Sebastian sat in the darkness of Chesney’s study in Audley House and stared up at the portrait of his father hanging over the fireplace. It was a copy of the portrait that hung in Chestnut Hill that Mother had insisted Father sit for when he was awarded the dukedom, just as Josie had insisted that this copy be made and hung in her home after he died. She’d offered to have a second copy made, one Sebastian could hang in Park Place, but he’d refused her kindness. After all, he already had enough reminders there of his father.
But tonight, so much guilt swirled inside him that he needed to be here, because he could no longer tell where his guilt over his father ended and his guilt toward Miranda began.
Why did you give yourself to me? Her parting words reverberated inside his head, and he was unable to stop hearing them or seeing the tears that had streamed down her cheeks in anger, rejection, and frustration. Christ! He knew exactly why. Because she was beautiful and tempting, and he wanted her. It was that simple. Plain old lust. Couldn’t have been anything else to make him so reckless as to—
A damned lie.
The truth was that he’d wanted to share the freedom and life in her, to experience that same exuberance for living that had died in him with his father. Because they were friends, and then they were more…and all of it had felt wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that he hadn’t stopped to question any of it until it was too late.
With a curse, he shoved himself out of the chair and stalked across the room to the shelf where Chesney kept his best cognac. He filled a glass overfull with the stuff, then swallowed down half of it in a desperate attempt to numb himself.
It wasn’t working. Even as he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, the image of her returned with fresh force—Miranda lying in his arms in his bed, admitting in a whisper so soft that he barely heard her…I love you. He squeezed his eyes shut as the next image came unbidden of her standing in his rooms in tears. What the hell did she want from him? He couldn’t marry her, and she knew it. She’d known it from the very beginning.
But damnation, so had he. He knew he needed to marry the daughter of a peer, a lady with good breeding and fine standing in society. One whom Richard Carlisle would have been proud to call his daughter. That was what he needed in his duchess.
Although what he wanted in his wife…He bit back a groan of anger and frustration. What he owed to his father and to the family, to their legacy and reputation— Damnation! Wasn’t he entitled to compensation in return for all the responsibility he shouldered? Didn’t he have the right to claim some bit of happiness for himself in return? How long was he expected to be punished for one mistake?
“Sebastian?” His mother’s voice reached him softly through the shadows.
He sucked in a deep breath at the intrusion. “Mother.”
He turned to face her as she entered the room, closing the door after herself and shutting them together into the darkness. Even now, long after midnight, she was regal and dignified, carrying herself with confidence and grace. Every inch of her a duchess.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she said quietly as she crossed the room to him. When she reached his side, she leaned up to place a kiss on his cheek. Her face darkened as she asked gently, her voice not a question, “There are too many ghosts at Park Place tonight, aren’t there?”
More than she knew. He forced a smile and raised his glass to her. “Chesney has better cognac than I do.”
He could tell by the way she paused that she knew he’d just lied to her. “Then pour me a taste, will you?” With a motherly squeeze of his arm, she walked toward the fireplace. “I think we both could use it tonight.”
He arched a surprised brow at her odd request, yet did as she asked, splashing a swallow’s worth into a glass and carrying it to her. He couldn’t remember seeing his mother take a drink of the stuff in his life.
She took the brandy from him, and he frowned down at the cold fireplace. “Do you want me to ring for a footman to build a fire?”
She shook her head a bit wistfully. “You know, when I was young, we had to light our own fires.”
With a twist of his mouth, Sebastian took that as his cue. He set his glass on the mantel and took up the poker to stir up the coals.
“There was always work to be done on the farm, so we all had to pitch in and do our share,” she continued, a nostalgic smile pulling at her lips. “Including lighting the fires.”
As the first fingers of flames snaked up from the stirred coals, he reached into the coal bucket and tossed a chunk onto the grate. “I’d forgotten about that, that you grew up on a farm.”
“Not just any farm. Your grandfather was a tenant of the Earl of Spalding, your great uncle.” The faint smile at her lips blossomed into one full of love as she looked up at her late husband’s portrait. “That was how I met your father. Richard had come to the estate to pay his respects to the family for helping him with his army commission, and we met while he was riding up the lane. He was so handsome in his red uniform. I’d never seen another man like him in my life, so tall and imperial. Strong and powerful.” Her smile faded with a touch of melancholy. “And the kindest man I would ever know.”
