Billionaire Flawed 1(265)

“Do you believe in attachment, Sarah?”

“How do you mean?” I said.

“Do you believe that it is possible to form strong attachments – the kind of attachment that exists between man and wife, say – without actually having gone through the traditional routes? What I am saying is, do you think it is possible for a man to love a woman without having properly and openly courted her? Many men and not a few women would have us think that it is impossible, that it cannot be done. And yet I sit here and look at you, and I know that I love you. If the word ‘love’ means anything, then it must apply to how I feel about you. I am struck with anxiety oftentimes. My heart beats frantically, and a cold sweat comes upon me, and I never know why. Most times there is nothing to be overly anxious about. But with you I do not feel that way. With you I feel as though a vital part of myself has been restored. I am like an amputee who has had his arm restored after a long absence; or a blind man who has regained the ability to see. Ah!” He slapped his hand down on the table. “If only I could make you feel what I feel, Sarah, so you could know!”

Seeing that dear Francis was in quite a state, I laid my hand upon his arm. He clasped his hand over mine and looked at me gratefully. “Don’t you see, Francis?” I said. “You do not need to make me feel anything; I already feel as you do. I care not that we do not do things the proper way. I have lost all meaning of what ‘proper’ means, anymore. All I know is that when you took me into the library, into the gardens, into the woods, when we were together in my bedroom I was happier and more content than I have been in all my days.” I stopped, breathless. My words were far too forward to be ladylike. Any man would shun me after such openness.

But not Francis.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a glistening ring. It winked at me in the torchlight. “I had to estimate your measurements,” he said. “I hope it fits.” He took my hand and slid the ring onto the third finger of my left hand. “There we go,” he beamed happily. “I knew it would fit!”

I stared down at the ring, bemused. “Look how the light catches it,” I muttered. “But Francis, what ever is it for? You do not need to buy me gifts.”

“It is no simply a gift, my love,” the Duke said, his hand upon my shoulder. “It is a symbol. A symbol of my love for you. A symbol of my commitment to you. We are to be married, if you will have me. My family will hate it, but to hell with them! I love you more than I have ever loved a single thing on this earth, and if the sky were to fall now I would have you, and no other, in my arms. Marry me, Sarah.”

Perhaps a nobler woman would have contemplated the position he was putting himself in. Perhaps a nobler woman would have sincerely thought about declining his proposal, to save the regard others had for him. But I was, and I am, a love-driven woman.

I said yes, and he jumped across the table and brought me into his arms, cradling me like a child.



Postscript



It is the night before we tell our families and friends and associates as I write this: tell them of mine and the Duke’s love. I have written this account so those who find it – whoever they turn out to be – will know the story of the unusual courtship of Sarah Archer and Francis Seymour, the Duke of Somerset. Undoubtedly there are those among you who would have him discredited. All I can say to that is, why? Why discredit a man who married a woman he loves? Far more deserving of discredit are the men who marry women they despise, and spend the rest of their lives making her miserable.

Only the Duke and I know of our marriage; tomorrow that shall all change. He has arranged a meeting. Father is to be there. I wish I could say the meeting gladdens me, but in truth the only gladness I feel is at the thought of Francis visiting me in my rooms tonight. I have worn this quill out completely and I do not think I can write anymore. When I began the sun was rising; now it is deep in the night.

I would write more, but there is a knocking at my door.

He whispers my name. It is Francis.

I must go.

I must be with my love.



THE END





The Devil’s Dance – A Regency Romance

Bertrand Collins Margrave- Bertie to his friends- looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror and was quite pleased with the image that looked back at him. His official title was Lord Haverbrook, and he had reluctantly made the unpleasant journey from London to his stately pile in Derbyshire. Bertie preferred life in London by a long chalk and was happy that his elderly aunt resided in the Haverbrook estate. She looked upon it as her own and Bertie was happy to let her believe that as it kept her acid tongue under control. His London town house was elegant and close to everything he loved. Bertie loved theatre, art and most of all everything fashionable and the latest crazes. Aunt Agatha had sent word that she was ill and he needs must come to visit immediately. When Bertie arrived at the large and resplendent residence, it was to find his aunt in robust good health and she desired him to make changes to the house in accordance with her wishes. Bertrand Collins Margrave was not amused in the least and had gone to bed in a fine old mood wondering how soon he could return to London.