“You love me?”
“For God’s sake.” He was off his knee in an instant, dusting briskly at his breeches. “Why else would I have tried to keep my bloody paws off you when you were just eight and twenty feet down the hall? Why else would I have gone to my father—Meddling Moreland himself?—to ask for help and advice? Why else would I have let you go, for pity’s sake, if I didn’t love you until I’m blind and silly and… Jesus, yes, I love you.”
“Westhaven.” Anna reached out and stroked a hand through his hair. “You are shouting, and you mean this.”
“I am not in the habit of lying to the woman whom I hope to make my duchess.”
That, he saw, got through to her. Since the day she’d bashed him with her poker, he’d been honest with her. Cranky, gruff, demanding, what have you, but he’d been honest. So he was honest again.
“I love you, Anna.” His voice shook with the truth of it. “I love you. I want you for my wife, my duchess, and the mother of all of my children.”
She cradled her hand along his jaw, and in her eyes, he saw his own joy mirrored, his incredulity that life could offer him a gift as stunningly perfect as the love they shared, and his bottomless determination to grab that gift with both hands and never let go.
She leaned into him, as if the weight of his honesty were too much. “Oh, you are the most awful man. Of course I will marry you, of course I love you, of course I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But you have made me cry, and I have need of your handkerchief.”
“You have need of my arms,” he said, laughing and scooping her up against his chest. He pressed his forehead to hers and jostled her a little in his embrace. “Say it, Anna. In the King’s English, or no handkerchief for you.”
He was smiling at her, grinning like a truant schoolboy on a beautiful day.
“I love you,” Anna said. Then more loudly and with a fierce smile, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Gayle Windham, and I would be honored to be your duchess.”
“And my wife?” He spun them in a circle, the better to hold her tightly to his chest. “You’ll be my wife, and my duchess, and the mother of my children?”
“With greatest joy, I’ll be your wife, your duchess, and the mother of all your children. Now please, please, put me down and kiss me silly. I have missed you so.”
“My handkerchief.” He set her down on the bench, surrendered his handkerchief with a flourish, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “And my heart, not in that order.”
And then he bent his head and kissed her silly.
ANNA WINDHAM, COUNTESS OF WESTHAVEN, WAS enjoying a leisurely measure of those things which pleased her most: peace and quiet at the end of the evening and anticipation of her husband’s exclusive company in the great expanse of the marital bed.
“I can wait, Anna.” Her husband’s voice shook a little with his mendacity, and behind those beautiful green of his eyes, there was both trepidation and heat. “It’s been only a few months, and you must be sure.” He stood beside the bed, peering down at her where she lay.
“It has been eternities,” Anna said, “and for once, your heir appears to have made an early night of it. Come here.” She held out her arms, and in a single moment, he was out of his dressing gown and settling his warmth and length over her.
“Husband, I have missed you.”
“I’m right here. I will always be here, but we can’t rush this. You’ve had a baby, given me my heir, and you must prom—”
She kissed him into silence then kissed him into kissing her back, but he was made of ducally stern stuff.
“Anna, I’ll be careful. We’ll take it slowly, but you need to tell—”
She got her legs wrapped around his flanks and began to undulate her damp sex along the glorious length of his rigid erection.
“We’ll be fine,” she whispered, lipping at his ear lobe. “Better than fine.”
As they sank into the fathomless bliss of intimate reunion, they were fine indeed, and then much, much,
It takes a village to transform a first-time author’s aspirations into the lovely book you’re reading now. At the risk of leaving out a few deserving villagers, I’d like to thank my editor, Deb Werksman, who has been patient and supportive over a long haul, and my agent, Kevan Lyon, who has been forbearing with an author who has more enthusiasm than industry expertise (for now!). The art department, marketing, and copy-editing folks all deserve an enthusiastic nod, along with editorial assistants and numerous other contributors.
And first, last and always, I must thank my family, whose emphasis on education and the life of the mind resulted in my having enough imagination to create
Grace Burrowes is the pen name for a prolific and award-winning author of historical romances. Her manuscripts have finaled or garnered honorable mention in the New Jersey Romance Writers Put Your Heart in a Book contest, the Indiana Romance Writers Indiana Golden Opportunity contest, the Georgia Romance Writers Maggie contest, the Virginia Romance Writers Fool for Love contest, and the Spacecoast Romance Writers Launching a Star contest. She won the historical category in both the Maggie and the Indiana Golden Opportunity contests. She is a practicing attorney specializing in family law and lives in rural Maryland. Grace can be reached through her website, graceburrowes.com, and through her email at [email protected].