He returned the poker to the rack and wiped off his hands. His chest tightened to know that he would never have that same connection to the woman he chose to be his wife that his father had with his mother. Already he felt the loss of it as palpably as if he’d lost a limb. “And it was love at first sight.”
“Oh no! Not at all,” she corrected with a faint laugh, surprising him. “There were lots of soldiers in those days, and all of them looked handsome in their uniforms. I was much too shrewd to settle for the first one who came riding along.”
Raising the brandy to his lips, he hid his smile. “Of course.”
“But your father was just as stubborn as I was, and over the next few months, he wore me down until eventually I agreed to marry him.” The growing flames softly lit up the room around them, so that he could see the knowing smile on her face as she stared up at the portrait, still as much in love with her late husband as she’d been the day she married him. “I gave him all the trouble I could, too, in those first days of our courtship to make certain he would be willing to fight for me and stand by my side the way I thought a husband should.”
“It worked,” he commented quietly. His father had been completely devoted to his mother until the day he died.
She turned her head to look at him, and her face softened with concern. She said gently, “I hear there’s a woman putting you through your own troubles.”
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. Anger flashed through him. “Josie told you,” he muttered. “She had no right.”
“You upset her.”
He guiltily slumped his shoulders. These days it seemed he was upsetting every woman in his life. He blew out a hard breath. “I’ll apologize to her in the morning.”
“That would be gracious of you, but I don’t think she wants an apology as much as to know that you are all right. She was worried about you.” She paused sympathetically. “And about Miranda.”
He stared down at his glass as he rolled it slowly between his palms, watching the way the cognac shined gold-red in the firelight. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”
“Hmm.” She raised her own glass to her lips to take a tentative sip. “Seems to me there’s a great deal.”
He clenched his jaw, turning his anger onto himself. “It was my fault. I’ll make certain Miranda’s protected. I won’t let her be punished for my mistake.”
“And you, Sebastian?” She thoughtfully traced her fingertip around the rim of her glass as she slid a sideways glance at him. “Should you be punished for daring to care about that girl?”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then looked up at his father’s portrait. “Yes.”
He finished off the rest of his brandy in a gasping swallow, but there wasn’t enough cognac in the world to dull the pain. Or ease the guilt.
“I must admit that I was surprised when your sister told me what had happened,” she pressed gently. “Not only that you found Miranda attractive, but that you let yourself be intimate with her.”
Embarrassment surged through him, and he shook his head. “This is not a conversation I should be having with my mother.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement at that. “My dear boy, where do you think you came from—a stork?”
“Yes,” he agreed quickly with a very arched brow. Good Lord, he desperately needed more brandy. “Yes, I did. So did all my siblings.” He paused to consider…“Except for Quinton, who was left by gypsies.”
She smiled at that. Thankfully letting go of that aspect of the conversation, she turned her gaze back to the portrait.
Several moments of silence passed. Her smile faded as she commented thoughtfully, “She must mean a great deal to you if you’re this troubled.”
“She does,” he answered quietly. There was no point in lying to his mother. She knew him too well.
“Hmm. Then what do you plan to do about it?”
What could he do? “Nothing.”
“Because you’re a duke,” she said deliberately, “and she’s the niece of our tenant farmer…who most likely lights her own fires.”
He gritted his teeth at that subtle rebuke. “It isn’t the same, and you know it. Father wasn’t a peer when you married him. He was an army officer, free to marry whomever he pleased.”
She set her glass away, apparently not having a taste for brandy after all. “Do you care about her, Sebastian?” she asked quietly but bluntly. “Or was she simply an evening’s entertainment?”
He lowered his gaze to the fire, unable to bear looking at his father’s picture as he admitted quietly, “I love her.”
His mother’s lips parted in surprise. She was too shocked by that to say anything.
“I know,” he admitted, blowing out a hard breath. “Stuns the hell out of me, too.”
