Page 20 of Taken to the Grave
Audrey followed his appraising gaze. “What do I think of what?”
He gestured toward the townhouse. “This place.”
She blinked and again turned to view the home. Constructed of pale limestone, the Georgian rowhouse stood proudly alongside its neighbors. With three stories, large and numerous windows, it exuded understated elegance. A whisper of awareness stirred in the center of her chest.
“It is lovely,” she answered, then cautiously asked, “Who…who lives here?”
Hugh took her gloved hand in his, uncaring of the ladies and gentlemen in the square, taking their ices from Gunter’s under the shade of the maple trees. With his dark eyes now swallowing her, he replied, “If you like it well enough, I was thinking we could.”
The pavement beneath her boots dissolved. It was only Hugh’s hand on hers that kept her from sinking or falling backward. She stared at him, astounded, her lips gaping.
“Live here?” she said, her voice breathy. “Us?”
“Only if you like it.” His brows lifted as he waited for her answer. Audrey peered at the townhome again, and this time, with a new lens. Hugh wanted this to betheirhome. Where they would live, together. Where they would build a family.
“I’ve had my steward looking at potential residences, and for whatever reason, I kept coming back to this one,” he said. “It’s half the size, if that, of Violet House, I know?—”
“I never liked Violet House.” She’d thought it blocky and ostentatious and too severe. She’d never felt at home there. But this townhouse did not give her those impressions at all. She gazed at the exterior another moment, then turned to Hugh. He had been watching her, studying her reaction.
“Can we go in?” she asked, eager to see the rooms. He sighed.
“I brought you here on a whim, so I haven’t a key. But I can arrange it.”
She pinned her lower lip, suddenly nervous. “I think it’s lovely,” she said again.
“Lovely enough to make our home?”
“Yes, but…haven’t we skipped an essential step?” She didn’t quite know how to say it outright—that he had yet to propose marriage.
Hugh raised her hand and kept his melting stare on her as he kissed the satin ridge of her knuckles. “The part where I ask you to be my wife?”
She couldn’t account for the blush that rushed to her cheeks. Or the flood of elation that left her limbs quivering. He had already stated in no uncertain terms that he would make her his wife as soon as her mourning was over. She’d been expecting it. But even knowing that, she still could barely breathe.
“Yes, that part,” she answered as giddiness—a sensation that she was not wholly accustomed to—stole through her.
It mounted even more when Hugh arched a brow as if about to do something wicked. And then, he sank down in front of her, planting one knee on the pavement outside number 37 Berkeley Square.
Her breath gusted out between her lips as he kept her hand in his and, in full view of Carrigan and Travers and a handful of their future neighbors strolling by, said, “Audrey Sinclair, since the moment I met you, I’ve either wanted to throttle you, arrest you, or kiss you senseless. You drive me utterly mad, and I love you for it. I want nothing more than to be your husband. If you still wish to be my wife?”
She could barely see him through the veil of tears fogging her vision, but she gave a shaky laugh. “I want to drive you mad for the rest of my life, Hugh Marsden,” she said, her voice just as tremulous.
He shot back up onto both feet and brought her closer, his lips lingering on her knuckles again. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Her heart gave a lurch. She’d never dreamed it possible to be this happy. When she and Philip had agreed to marry, it had taken the form of a business interview, absent of emotion, of nerves and uncertainties. For years, she and Philip had pretended to have a love match. But now, as her body and soul radiated with joy, she knew their act had been as thin as gossamer.
“I have a ring for you,” he said, his thumb coasting over the left fingers of her gloved hand. “However, this was all spontaneous and so it isn’t with me.”
“You mean you hadn’t practiced that little speech, telling me you’ve wanted to throttle me or arrest me?—”
“Or kiss you,” he cut in. “No, I hadn’t. But I meant every word.”
Audrey smiled, elated to know that this man would endeavor to make her laugh.
“I want to kiss you,” she whispered. However, she was distinctly aware of how much attention they’d drawn, especially while Hugh was on one knee.
He groaned softly. “Soon, you may kiss me as much as you like. There won’t be anything else for you to do anyhow since you’ll be confined to my bed night and day for at least a week.” His whispered promise sent an electric shiver up her spine. “Maybe even a fortnight.”
Audrey missed being in his arms with a palpable ache. And to think—once they married, it would be perfectly acceptable. Expected even.
