Page 135 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Her brows rose in challenge. “I am offending your manhood? Not to worry. May I soothe it later?”
Christ Almighty, he loved this woman. “Later, hell. Ye can soothe itnow.” He dropped his hands to her legs, where her skirts had hiked up by her shifting, and squeezed her calves. “Lady Danielle Stoughton Aycock, I confess I hate both of yer last names. And the fact ye have nae home.”
She wriggled a bit, and the wool of her gown shifted some more, so he was touching her stocking. “Hate is not the way to start a future together, Fawkes.”
“Fine.” He grinned. “Marry me, Ellie. All I can offer ye is a new last name, a home with myself and Tramp and my mother—a woman who’ll dote on ye and love ye as fiercely as I do—and a future full of laughter for yer daughter.”
Her smile bloomed. “Ourdaughter.”
Jesus.Merida would become his stepdaughter. In his heart, Fawkes knew the truth; shewashis, as surely as Ellie was his. He loved the lassie, and looked forward to a lifetime of teaching her and bringing her joy and hearing her truly horrible jokes.
“Well, Lady Danielle?”
“Well, Mr. MacMillan?”
His hands crept up her leg, the smoothness of her stockings sending sparks through his blood. “Forever?”
It was all he needed to say.
She stretched forward to kiss him.
Right before their lips met, she whispered an agreement.
“Forever, Fawkes.”
Epilogue
“Ye want a whisky?”
Fawkes shot a glare sideways to where Thorne stood, hands clasped behind his back, wearing his formal kilt. “What?”
“Ye look like ye could use a whisky. Or three. Want me to run and fetch it?”
Incredulously, Fawkes glanced around the sitting room. Hangcok Hill had never felt so small as it did with all these people—Exingham, his wife, and niece and nephew; Georgia and the bairn; the reclusive Duke of Effinghell and his wife, friends of Ellie’s; and others.
“I’m standing here, choking half to death in this stupid necktie, waiting for my bride to walk through those doors, and ye want me to take a bit of a time-out and go get drunk?” he hissed, incredulously.
Thorne chuckled under his breath.
“Well, no’drunk. But ye look uncomfortable.”
“That’s because my knees are cold,” Fawkes snapped. “Why the fook are we wearing these things?”
“Because the ladies—and even a few gentlemen—like a man in a kilt.”
“Nay, they do no’.”
“I’ll wager ye that whisky that yerwifemakes a comment about how fine ye look. Trust me on this.”
“Ye think just because ye had to tie this damned thing for me—”
“I’ve become quite gifted, aye?” Thorne interrupted with a lopsided grin. “Since my valet died, I’ve had to do it myself.”
Fawkes shot him a suspicious glance. “Another one?”
“Aye, my staff is starting to whisper that the position is cursed. I mean, to be fair, this one died on his own time, practicing his sword-swallowing act for the spring festival, but still…” Thorne sighed mournfully. “A duke shouldnae have to tie his own ties, cousin.”
In the months since Christmas, Thorne had certainly leaned in hard on the wholecousinthing, even while teasing. Which was most of the time, honestly. To Fawkes’s surprise, he didn’t completely hate it.