Needing something to do, he set down his empty glass and took up the poker again, although the fire didn’t need to be tended. After a few halfhearted jabs at the coals, he gave up, returned the poker, and began to pace.
“She’s nothing like I thought she was,” he admitted. “She’s not at all flighty, just vivacious, although a bit beyond control when she gets swept up into the excitement of the moment.” The memory of the opera came back to him in vivid detail, and he couldn’t help but remember how excited she’d been that night. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Do you know she reads Milton and rewrites Shakespeare?”
Mother blinked. “Rewrites Shakespeare?”
“There should have been a pirate scene in Hamlet,” he explained, and truly, wasn’t that obvious? Then the smile he’d been holding back fully blossomed into a grin of pride. “And you’d be so pleased with what she’s done with the orphans.”
“I am,” she confirmed softly. “All the women who sit on the orphanage board think she’s done a remarkable job.”
“She isn’t at all the annoying girl from next door any longer.” And that was the problem. In the past few months, Miranda had grown into a woman in her own right.
“Does she make you happy?”
He stopped pacing and faced her, fighting back the urge to refill his glass. “More than I thought possible of any woman.”
His mother hesitated, needing a moment to digest that bit of information, then asked softly, “Does she know how you feel about her?”
“She knows I cannot marry her.”
“Cannot,” she pressed, “or will not?”
In what his life had become, there was no difference. “I need a duchess, not only a wife.” He shook his head. “A country bluestocking who knew nothing about society or its rules until this season…How can she ever become the duchess I need?”
Mother gazed at him sympathetically. “The same way I went from being a country girl to a duchess,” she answered quietly. “One day at a time, with the love and help of my husband.”
He shook his head. He desperately wanted to believe her. He wanted to hope that he could be happy in his choice of wife and the future they’d have together, but the situation wasn’t as simple as she made it out to be. “She’s the orphaned niece of our tenant farmer,” he said. “She’s no better in society’s eyes than a shop girl, barmaid, or—”
“Actress?” she interjected gently.
He froze, his body flashing numb. The events of that terrible night of his father’s death came crashing back, and he could barely breathe under the weight of it. She knew…Mother knew! But that—that was impossible. He’d covered his tracks too well, and he’d never seen the woman again after that night.
“That’s where you were the night your father died. With an actress you’d met at the theater.” Her eyes softened on him. “And you haven’t forgiven yourself for it.”
Her soft words pierced him like a knife, and he stared at her, searching her face for answers. How long had she known? Dear God, how much had he hurt her all these years, only for her to suffer his thoughtlessness in silence?
He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, but it did little to stop the pain. “I should have been with my family, not with her.”
She laid her hand gently on his shoulder. “How could you have known what would happen that night? Even if you’d been there, you couldn’t have stopped the accident. No one could have.”
The anguished words tore from him—“I could have been there to say good-bye.”
“Oh, my poor boy.” She cupped his face in her hands and tenderly kissed his temple. “That’s the punishment you’re still carrying inside you, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice strangled with tears. “The blame you still place on yourself…that if you hadn’t been with that woman you would have been by his side. But we don’t know that, either.”
“I do.” He opened his eyes to look at her, and her face blurred as the self-recrimination tore from him. “Because if I hadn’t hidden her from all of you, hadn’t lied about where I was, you would have known where to find me. You could have sent for me, and I would have—”
“Still arrived too late,” she finished in a whisper, the truth too painful for her to find her voice. When his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of that, she reached up to lovingly brush a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You must stop punishing yourself for that night. You were a good son to your father, Sebastian. He was so proud of you.”
“Proud?” He couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that rose on his lips. “Of what, Mother? A string of dalliances with disreputable women, even after I’d promised him that I would put the title and our family before all else? Or lying to both of you because I knew he wouldn’t have approved of the women I associated with?”
Her eyes softened with grief and compassion as she gazed silently at him.
“The night my father died, instead of being at his side to provide comfort to him and you, I was in the bed of an actress.” The confession cut at him as he rasped out, “A woman I knew Father would never have approved of. I put my own selfish desires before the needs of the title and neglected my family.”
