Correctly reading her silence as capitulation of a sort, he turned to fully face her, his gaze growing intent. “We both know I am not Beaumont—I will never allow you to rule me as you would have ruled him. But this you have always known.” He paused, then went on, “What you don’t know is that, to have you as mine, as my wife, as my helpmate, I would offer you . . . a partnership. Equal partners—as equal as we can be. I cede to you the right to question me, to argue and harangue as you deem necessary. You may run my household as you wish, albeit under the stamp of my authority. I will cede to you—” Breaking off, he let his lips twist eloquently. “I will give to you whatever I damn well must to ensure you face an altar as my bride.”
She did smile at that, albeit faintly. There was too much riding on this, on their words. For both of them. “It’s not—” She drew breath, surprised to hear her voice so low, so husky. “That,” she stated, holding his dark gaze, “is not the principal problem. Not the main hurdle between us.”
She’d thought she would have to, somehow, explain, but his expression shifted, lips curving in something like amused resignation.
“Ah. You mean this.” Raising one hand, his eyes on hers, he touched a fingertip to the corner of her lips, then drew the finger slowly down, over her jaw, down the side of her throat, down over her collarbone and the expanse of creamy skin exposed by the low neckline of her evening gown.
The resulting shiver rocked her to her soul. Her head tipped slightly back, her lids lowered; she nearly swayed.
His hand touched her waist; even through the thick silk she felt its heat. Gripping lightly, shifting nearer, he steadied her. “You knew it as well as I, all those years ago.”
Which was why, all those years ago, they’d both been so very careful to keep their distance, to never touch, to never take the chance of the fire and flames igniting.
But now they had. They’d waltzed. They’d kissed.
They’d played with fire.
And the years apart had done nothing to mute the blaze, the searing, mind-cindering power.
He was looking down at her, reading she knew not what in her eyes. “It scares you?”
He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t teasing. She nodded, managed a hoarse, “Yes.”
He hesitated, then, voice low, said, “Would it help to know that it scares me, too?”
She could see his face clearly, knew he wasn’t lying, yet . . . “I can’t imagine you being scared of anything.”
Again he looked at her with that wry, resigned amusement. “Not even of something that might bring me to my knees?”
“Your knees.” The image was a potent distraction.
His lips quirked. “In more ways than one.”
Eyes still on his, she tilted her head. “That, I’d like to see.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Peste.”
When she just looked at him, brows faintly rising, he heaved a put-upon sigh, then catching her hands in his, he went down on his knees before her.
Holding her hands, he looked up at her. “There—you have it. Margaret Dawlish, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my lover, my heart—my duchess?”
He was trying to make it easier for her. They were skirting the issue—or rather she was, and he was letting her.
She stared down into his face—a face that had inhabited her dreams for years, ever since she’d first seen it. Knew he was being brutally honest, while she . . . she gripped his hands, looked into his eyes. “Gaston—I . . . it’s not you, not—” Tugging one hand free, she waved. “It’s not about households, and you and me. It’s . . .” Eyes locked with his, drawing strength from the connection, she dragged in a breath and said, “I’ve never liked losing control, and what’s between us—”
What flared between them was overwhelming, and she had no words to encompass what she felt, the sheer terror of simply letting go, of ceding control so completely to some force she had no reckoning of, no understanding.
He rose and recaptured her hands. “Listen to me, mignonne. There is nothing to fear. Yes, we can’t control it—no one can. That would be the equivalent of controlling the moon and stars. Yes, it will, to some extent, control us. That’s its nature. But if we want to be together, to live as we should, together, and make all that we can of the chances life has blessed us with, then surrender we must. It’s more powerful than both of us.”
She inwardly teetered, gripped his hands. “What do you mean when you call me mignonne?”
He didn’t shrug the question aside, but held her gaze solemnly. “My native tongue, the dialect, is derived from what scholars term Middle French. In that language, mignonne means lover, darling, beloved.” He hesitated, then said, “I love you, mignonne. I always have. And you love me. I could not let you go.” He paused, then more quietly added, “I cannot let you go.”