His expression changed to one of confusion.
She stepped closer still and watched the flame of desire flicker to life in his eyes at her proximity.
“Your refusal to marry me now sort of ruins that plan, Ewan. Because I want to marry for love. And you’re the man I love.” She reached up and placed a hand tentatively on his chest right over his racing heart, swallowing a lump of emotion as his arms grabbed her and pulled her off her feet.
His voice cracked as he whispered words of endearment, burying his face in her neck.
“I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much. I’ll never stop trying to make this up to you, if you’ll let me.”
But Beatrice had already chosen forgiveness. Chosen trust. Now, she wanted to just concentrate on building a future together.
“You can make it up to me by marrying me.” She smiled up at him, expecting his capitulation.
He leaned down and kissed the wits clean out of her, igniting the now familiar conflagration that was so much a part of their love for each other.
When he let her up for air, he smiled down at her.
“No.” His answer was gentle but firm, shocking her to her core. “But, I would dearly love to escort you to the May Day celebration as your betrothed. If you’ll have me.”
She scowled with displeasure even as her heart thumped with happiness. But it wasn’t long before her smile made a return.
“Of course, I’ll have you,” she whispered. “Forever.”
Epilogue
“This is silly,” Beatrice objected.
“No, it’s not,” Natalia answered stoutly. “It’s perfect.”
Beatrice ran a critical eye over her reflection in the mirror, straightening the floral crown atop her loose, chestnut curls.
“Well, I feel silly,” she muttered as Natalia pressed a bouquet of spring flowers into her hands.
“But you look beautiful,” Natalia countered stubbornly. “Now come along. I think a year is a long enough wait.”
Beatrice couldn’t supress her grin as she stepped around the small crowd to take her place at the front of the May Day procession.
It was unconventional, to say the least. But then, everything about her engagement to Ewan was unconventional.
Ordinarily, a year-long engagement would be cause for concern, she supposed. But Ewan had remained steadfast in his determination not to marry her until he was independently wealthy, meaning he had no need for her dowry.
He was uncompromising when it came to the money that had very nearly torn them apart.
“Spend it or save it for our daughters,” he’d insisted. “But I won’t touch a penny of it.”
After their reunion last year, Ewan had left for five long months, and Beatrice had missed him desperately.
Her only consolation when she’d been dragged to London by Mama had been that whilst she hadn’t managed to get married by May, she’d gotten engaged, and that had been enough to stop the lessons with Monsieur Bisset and stop the humiliating matchmaking efforts from Lady Fortescue.
Ewan had managed to hold onto most of his business interests, selling only what he needed to clear his father’s debts.
And was now, as he’d always known he would be, an independently wealthy man.
When he’d finally arrived home, coming straight to see her, he’d informed her that they’d had no choice but to sell his childhood home.
Sir Edmund had no interest in a pile of stone in the wilds of Scotland, or so he said, and so had agreed with no small measure of pressure from Ben, who was keeping a very close eye on him, to allow Mr. Brooks to sell the house and farm, thus clearing the remaining debt and allowing Ewan to keep hold of most of his businesses.
His parents, he’d said, had written to say that they were living very comfortably in Scotland and that they would travel down for the wedding.
A wedding that was now, finally, happening.
Mr. Almont, red-faced with excitement, spotted Beatrice and waved her forward.
“Ah, my lady,” he bowed. “We have our May Queen, and we can begin.”
Beatrice’s cheeks flushed with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. She had no idea why Ewan had insisted on this for their wedding.
“You will just have to accept the attention and adoration as your due, Your Majesty,” he’d joked when she’d complained about the strings he’d pulled.
But a secret part of her thrilled at the idea that "little old her" had finally been crowned the May Queen.
Beatrice led the procession through the village, smiling at the calls from well-wishers, waving at the children who squealed in excitement as she passed.
Finally, the church came into view — a stop on the way to the May Pole, Ewan had explained.
“Are you ready?” Ben whispered as he took her arm, preparing to lead her inside and toward her future.
“It’s been a year.” She smiled up at him. “I am definitely ready.”
Mr. Altmont rushed ahead to signal to the organ player, and as Beatrice stepped inside, her eyes immediately found Ewan and she glided toward him, ready for her forever to start.
“Alone at last.”
Ewan felt like a hormonal lad as he finally closed the door behind him, turning the lock with a decisive click.
It had been a torturous couple of months, and he was desperate to get close to his wife.
His wife! He still couldn’t believe his luck, especially with how things had started between them.
Prowling toward her, he reached out and pulled her against him, groaning at the feel of her finally pressed against him.
“You know,” he bent his head to nibble at her neck, delighting in her gasp of pleasure. “I thought being away from you in India was bad but being so close to you during the wedding preparations and not being able to steal more than a few kisses has been utter torment.”
He reached up to pull the floral crown from her locks.
She’d looked beautiful in the fanciful crown and flowing white gown. Like a forest nymph. And now, she was all his.
It was enough to bring
