emma thought for a moment he meant to walk away from her. Again. Then she felt his long fingers tugging at her own. 

~ * ~

"James. Where are you? I can't see you." Her voice sent a trickle of pleasure down his spine. His name on her lips. He had waited three years to hear it and was stunned at the lack of anger in her tone. Where was the resentment he so richly deserved?

He had spirited her away like a marauding pirate and had no idea where they'd ended up, except it was an empty room. Empty and dark. A sliver of moonlight through a partially open drape was the only illumination. He could just make out the shape of her. Pale skin, dark hair. Her hand reached out for him, and he grasped it like a drowning man reaching for a life line. 

Pulling Emma toward him, James kissed her palm and heard her gasp. A polite man would have been deterred, but his hunger for her didn't allow for delicacy. Snaking his arm around her waist, he tugged, fitting her curves against him. Then he dipped his head to taste her skin. 

As he kissed her neck, he touched a spot behind her ear with his tongue and found the place she'd dabbed her violet water. The dainty scent, one he only associated with Emma, was maddeningly erotic. She tilted her head, giving him access, while her hands roamed over his chest. They slid inside his jacket, fingering the buttons of his waistcoat.

"Emma." He said it once, his voice a husky murmur, before his lips found hers. Starved for the taste of her, he could not give her a delicate dance of mouths. This was a plunder. She moaned and he pulled his mouth from hers, as breathless as she.

She placed both hands on his chest. He reached up to stroke them and she pushed away from him. She sidestepped out of his embrace and he immediately missed her warmth.

He spoke the words he knew he should. "Forgive me, Emma, for absconding with you just now." It wasn't true. He was not the least bit sorry for pulling her into the darkened room alone, though he knew for the sake of her reputation, he should be. He had other regrets. Three years worth of them. It was easy to add, "I am sorry."

He wished for more light. Her silence chilled him. But this is what he had expected, what he deserved.

Her breath was still coming quickly. Beyond the beat of his heart and his own labored breathing, it was the only sound in the dark room. The shape of her face, the glow of her skin, was visible in the dim light. He waited for the condemnation, the anger, but she didn't speak. He couldn't stop himself from breaking the quiet between them. "I never stopped loving you, wanting you." 

"Then the last three years must have been as miserable for you as they were for me."

There was his Emma. He heard it all in those few words. A spark of spirit, the pain and regret that echoed his own, and even the resentment that must have built like a pyre, each year adding more tinder to the flame.

Yes. It echoed in his mind over and over, resonated from every part of him. He hadn't even realized he'd spoken the word aloud until she was in his arms again.

Then he said it again. "Yes." He breathed the word against her mouth and then pressed his lips to her forehead, her eyebrow, her cheek. Wet, salty. He drank in her tears with his kiss. He pulled away. He'd wounded her. There was so much more he needed to say.

But she held him fast. Pulling at his lapels, she reached up and nuzzled his neck, kissing the skin above his neck cloth. "I missed you, James." He heard the tears in her voice and something deep inside of him, the wall around his heart that he had spent so long erecting, began to crumble. He had spent the previous three years trying to make something of himself, earn his fortune and the right to be with Miss Emma Prichard. Were the years of separation worth it? They stretched before him like a gaping, empty chasm. All those years of effort meant nothing when he realized that they could have been spent like this. Day and after day with this beautiful, generous woman--the unbearably stubborn Emma Prichard--in his arms, pressed against his body.

"And I you, Emma."

She kissed him then, melting his regret, bringing him back from the chasm's brink. "Show me how much" Her voice was low, laced with need and desire. A siren's call. "Show me how much you missed me."

He pressed her against the wall, leaning in to kiss her again. For the first time since he'd sequestered them in the darkened room, he was gentle, tentative. 

A muffled rap on the door startled them both. James leaned down, resting his forehead against Emma's, feeling the puffs of her rapid breath on his neck. 

"Emma?" the muted words through the door were a woman's and she was frantic.

For a woman on the edge of ruin, Emma startled him by answering in a surprisingly steady voice.

"Yes, Pen. I am here." James released her, stepping away just enough to allow her to settle her dress and push disheveled strands of hair back into place.

The woman beyond the door continued to whisper. "You must come back to the ballroom. I am sorry, dear, but your brother is here. He is looking for you. And for Mr. North."

James heard the rustle of Emma's clothing and reached out a hand to steady her.

She did not spare him the worry in her voice. "We must go. Robert will be beside himself."

"Perfect. He's just the man I wish to see." Satisfied that Emma had righted herself, James reached up to straighten his necktie.

"Are you mad?"The tone of worry in her voice had turned to panic. "James, this isn't the time or the place to speak to my brother."