“And you haven’t let yourself have a moment’s happiness since,” she concluded gently. Then she added as she deduced, “Except with Miranda. And the guilt of that is eating at you, isn’t it, my son? Because you think you were punished the night your father died.”
“I know so,” he admitted as he stepped away from her. He couldn’t bear her concern a moment longer. “I knew I could never marry Miranda. I didn’t put the dukedom first, or I would never have…” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I was only thinking of myself, not of the title.”
“But, Sebastian,” she reminded him gently, “you are the title now. How does being unhappy serve yourself well?”
His chest tightened so hard that he could barely breathe. His happiness…the same concern that Miranda had for him last night. Yet tonight, the answer was still unchanged. What he wanted as a man was of no concern. His wants and desires ended the night his father died, when he became Trent. “Father would never have approved of Miranda as my duchess.”
“Oh yes, he would have.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “She’s not of the same station.”
“No, she’s not.” She turned to gaze once more up at the portrait, with love glowing on her face. “And he would have only cared that she’s a good woman who loves you for yourself and who makes you happy.”
Uncertainty churned inside him. “But the actress—”
“Her he definitely would not have approved. But it would have had nothing to do with her profession.” She turned to face him. “The reason I know about her and that night was because she came to Chestnut Hill a few weeks after your father died, looking for you. She’d learned that you’d inherited, and she planned to set herself up as the new duke’s mistress. She didn’t care about you or gaining society’s respect—she only wanted your money.” A self-pleased smile curled her lips. “I sent her packing so fast I think I frightened her.”
“I had no idea,” he murmured, surprised by his mother’s fierce protection of her family during the darkest time of her life.
“At the time, there was no reason to tell you. You didn’t need to carry that burden on top of the others you were already shouldering.” She frowned, her face darkening with remorse. “But I now think I might have made a mistake in not telling you.” She paused a long and thoughtful moment. “What did Miranda want from you?”
“She wanted me,” he admitted quietly, still not quite able to believe it himself.
His mother tensed, her eyes narrowing at that. “She wanted to be duchess?”
“No,” he corrected quietly, looking up at his father, “she wanted me to be happy, and she wanted me to love her. She didn’t want the duke at all.” He grimaced as the memory of her words fell through him like ice water. “She wanted me.”
“It seems to me,” she said as she smiled at him with love, “that she can still have you, if you allow it.”
He didn’t dare let loose the faint stirrings of hope that began to blossom in his chest. He knew better than anyone the obstacles still standing between them. Even with his heart pounding at the possibility, he shook his head, unwilling to believe it. “Society would cut her to pieces.”
“My darling boy, you are a Carlisle. Your father was a soldier, your sister was a highwayman, and your two brothers are set on destroying St James’s Street, one club at a time.” With a knowing smile, she placed a kiss to his temple before she moved away toward the door. “When has anyone in this family ever truly cared about what society thinks?”
He stared down at the glass in his hands, his fingers trembling with the enormity of all that he’d learned tonight. For the first time in two years, hope warmed inside him that his life might be more than the burden of the title. That he might find happiness after all.
“She must hate me,” he murmured, giving voice to his worst fears. “After all the pain I’ve caused her…How do I begin to make up for that?”
“Start by telling her that you love her.” She paused to smile at him before she slipped out the door. “After all, that’s what your father did with me.”
* * *
“Oh, blast it!” Miranda looked down at the ruined column of figures in the orphanage’s account book and nearly cried. Again.
Shoving the book across the desk, she hung her head in her hands. She was utterly miserable, and the only thing that kept her from breaking into sobs yet again this afternoon was that she’d done almost nothing else since she returned to Islingham four days ago but cry. And think of Sebastian. Then cry some more…until she simply had no tears left.
Not even her work at the orphanage was able to distract her. She’d hoped that catching up with the accounts would provide enough distraction that she might be able to lose herself for a few hours in the sums and columns. But her mind only continued to wander, and she’d messed up the figures…Three hundred pounds for soap? Oh, she should never have come into her office in the first place!
But she would have gone mad if she’d remained at home.
Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Hamish had been surprised at her unexpected return—and concerned, although they were kind enough not to press for the real reason she’d fled the city for home. All she could tell them was that her season had not gone as planned and that she missed Islingham. Which was the truth. For the past four days, she’d mostly stayed at home and paced, cried, then paced some more, until the silence and stillness of the house drove her into the village to the orphanage.
But even here, amid the familiar noise and chaos of the children, her thoughts were not her own.
By now, Sebastian had undoubtedly found a lady to formally court, and she would have eagerly accepted, knowing he planned on marrying her. After all, what woman in her right mind would refuse a man like him? If a handsome, golden-blond duke with a brilliant mind and witty sense of humor, a wonderful family, and oh, so much passion inside him just waiting to burst out had offered for her—
But he hadn’t.
And never would.
Unable to stop herself from wallowing in misery, she folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself tightly as she wondered if Sebastian ever thought about her.
But of course he didn’t. She cursed her foolishness as she wiped at her wet eyes, a few tears apparently left in her after all. Why would he? What they’d shared was precious but fleeting, especially for a man like him who’d left a string of broken hearts fluttering in his wake over the years. By August, he’d most likely have forgotten all about what happened between them.
But she would never forget. And so she couldn’t remain here.
Islingham was her home, and after having experienced the disappointments of London, she never wanted to leave it again, content to spend the rest of her days here with the orphans and the people she loved. But that was impossible now. She would have to find a position someplace else as a governess or a teacher, perhaps as a manageress for another orphanage. But she had to be gone by August. She had to. Having to see Sebastian with his wife, to see the children she would give him and the home they would create together at Blackwood Hall…Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand hard against her chest and the shattered heart inside— Oh God, she simply couldn’t bear that!
“Miss!” Mr. Grundy ran into her office, hat in hand and visibly agitated. “Miss, come quickly!”
She sat up and swiped at her eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen the tears. But of course he’d seen them, although he was too kind to say anything. “What’s the matter, Mr. Grundy?”
“You’re needed in the rear garden—real quick!”
Panic flashed through her, and dread instantly replaced her own sorrow as her mind immediately feared the worst. The children! They’d been quiet all morning, and even though they’d been squirreled away in their classroom, they’d been too quiet. And that was never good. She’d been too distracted by her own selfish problems to notice that something was wrong. If the children had hurt themselves because of her own self-pity, oh, she would never be able to forgive herself!
She jumped to her feet and ran through the building, out the kitchen door and into the garden—and stopped.
She stared and blinked in wonder. And utter bewilderment.
The space had been transformed. The small spot of lawn within the garden walls where the housekeeper normally hung the laundry to dry and where the children played their games now resembled a fairy-tale land. Pink satin streamers billowed among white sheets strung up like curtains, and dark red ribbons stirred gently on the warm afternoon breeze. Everywhere, there were roses…dozens and dozens of them in all colors and sizes, spilling out of buckets and vases, pitchers and barrels, and whatever else could hold them, right down to teacups big enough to hold only a single bud. Their sweet scent filled the air and surrounded her like a soft cloud from heaven. And in the center, fashioned of papier-mâché and wood, stood a miniature pagoda, exactly like the one at Vauxhall.
Around the small structure, the children had gathered in a group, all of them holding red roses. When they saw her, their faces lit with excitement and they began to sing.
“What is all this?” Miranda rested a stunned hand on Mr. Grundy’s arm as the handyman gently led her forward into the garden, a beaming smile on his weathered face. She laughed with incredulity; the happiness of the children and Mr. Grundy was infectious, despite the heavy weight that pressed onto her heart. And always would. “What play is this? I thought we were studying Romeo and Juliet this—”
“You are.”
Her breath strangled at the sound of the deep voice, and her heart stopped.
Sebastian.
Like a ghost from her tortured dreams, he slowly stepped out from behind the rows of children and crossed the garden toward her. He held out his hand.
But Miranda didn’t move to go to him. She could only stand there, staring at the apparition of him and pressing her hand against her chest, as if she could physically hold back the stuttering lurch of her heart. Because he couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be. He was in London with his family—
Yet the agonizing torment swirling inside her chest told her that he was real, that he wasn’t a dream that her fevered mind had conjured up from her desperate longing to see him again. As she stared at him, every pounding beat of her pulse was torture, and each step that brought him closer sliced new agony into her chest. But even now, as the anguished memory of his parting words flooded back to her, she couldn’t look away.
