Blake set her away from him, hope blooming inside, but he knew how dangerous that could be. He couldn’t stop staring at the vision standing in front of him. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. She was bundled up in a coat that covered her from neck to knees while her hair was wild, curling everywhere.
She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.
“I know you don’t, which is why I came.” She framed his face in her cold hands, and he pressed his own against hers, trying to warm them. “I had to tell you the truth.”
“And that would be—wait.” He shook his head. “Allow me to go first and apologize.”
“But I—”
“Please Ella,” he all but begged. “I can’t allow you to continue until I’ve set things right between us.”
As if sensing the desperation in his voice, she said, “Go on.”
“I’m sorry for being such a damned fool. I’m sorry for being so crude and crass before the rehearsal dinner. You deserve a hell of a lot better than me, but I love you. Desperately and unconditionally.
“I am the man who wants you. I am the man who needs you, and I am the man who has loved you for years, who has forsaken all women but you. I had to be ready, in case you finally changed your mind about Drew and looked my way once more,” he said.
Her lips parted, and her eyes widened. She was silent for what seemed like an eternity before she said, “I’ve changed my mind about Drew.”
He grinned and then laughed, picking her up around the waist and whirling her around. She threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek, his ear, and jaw.
“I’m in love with you, Blake York,” she said as the world stopped spinning. “Don’t you dare quit Montgomery Industry because of me.”
“I haven’t. I won’t,” he vowed. He never wanted to leave her side again.
Confusion filled her eyes. “But Drew said you handed in your resignation.”
“He lied.” Ah, but what a wonderful lie he told, Blake thought.
Her face flushed. “So I didn’t need to come rushing to your side?”
“You most certainly did.” Blake kissed the tip of her cold nose. “And now, I don’t have to fly back to the States to propose to you.”
“No, you can still do that—wait, what did you say?”
“Marry me, Ella,” he said. “Make me the happiest man on earth by saying yes.”
Her mouth dropped open. White puffs of air filled the space between them.
“I don’t have the ring with me, but I have one... inside. It’s an antique I managed to hide from the creditors,” he said, starting to ramble. “Before my father gambled away our fortune, we had loads of nice things. I’ve tried to find them all so I can restore the estate.”
“I don’t care about a ring. Ask me again,” she said.
He set her on her feet and dropped to one knee in the middle of a muddy path, taking her hand in his. “Will you, Ella Simpson, marry me?”
“Yes.”
He jumped to his feet, feeling more alive than ever. “I promise to make grilled ham and cheese sandwiches the rest of your life, even if they are not a family recipe.”
She gasped. “You knew?”
“Not at first, but later, I checked, and I don’t give a damn that you’re not from there. I don’t give a damn about your past, only your future,” he promised.
She laced her hands with his, giving him a hot look. “How about you take me inside and give me the grand tour of the master bedroom?”
“There’s not—ah, yes.” He flushed. “I see.”
“You won’t see anything if you let me turn into an ice cube,” she said teasingly.
Together, they ran to the house. At the last minute, Blake swept her up in his arms and carried her inside, her laughter and love filling him.
Epilogue
Five years later
Blake sat around a blazing campfire with Ella, their two children between them. After eloping, he and Ella had turned in their resignation to Montgomery Industry and made their home at Ravenswoodshire. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
Ella had given everything up for him, but she had insisted that she was gaining a family when they married. And didn’t a good husband listen to his wife?
In any case, here they were, camping out in the garden with their children. Nothing was the same for him. Ella and his children had made his family’s estate a home.
“Whet’s do fis ewery Saturday,” their three-year-old son Finley pleaded.
Imogen turned her brown eyes to him, sticking out the cutest bottom lip. “Please, Papa. Can we?” At only four, their daughter had him wrapped around her pinky finger.