"Why?" He bit off the word and immediately regretted his tone. Reaching out, he sought her hand, and she grasped his firmly. "Haven't we waited long enough?"

He knew she would say yes. She must say yes.

He heard her intake of breath, as if she was about to speak. Her answer was his future. A searing ache, a familiar pain, started in the center of his chest. The wait of a few seconds felt interminable.

Light flooded the room and a thunderous bang echoed off the walls. Robert Prichard stood in the doorway, body tense, his face contorted in a mask of pure rage.

~ * ~

  

Emma had dreamed of this moment. She'd dreamed of reuniting with James, yet the rage she read on her brother's face made it all more like a nightmare.

Robert was foxed. She could see it in his swaying stance and the glossy sheen of his eyes.

"You still can't have her, North. Can't you find some other woman to ruin?"

Pen spoke up. Emma hadn't even realized she'd come into the room too, and she jumped at the sound of Pen's usually soft voice, now firm and authoritative. "No one has been ruined, Robert. But we will all set tongues wagging if we don't return to the ball immediately." Pen placed a gentle hand on Emma's arm. "Abigail is with Dorcas Whitlock and her sisters." Pen spoke of another of the wallflowers with three younger sisters. "We should go to her."

"Yes." It would be such a relief to escape from Robert's drunken wrath, but one glance at James, and Emma found herself rooted in place. The notion of being parted from him again sent a sickening shiver of dread through her body. And she had questions for him. So many questions. But Penelope was insistent, and Emma turned to follow her back to the Granby ballroom.

"Wait." His voice, even a single word, calmed her. She closed her eyes and let the sense of comfort wash over her. "We must settle this matter now, Prichard. Emma and I have waited long enough."

"Emma." Her name echoed off the walls. Both Penelope and James had spoken it at once, each calling to separate parts of her nature. Penelope called to her sense of duty. What sort of a chaperone left her charge alone to abscond with a man into a darkened room? Abandoning duty was not the Prichard way.

Yet James called to her very soul. Her deepest desire was to send Pen and Robert away, forget about her duties, and hide away with the man who had never left her thoughts for three long years. But could she trust her heart to him? He had left her so easily and stayed away so long. Would he leave again?

It took all of her strength, every ounce of resolve to speak the words she knew she should. "James, this is not the proper time. I am here to chaperone my cousin and I have left her alone too long." The words struck her, echoing in her heart. "Alone too long." The phrase had nothing to do with Abigail and when she gazed at James, illuminated in the warm glow of hallway sconces, she knew he took her meaning.

He spoke directly to her, as if Robert and Pen weren't there and listening to every word. "You never have to be alone again, Emma. Tell me I won't be either."

"Good God, North. Have you no sense of propriety?" Robert slurred the words and tripped over his own feet as he moved toward Emma. His eyes widened, as if he was shocked at his own instability, and he grasped the edge of a well polished table to steady himself.

James finally turned his attention from Emma and glared at her brother. "Ah, the famous Prichard propriety. Will you tell Emma what your propriety has cost her? Cost us?"

"Does it really matter now?" Penelope stepped between the men, looking from one to the other. She sounded exasperated. Then she turned to Emma. "Tell him, dear. Tell Mr. North that he needn't be alone."

When Emma hesitated, Penelope continued. "She has been true to you, Mr. North. Constant and true. And you, sir? Have you been true to my friend? I do hope so, because she deserves it more than any woman I know."

James didn't say a word, but he approached Emma, gazing into eyes, a slight smile curving his lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words were sufficient. Apparently, Penelope didn't agree.

"Well, I shall take that as a yes, Mr. North. Now, will you do what is proper by my friend?"

"Shall I bend a knee here and now?" His words answered Penelope's question, but he never stopped looking at Emma. She couldn't stop gazing at him either. She studied every aspect of his beloved face, the familiar angles and the newer lines. How many times had she pictured him in her mind's eye? No imagining could ever compare to having him here, so close, so warm, and now, finally, hers.

"Yes, yes, of course you must do that. But not now. We're at a ball, Mr. North. Won't you ask her to dance?"

"Shall we, Emma? Or is your dance card full?"

A sensation tickled at Emma's middle, bubbling up into her throat, until a giggle burst from her. A giggle—as girlish and silly as anything she'd ever heard from Abigail. And she felt light. The ache in her chest was gone. She fingered the locket that James had given her so long ago, and it felt lighter too.

"Yes, my dance card is full, Mr. North." She stepped toward him, reaching out to take his offered hand. "And will be. From now until forever, I hope."

He lifted her hand to his lips, closed his eyes, and pressed his mouth to her skin. "Yes. Forever, Emma. Finally forever."