When he stopped in front of her, he reached to gently pull her hand away from her heart and folded his fingers over hers.
She flinched at the burn of his touch. She couldn’t help it, or the way her fingers trembled in his. Or the soft cry of pain when he raised her hand to his lips to kiss her palm. His handsome face blurred behind the tears that now streamed unbidden down her cheeks. Leaving him in London had been agonizing, but having him return to her here—unbearable!
“Miranda,” he whispered, sudden concern darkening his face as he cupped his palm against her cheek and brushed at her tears with his thumb. Behind him, the children continued with their song, and the sheets danced around them on the soft breeze. But inside her chest, the pain was blinding, so terrible that she could barely breathe. “Don’t cry, sweet. You know how much I hate it when you cry. This was supposed to make us happy.”
Happy? She forced back a sob of desolation. How on earth did he think that tormenting her like this could make them both happy? Unless…unless he was troubled about having to face his guilt every time he saw her in Islingham, unless he thought that making an elaborate enough apology would make them all get along again as if nothing had ever happened between them. Was that why he was here—an apology? Certainly, if she were willing to overlook what happened, to never give it another thought and go back to being no more than friends, life would be easier for him and his new bride. Her forgiveness would make him happy, even if it cut her into pieces.
Anger swelled inside her, and she stepped back, breaking contact with him, unable to bear it another second. Oh, this was so typical of the Carlisle brothers and the way they’d always handled their mistakes. The bigger their blunder, the bigger the apology they had to give in order to set it to rights. But there weren’t enough roses in Lincolnshire to heal the damage Sebastian had done to her heart. And she doubted if she could ever forgive him. She should laugh at him—yes! Make him see that he meant nothing to her. Or slap him for humiliating her once again by putting on this show.
Yet hurting him was the last thing she would ever do, because even now her foolish heart still loved him.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Your Grace,” she whispered, the admission barely more than a breath. As she turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the pain he put there, she caught sight of the cook and housekeeper peering out the window at them. Oh, perfect! Now her humiliation was complete. She choked out, “I—I’m going away. I’ve decided to leave Islingham so that you won’t be bothered by me.”
With a somber expression, he closed the distance between them. “I hope not,” he told her, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “It would be a shame if you continue to make me chase after you after I’ve come all this way.”
“Chase after…” Blinking hard as confusion trampled at her heart, she tried to clear the hot tears from her stinging eyes, but only caused more to fall. “I don’t— I—I don’t understand,” she stuttered out between sobs. “Why are you really here, Sebastian? Why did you go to all this trouble just to…just to…” Just to permanently end what we shared?
Unable to finish the sentence, she pressed her hand against her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut—
“Just to propose,” he finished gently.
Her eyes flew open, and she searched frantically for answers in his tear-blurred face. “Propose?” She couldn’t dare hope—it would be so utterly foolish and ludicrous…But her heart had a mind of its own when it came to this man. And always would. “To me?”
He laughed gently and reached once more for her hand. “Yes, sweet, to you.”
When she tried to wrench her hand away, he held tight, refusing to let her go. She feared he could feel her heart somersaulting furiously in confusion. “But—but you said you could never marry me.”
“I was wrong.” His broad shoulders sagged with solemn regret, and he kissed her fingers tenderly, as if seeking absolution. “Since my father died, I thought I had to honor him by being the perfect son, which meant being the perfect duke.”
“And marrying the perfect duchess,” she interjected. She couldn’t prevent the stab of jealousy that made her strike out at him even now. He’d hurt her, so inexcusably. “You thought I could never be that for you.”
“Yes,” he admitted, remorse flitting across his features. “Because I wrongly thought that was what my father expected of me. But I know better now. Yes, the title was important to him, so was making certain its legacy would be respected. But he also knew how hard being a duke could be, that I would need help to oversee the dukedom and take care of my family.”
“He didn’t mean me,” she whispered, lowering her face.
