Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas(13)

But it wouldn't be like that. Obviously he had cherished some romanticized image of her for the last ten years, and that vision was obscuring the plain, bread-and-butter reality of Miss Roxanne Elizabeth Mayfield, spinster of the parish. After taking a deep breath, she repeated, "I am not going to marry you."

"Yes, you are. You promised. Several times, in fact. Remember?" His face was amiable and ridiculously handsome. "We've been pledged to each other for ten years. It's time we marched to the altar. It will be a romantic tale, the wedding of the century!"

"For the love of…!” Clamping down on her exasperation, she said, "Very well, if you want me to make it official, I will. Any engagement that was between us is over. Am I making myself sufficiently clear?"

"Remember the discussions we had about Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin? You liked the fact that I supported the principle of equal rights and obligations for females. I still do. If a man isn't allowed to jilt a woman, then a woman shouldn't be allowed to jilt a man." He smiled angelically. "The betrothal stands."





Chapter 7





Roxanne gasped at Dominick's effrontery. "We are not betrothed! You can't force me to marry you. No vicar will perform a ceremony when the female is gagged and that's the only way you'll be able to prevent me from protesting!"

"Ah, but by the time we reach the vicar, you won't be protesting." His gaze holding hers, he stepped forward and drew her into his arms. Softly, gently, his lips met hers in a warm, thorough exploration.

She gave a tiny whimper and clutched his upper arms. His embrace was as familiar as her dreams, where he had come to her in the depths of a thousand nights.

The kiss deepened and he drew her closer. He was so tall, so muscular. She felt desire rising and her breasts ached with longing. With a gasp she tore herself away, unconsciously wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if that would free her of his spell.

He gave a slow, dangerous smile. "You'll not escape me so easily, Roxanne."

She turned away from him, shaking. It wasn't fair that she had to be reasonable for both of them! If it was left to Dominick, they would plunge into marriage, then make each other miserable. He would leave her, or take mistresses, and she would wish she were dead. If only she didn't love him ...

She stopped and pressed her hands to her temples. Oh, Lord, she did love him, didn't she? Against all sense, she felt exactly as she had ten years before. Even when she had hated him for his betrayal, she had never stopped loving him. She was an utter fool.

She must escape tonight when he was asleep, before she lost what remained of her wits. After swallowing hard, she turned to face him. "And you'll not change my mind easily, my lord."

"It will be interesting to discover which of us is more stubborn. We're well matched, Roxanne. That's one of the reasons I fell in love with you." His caressing expression turned pragmatic. "It's too late in the day to set off for London. I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry. There should still be some food in the pantry. Shall we see what can be made from the supplies at hand?"

Having had ample time to inventory the pantry, she said, "There are eggs and potatoes and a knob of butter, so I suppose an omelet is possible. Perhaps there might be something useful growing in the old kitchen garden."

"Excellent idea." He ushered her outside. The flowering apple trees glowed in the late afternoon sun. "A lovely day, isn't it? England at its best."

She inhaled the blossom scented air, feeling the pulse of spring beat in her veins. She wanted to frolic like a lamb, careen as madly as a March hare. She hadn't felt so alive since ... since that magical season when she had fallen in love with Dominick.

Hastily she examined the long-neglected garden. "There are scallions over there, and a bit of parsley. They'll liven up the eggs."

"We'll have a feast." He knelt and used his pocketknife to cut the herbs. With a mischievous smile he added, "I'll peel and fry the potatoes. I'm not sure I should trust you with a knife."

"Wise man," she said tartly. "I might use it to cut out your heart."

Scallions and parsley in one hand, he straightened to his full height. "You don't need to do that," he said simply. "You already have my heart."

His gaze held hers, his gray eyes utterly without guile. She found that she was having trouble with her breathing. Perhaps ... perhaps it was really possible ....

She pivoted and headed back into the cottage. "I warn you, my cooking skills are indifferent."

"No matter," he said cheerfully as he followed her inside. "I have some French wine that could make stewed boots seem ambrosial."

Dropping all references to love, lust, and marriage, he removed his coat and waistcoat, then rolled up his sleeves and built up the fire. To her surprise, they worked together as smoothly as longtime dance partners, sharing utensils and taking turns at the table and the hearth. In spite of his comment about the knife, he passed it to her without hesitation when she was ready to chop the scallions and parsley.

For a gentleman, he was surprisingly competent in the kitchen. Deftly he peeled and cut potatoes, then fried the wedges into a crispy, golden pile. Feeling naughty, she stole one from the old chipped platter. It was hot and savory and delicious.