Penelope had no resistance to that tone in her weakened state. She opened her eyes, tears clinging to her lashes as she glared at him. “I did a most unladylike thing this morning. While I waited for you, I read a letter that was on your desk. . . a letter from one who obviously adores you and one you love in return.” She gave a woeful shake of her head. “I could not stand between you and such a wonderful love, Jonathan. Please understand, I wish you only the best. Leave me. Go to the one you love.”
The eyes she tightly shut now flashed open at his shout of outrage.
Ignoring her bruised ribs, Jonathan as gently as possible placed an arm on either side of her, then stared intently into the bluest, truest eyes he had ever seen. “That letter was to my father, who was at the time the earl, if you stop to think about it. It was written by my mother. I found it in a book of poetry in which I had foolishly hoped to find a love poem to quote to you. I have the letter with me, for I thought my mother would like to keep it.”
“Oh,” Penny said in a whispery voice, not daring to meet those blazing black eyes staring down at her. Which was a pity, for those eyes were filled with an infinite love and great tenderness. However, she couldn’t evade the loving kiss that shortly touched her lips.
When at last he allowed her to catch a breath, one he needed as well, he inquired in a deceptively gentle tone, “Is that all you have to say, wife-to-be?”
“I am sorry . . . for everything, the trouble, the trip, all—” Her words were cut off when he continued where he left off.
A scandalized gasp halted what might have been a painful seduction, given the state of her poor ribs.
Jonathan lifted himself from his captive sweetheart to meet his mother’s eyes. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the letter, handing it to her with a half-smile. “Read it.”
“Goodness, wherever did you find this?” she exclaimed, forgetting all about the scolding she had intended. She skimmed the page, looking up to give them a misty smile.
Jonathan watched her drift from the guest chamber, then turned again to his love. “As I was saying...” and he bent his head to draw closer, fully intending to make the most of his opportunity.
“Stop! This does not mean we need to marry.”
“Oh, I believe it does. My mother might well broadcast our indiscretion to all the world and his wife, or at least to London.”
“Be serious.” She punched him lightly on the arm, a featherweight touch.
“I am, my sweet. I suspect it is you who have had a change of heart.”
“True,” she admitted. When she saw the look of pain in his eyes, she explained, “I cannot marry for an estate, for money, for any reason save love.”
“Could you learn to love me, given time?” He anxiously surveyed her precious face, his inventive mind searching for all the possible ways he might use to convince her of his love, and to love him in return.
Quite confused, for this was not at all how the scene was supposed to go, she blurted out, “But I do! Love you. Quite desperately, in fact.” Then she blushed a rosy pink and snapped her eyes closed again, utterly mortified at her boldness.
“Fine,” he said with satisfaction. “For I believe I fell in love with you the day you barged into my home demanding that I help you. I suspect my heart has been yours from that day on.”
Blue eyes instantly looked back at him, a wondering look creeping across her face as she considered his words. Ignoring the discomfort, she shyly wove her arms about his neck, bringing his dear face close to hers.
“Show me.”
Copyright © 1992 by Doris Emily Hendrickson
Originally published by Signet
Electronically published in 2004 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