“Maybe not you exactly, but a woman who loves me the way you do, who makes me laugh and smile, who makes me happy, now and for the rest of my days.” He cupped his palm against her cheek. “You do all that, and more. Forgive me, Rose, for not believing in you until it was almost too late.”
She shook her head, her heart tearing anew. “But I’m…I’m not good enough for you,” she breathed out, so softly that her words barely made any sound.
His face darkened with anger. “Don’t ever say that again, do you hear?” He cupped her face between his hands. “I’m the one who isn’t good enough for you. But if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, then I promise to spend the rest of my days proving my worth to you.”
He leaned in to place a soft kiss against her lips, and she gasped at the raw emotion she tasted in him.
“Forgive me, sweet,” he whispered against her lips.
She shook her head, unable to find her voice beneath the tidal wave of emotions warring inside her. “You were so set on finding a society daughter to be your duchess—”
“You are the woman I want to be my duchess,” he assured her, his eyes shining with unabashed certainty as he stared down at her. “You’re the toast of the London season and the savior of orphans. A woman so believing in love that you were willing to sneak into a man’s bedchamber to get it.”
A hot blush colored her cheeks, and she turned her face away. Oh, would he never let her live that down?
He took her chin and turned her back to look at him. “When you sing hymns at Sunday service, you dream of being an opera singer, and every time you read or watch a play, you dream of being onstage. You cause mayhem everywhere you go, and there’s not a peer in England safe from your spilled wineglass.” When she stared at him, her lips parting in incredulous disbelief that he would say that as a compliment, he added tenderly, “And you’re the woman I love. The only woman I want for my wife.”
A sob tore from her. The nightmare had turned into a dream.
“I love you, and I need you to be by my side to guide me, to counsel me and argue with me, to challenge me and love me…to save me.” His sapphire blue eyes took on a pleading aspect as he took both her hands in his. “Save me, my sweet Rose.”
He lowered himself to one knee and withdrew her red slipper from beneath his jacket. The same slipper he’d been holding hostage since January. In all the turmoil and confusion of the past few weeks, she’d forgotten all about it and their pact to help each other find love this season. And how he’d promised that she would get it back only when he’d found a bride and the marriage offer was accepted. She laughed through her tears.
“Will you marry me, Miranda?” He reached for her leg and gently lifted her foot to remove her shoe, then placed the slipper delicately into place. “Say yes so that I can go hat in hand to your uncle Hamish and beg the man to let me have you.”
She could barely breathe for the sudden rush of emotion pulsing through her, all the love she held for him surging to the surface and filling her to her soul. Her fingers trembled as she touched his cheek. “Sebastian—”
“Marry him!” the children shouted at her, urged on by Mr. Grundy, who circled around them and waved his arms to encourage them to shout even louder. Unable to contain their curiosity any longer, the housekeeper and cook rushed through the door into the garden and joined in the chorus of chants. “Yes! Yes!”
She glanced around the garden at the people who helped her with the orphanage, at the elaborate trouble they had gone through to make this moment as romantic for her as possible, and at the children she loved—then her eyes landed on Sebastian, and the way he gazed up at her made her heart bounce. He wasn’t seeing the troublemaking girl in braids, nor the seductress in masquerade…He had finally come to see the woman she was and the role she could play in his life. And he loved her.
“Yes,” she choked between fresh tears, this time of pure joy. Stepping into his arms, she laughed and nuzzled her face against his shoulder. “Yes, I will marry you!”
Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her down onto the grass with him. He leaned over her and gave her a scandalous kiss that sent the orphans cheering.
“You knew I’d say yes if you asked,” she whispered, cupping his face in her palms. “You know how much I love you.”
He flashed her a crooked grin. “Well, I’d hoped.”
“Then why all this?” She waved her hand to indicate the transformed garden, the magical pagoda, and all the children who had once again broken into song. “You went to so much trouble.”
“Because you are worth it.” His arms tightened around her. “And because I know how much the children mean to you. I wanted them to be part of this. Besides,” he told her, his eyes gleaming as he leaned in to kiss her again, “Romeo and Juliet needed a proposal scene.”