Page 134 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“That’s Bram Hallowsby, the spymaster. He works for the Home Office and kills Frenchmen by the legion.” Then she glanced at the marquis. “I mean the bad Frenchmen, of course.”
If the marquis had a comment, Maybelle didn’t hear it. She was busy dropping to her knees before Bram, forcing him to look her in the eye. “You’re a good man, Bram. I’ve always thought so.”
“But you don’t know the things I’ve done—”
“You saved my life against Jeremy. You force miscreant lords to face up to their responsibilities. You’ve helped Eleanor when everything was falling to pieces around her—”
“He did,” said Eleanor.
“And you’ve made a good life for yourself, despite your birth.”
“I’m still a bastard,” he said. “You could have anyone.”
“They why can’t I have the one man I want?”
He looked at her. He just looked and let everything he felt show on his face. She saw fear and desperation and a hope that he didn’t dare believe in.
“You have to say the words, Bram. You have to tell me what you want.”
“You, damn it. I’ve always wanted you.”
She touched his face. She looked into his eyes. She needed to hear the words. He had to say them aloud to her, to himself, to everyone.
It was Charlie who figured it out. “You’re supposed to tell her you love her. Even I know that.”
But Eleanor shook her head. “Love doesn’t matter to our set.”
Maybelle sighed. “It matters to me. Bram. I lo—”
“I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.”
At last. He’d said the words at last.
Everything in her body swayed forward. He caught her easily. He would always catch her. And then he was kissing her. Not her face, which was right there, but her hands and her fingertips. He was bowing before her, his body shuddering with the force of his words.
“IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.” Like a litany, the words kept repeating. The sound was all jammed together as if he couldn’t get it out fast enough.
She stopped it with her mouth. She lifted his face and kissed his lips. And when he kept murmuring the words, she thrust her tongue between his teeth. And then he was kissing her back. His arms strengthened and went around her.
And when they finally stopped, both of them gasping for breath, he recovered first. This time, his words had power behind them. And determination.
“I’m not worthy of you, Bluebell,” he said.
“Bram—”
“But you’re going to marry me anyway.” Then his expression softened. “Please, Miss Maybelle Ballenger, please redeem me. Be my wife. We can live anywhere you want, even in godforsaken Hull, if you like. I’ll drag your pig wherever you want, bathe in a frigid stream, and buy every damned one of your carrots. I’ll do anything you want. Just be my wife. Please.”
“Yes.”
One word. One simple word, and it was done. Her grandfather blustered, Eleanor was teary-eyed, and oddly enough, the marquis was intensely proud.
“I’m French, after all,” he said. “It is an honor to witness such amour. I will give away the bride, yes? If the grandfather will not.”
Which was enough to shame the earl into a grudging acceptance. That surprised Maybelle, which forced Eleanor to explain.
“It’s terrible form to have a child marry a bastard,” she said in a low whisper. “But it’s even worse to let a Frenchman be part of the ceremony. That would be too humiliating for words.”
The countess agreed with a fond smile.
