Page 63 of Dukes for Dessert

“A sentimental fool, you mean. Hell, and I thought I concealed that so well.”

“Silly man. You have a large heart, which you choose to hide for some daft reason. But I see it.” Sophie touched his chest, and her voice went quiet. “I love you for it.”

David slid his arms around her. “I hope you love more than just my heart. Or is that too much to ask?”

Sophie’s teasing look, with a touch of wickedness, shot fire through him. “I do think there are other parts of you that I would also like to live with.”

“Oh?” David’s heart hammered. “Do tell.”

“I’d rather show you instead.”

David touched his forehead against hers. “Wicked lass.” He kissed her, leisurely but tasting her fire. “Beautiful lass. Do you know how beautiful?” He brushed his lips over her cheek then behind her ear, following with a nibble of her delectable earlobe. “I love you so. Every inch of you. I believe I will kiss them all now.”

“We are standing on a hill.”

“Yes, well.” David’s mouth moved to her temple, the bridge of her nose. “We will have to remedy that.”

“With my uncle’s vicarage as our only retreat.”

David started to laugh. “God bless your uncle. He is why I flew here so early this morning. I came to ask for his blessing. I confessed all—my love for you and the fact that I wanted to marry you, more than anything else in this life.”

Sophie gave him a puzzled but happy look. “Shouldn’t it be my father you ask for my hand?”

“I’ve never met your father. Besides, your uncle has been like a father to me—my own was too busy being decadent and frivolous to raise a son. Do you know what Pierson said when I asked him?”

Sophie sent him a beautiful smile. “Pray, tell me.”

“He blinked and said, ‘Of course you love Sophie. Do you mean you haven’t asked her yet? Do get on with it, my boy.’ And he marched off to his villa.”

Sophie burst out laughing. “He is the dearest man in the world.”

“He is, but never tell him I said so.” David closed his arms around her, Sophie’s warmth cutting the cool wind. “Is this your answer, Sophie? You will marry me?”

“Yes.” Sophie looked straight at him, and he saw her heart in her eyes—her loving, true, honest heart. “I will marry you, Mr. Fleming.”

“Thank God for that,” David breathed out, and he kissed her.

And kissed her. The spring wind tried to push them from the hill, but the old ruined wall, which had stood for centuries through strife and English weather, held them steady. David pulled Sophie against him, the curve of her body fitting his, her firm hands on his back keeping him from falling.

He tasted her goodness, her fire, her laughter. He loved this woman with all his strength, and she’d just said she loved him back. The world was an incredible place.

From far away came an excited cry in Pierson’s unmistakable shout. “Eureka!”

David and Sophie broke apart, eyes wide, then they dissolved into laughter.

They caught each other’s hands and ran down the hill toward the vicar who was dancing up and down in the joy of another find.

Their laughter drifted back to the old abbey, the wind carrying it to sigh around its benevolent stones.

Epilogue

Sophie’s ceremony for her second wedding was worlds away from her first.

Absent was the tension, the fear as she was dressed by her attendants—worry she’d be too awkward under the stares of the highest in society, and most especially, Laurie’s rigid aunts, sneering uncles, and derisive cousins. Fear she’d trip on her gown, stammer as she repeated the vows, or do something else that disgraced her in the eyes of the aristocrats who’d come to watch the Earl of Devonport take a bride.

Today, she was surrounded by laughter and light. She and David had decided together to marry at his home in Hertfordshire, Moreland Park’s garden in June bursting with flowers. They’d collaborated on the guest lists, inviting only their close family and dearest friends. For Sophie’s first wedding, Laurie and his aunt had dictated that it would be held in St. George’s, Hanover Square, and decided upon the guests without consulting her.

Sophie’s ladies for her second wedding were her oldest girlhood friends as well as the Mackenzie wives. Eleanor chattered away while she took photographs, and Isabella had lent her expertise in designing the gown, which hung from Sophie in elegant swaths of ivory silk.

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