Page 32 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
Bluntness would do best here. “Twice? You know that is an invitation to gossip.”
He drew near, his low bass voice an enticement and a warning. “You cannot desert me. Unless you wish to go.”
“I don’t, but—”
“I know what two dances means, Mary. I was not playing the friend when I said I wanted three.” His features were drawn tight in earnest appeal.
If she refused him, she would not ever see him again. Let alone have the sublime opportunity to hope for more thrilling declarations, more kisses…and…how had he put it? All our tomorrows.
“Another, then.” She put her hand in his and he led her back to the edge of the floor.
This time, Esme and Northington were introduced and led the dance. More couples took to the center. This configuration required more rhythm and dexterity. Blake did it well. She followed, serving up what elegance she could.
At tune’s end, he grinned. “You see. You do this well.”
Grateful for his praise, she knew her limited capabilities. “Meanwhile, I stand in awe of you, sir. How do you know these intricate steps?”
“At ‘The Shop’, every engineer learned how to draw maps, build dams or bomb a ten-foot wall. At the end of class each day, the dancing master arrived. We were required to be as agile there as in the field. We would, declared the commandant, be officers. We therefore must also be gentlemen.”
“You achieved that quite well.”
“So you will dance with me again?”
She tipped her head to listen to the music and her heart. A waltz. If she dared that with him, what else could she aspire to in life, besides the bliss to live with him? “Oh, Blake, if I do—”
“You’ll have to marry me.”
Suddenly, he took her arm and marched her to the hall. There in a niche, he pressed her to the wall and brushed his warm lips on hers. “Will you?”
Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Will you marry me?”
The most delightful question she’d ever been asked and she could not blurt out the very answer she’d always known?
He threw back his head to laugh, grabbed her hand and made for the orangery. There he flung wide the door and pulled her inside. The room was dark, lit only by moonlight through the expanse of glass garden doors. In the silence of the night, the fragrance of orange trees and roses mingled in a humid brew. He drew her into a secluded nook made of giant potted palms.
And there he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her against him. “I’ve little to give you in way of predictability.”
Expecting words of love, this confused her. “What?”
He whirled her around and pressed her to the wall, her body igniting like a flame in his embrace. “I do a poor job of this.”
“I think you do very well!” She beamed at him. “I enjoy it. Continue, do!”
He hugged her even closer. “I love you, my Mary. I love you.”
“Oh, that’s much better.”
“Imp!” He pressed her to the wall and there he bent low to place kisses on her cheek, her ear and all down her throat. “I’ve wanted to do this forever.”
“Really?” She was enjoying this tremendously.
And when she would have opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, he raised her chin and put his burning lips to hers. Melted in the assault, she enjoyed the fervid heat of his attention. And in her foggy reasoning, she knew this that he did was no blithe caress, no friendly peck, no careless accident.
It was fire and might. Possession and bliss. Madness and brilliance that robbed her mind and seized her breath.
“That,” she said when he broke off so they both could pant for air.
