Page 41 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
“Esme, listen to me.” He lifted her chin. Her lips quivered and he wanted them on his. But he would not seduce her. That would be so unfair to both of them. Reason was the only way out of this. “You are my darling, the dearest woman I have ever known. You are witty and wise, adventurous and bold. We have, among others, Aunt Elizabeth, to thank for that, I imagine. You. Esme, you are my sweetheart. No others have I ever considered to be my wife.”
She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I never wanted to marry any of the others, either.”
Jealousy gave way to pride in his victory and he had to smile. “What others?”
“The men who offered for me to Papa.”
“Men.” He feigned a grimace. “How many were there?”
“Six,” she declared, and thought a moment. “Or seven. I cannot recall. But—”
“What?” He threaded his fingers through the curls at her temple.
“I didn’t want any of them. Only you.”
He took her mouth then. A claim and a caress, his kiss was all fire and relief and possession. When he drew away, her eyes were closed and he thought he’d won her over. “And I want you, Esme. You and no other.”
She pushed back. “I wish that were enough.”
Perplexed, he opened his arms. “What do you mean? Of course, it— Whoa.”
She pointed an elegantly wrought ladies pistol at him and stepped backward to the door. “I know how to use this. Never doubt.”
“I don’t.” He raised his hands higher. “When someone points a gun at me, I do give pause.”
“Oh, Giles.” She looked perplexed, then straightened. “I want you to sit in that chair.”
At the motion of her pistol to the right, he took her instructions and sat.
“Remove your boots.”
He snorted.
She stiffened. “I mean it. Boots. Off. Now.”
“Very well. Be patient.” He bent to the task. First one, then the other. Not easy.
“Good.” She bent near and grabbed one to throw it behind the folded screen. It clattered to the floor and crockery broke. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“What?” he asked, unable to see what she’d done.
“The chamber pot broke.”
“Oh.” He cringed.
She winced. “You might not want to wear that boot until it’s cleaned.”
He folded his arms. “Esme. Listen. I love you and I don’t care about my boots.”
She just stared at him, struck. “Why didn’t you say that before?”
“What? That I don’t care about my boots? Well, actually, I do but—”
“No! That you love me.”
He frowned. Muddled, he shook his head. “I’ve told you that!”
“No. You. Have. Not!”
