Dorothea, eyes round, regarded her soon to be motherin-law. The novel idea of forcing such an issue with her stubborn and domineering betrothed had an attraction all its own. ‘How?’

Tucking her arm into Dorothea’s, Lady Hazelmere smiled joyously. ‘Let’s go and look at your wardrobe, shall we?’

That evening Hazelmere arrived in the drawing-room, just ahead of Penton, as usual, to escort his betrothed and his mother into dinner. As he crossed the threshold his eyes went to Dorothea. He blinked and checked, then smoothly recovered himself.

Throughout the meal he struggled to keep his eyes away from the vision in ivory silk seated on his right. But for once his mother seemed curiously silent, leaving Dorothea and himself to carry the conversation. In the end he forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. That was bad enough, but not nearly so disturbing as the rest of her. Where in hell had she got that gown? Presumably Celestine-simplicity was her hallmark. An ivory sheath with a bodice so abbreviated that it barely passed muster, with an overdress of silk gauze so fine that it was completely transparent. The entire creation was held together by a row of tiny pearl buttons down the front. He had never been so thankful to see the end of a meal as he was that night.

He watched Dorothea and his mother retire upstairs to the parlour. With a sigh of relief he went into the library. Half an hour later, settled in one of the huge wing chairs before the fire, a large brandy by his side, he was deep in the latest newssheet when he heard the door shut. Looking up, he stood as Dorothea came towards him, calm and serene as ever, a book in her hands. ‘Your mother has retired early so that she’ll be able to farewell us in the morning. I thought I’d come and sit with you for a while. You don’t mind, do you?’

He smiled in response to her smile and settled her in the wing chair opposite his. She opened her book and seemed to be quite content to sit quietly reading. He returned to his newssheet.

For a while only the ticking of the huge grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional crackle from the fire disturbed the peace. Glancing up, he saw she had laid aside her book and was calmly watching the leaping flames. The light from the fire flickered in a rosy glow over her still figure, striking coppery glints from her dark hair. He forced his attention back to the newssheet.

After reading the same paragraph four times, and still having no idea what it said, he gave up. He laid the paper aside. In one smooth movement he rose and, crossing to her, took her hands; raising her, he drew her into his arms. He looked down into her emerald eyes, then bent his head until his lips found hers. The room was still; only the flames rose and fell, illuminating the figures locked together before the hearth. When the kiss finally ended they were both breathing raggedly. The hazel and green eyes locked for a time in silent communion, then Hazelmere bent to lightly brush her lips with his. ‘I love you.’

Hardly daring to speak in case the magic surrounding them shattered into a million shards, Dorothea barely breathed the words, ‘And I love you.’

The severely sculpted lips lifted in a decidedly wicked smile. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

Many hours later Dorothea, blissfully sated, snuggled herself against the long length of her husband-to-be. They had come up to his room; her room next door was not yet refurbished. Her clothes, and his, were scattered in a trail from the door to the hearth. They had first made love, exquisitely, on the huge daybed before the fire. Later they had moved to the even larger four-poster, where they now lay. With a soft, contented sigh she settled herself to sleep, one arm across his chest, his arm around her, holding her close.

Suddenly, in the darkness, Hazelmere chuckled. Then he shook with silent laughter. ‘Oh, God! What on earth will Murgatroyd say this time?’

Dorothea murmured sleepily and dropped a kiss on his collarbone. She had no idea who Murgatroyd was and was not particularly interested. She was too busy savouring the novel sensation of having won an argument with her arrogant Marquis. Even if she did not win another for a considerable time, she doubted it would bother her. She was bound to be far too contented to care.

About the Author

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