Page 17 of Marquess of Mistletoe
“You’re calling on an old friend,” Rafe said, stepping to the left to avoid the snowmelt dripping onto Marielle’s front porch, “and you’ve a special license in your pocket.”
“Which fact, you will not mention to anyone.” Leo wasn’t certain he’d have an opportunity to use the license, but after being thwarted by bad weather, Welly’s loose shoe, and nearly a foot and a half of snow, he wasn’t about to take chances.
The door opened, and a liveried footman admitted them. Leo handed over his card and asked to see Lady Drew. Rafe, who’d donned rare finery, asked if Miss Petunia were at home.
Miss Petunia herself came down the front steps a moment later, and the joy in her eyes as Rafe greeted her with a kiss to the cheek surely qualified as a holiday miracle.
“May I show you the conservatory?” she asked. “We’ve decorated for the holidays, the same as we do every year, and it’s really quite lovely.”
“I’ll wait here for Mari—for Lady Drew,” Leo said.
Miss Petunia linked arms with Rafe, and all but dragged him—quite unresisting—down the corridor.
Leaving Leo to inspect Marielle’s home.
Her residence was on a fashionable square, and commodious without being cavernous. The main foyer was festooned with ropes of pine, wrapping about the bannister, twining around the chandelier chain, and decorating the curtain rods. The resulting scent was lovely, particularly with cloved oranges adding a spicy note.
These accommodations were far better than Leo could have given Marielle for much of the past ten years. He said a silent thank-you to Lord Drew Semple, for Marielle deserved the elegance and comfort Leo saw on every hand. Polished marble floors, a newel post carved in the shape of a cat sitting on its haunches, and red velvet ribbons dangling from the sheaf of mistletoe beneath the chandelier.
A door softly clicked shut, and Marielle stood across the main foyer, a vision in aubergine. Gold trim accented her cuffs and hems, and Leo had a sudden vision of her as an older woman. Her hair might become snowy, her gait might slow, but she would always have a sheer presence that drew him.
“Leopold, welcome.”
“I found your note.” Thank God he’d thought to look in the crook of the old oak, though nearly a foot of snow had obscured the oilskin tucked between the branches. “I found your note, Lady Drew.”
For moment, the only sound was the eaves dripping, a sign of moderating weather, then Marielle’s steps clattered across the foyer. She threw herself into Leo’s arms, holding him tight even as laughter shook her.
“Leo, what were we thinking? Using solicitors to find a spouse? I must have been barmy, but Petunia said some ladies will advertise for a husband, and I started thinking about growing old without children, pitied, lonely, and—”
“—without my best friend,” Leo concluded. “Without the one person who always encouraged my dreams, never laughed at my fears. When I got back to the inn and you weren’t there…. I died inside Marielle, as surely as if some Frenchman had taken me captive.”
She unwound herself from him enough to tuck an arm around his waist, but that was as far as Leo was willing to let her go.
“I woke up, and you were gone,” she said, leading him across the foyer. “I knew you had business to tend to, but what was I to make of your absence, Leo? I was left to think the worst, again.”
Self-recrimination washed through him, for the thousandth time in five days. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I owed Lady Drew Semple my personal apology, and was certain I could return to the inn and to you free of any encumbrances. I owed her that much. Then the weather interfered, among other things, and your solicitors would not give me your direction.”
Marielle paused with him in the middle of the foyer. “So I nearly lost you because you owed her ladyship a personal rejection?”
“No, Marielle, you did not nearly lose me. I would have found you, come what may. This time, nothing—not distance, familial obligation, worldly means, or misunderstandings—would have kept me from finding you again.” He dropped to one knee, and took her hand in his, as he had once before years ago.
“Marielle, Lady Drew, Ellie—will you marry me? Will you share with me every Christmas for the rest of our lives, and all the seasons of the year?”
She peered down at him. “Leo, are you being impetuous? I rather like it on you.”
He sprang to his feet. “I am being romantic. Ten years is long enough to wait for the woman I love to look with favor on my suit.”
She patted his lapel. “Yes, I will marry you. The sooner the better.”
Thank God. Thank God, Marielle, fate, and the kindly angels. The relief of being claimed by her, clearly and truly, inspired Leo to kiss his intended, right there in full view of the front door.
Marielle kissed him back, passionately, and even when somebody cleared his throat, Leo was reluctant to let her go.
“Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon,” Rafe said, Miss Petunia standing beside him. “And your ladyship’s.”
Marielle recovered first, though Leo kept her hand in his. “Petunia, some sustenance for our guests is in order. The marquess and I will join you in the blue parlor in a moment.”
“Yes, milady.” Petunia led a happily-dazed looking Rafe across the foyer.
