Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“You don’t believe in love at first sight!” she protested. “You said so the other day!”


“No, I don’t, which is why I looked again, and again, and again, until I was quite sure I would go mad from it. I just knew.” He nuzzled her neck, his mouth skimming over her collarbone and up the side of her neck. “When did you start?”

The blush that colored her face, all the way down to her neckline, was brilliant. “Almost as soon. But of course I knew it was wrong—you were betrothed to my sister….”

“But not any longer.” He paused. “Are you not pleased she’s marrying Blair?”

“Of course I am!”

“Why?”

“Why?” she exclaimed. “Why, because they’re in love!” He raised an eyebrow. “And,” she hesitated only a moment, “and because if you didn’t marry Helen….” She paused again. “Then you would be free.”

“Yes.”

“And—” She wet her lips. “—and then it wouldn’t be wrong of me to want you.”

“Oh, no,” he answered at once. “That would never be wrong of you. In fact, I was hoping you might keep on wanting me for the rest of your life.”

Later, Cleo told herself she would remember that moment for the rest of her life. The scent of oiled leather and horses, the faint buzz of bees in the shrubbery outside the window, the morning sun slanting across the dusty floor. And Gareth, looking at her as if he had never seen anyone half so wonderful. She couldn’t stop a small smile. “Is that a proposition?”

He laughed. “Proposition? My darling, I’m at an end to propositions. I made my last offer of marriage in a letter addressed to your father. May I make this one myself?” And he sank to one knee as he spoke. Cleo thought she must be goggling at him like a fool. “My darling Cleopatra,” he began, then paused. “Are you truly named for Cleopatra?”

“Yes,” she said dazedly. “And Helen for Helen of Troy. Father has classical fancies.”

“Ah.” He cocked his head to one side. “I wish I’d remembered that sooner.”

“Why?” Cleo still couldn’t quite take in that he was on his knees before her. Even Matthew hadn’t proposed on bended knee; he’d asked her over his shop counter, which had been romantic enough, but nothing like this.

“It would have made things clearer,” he said. “My parents named me Anthony, after all. Anthony never married Helen of Troy.”

She cleared her throat. “He never married Cleopatra, either.”

“This Anthony will,” Gareth declared. “If she’ll have him.”

Cleo gazed down at him, his brooding dark eyes fixed on her, his thick hair still ruffled from their activities in his study. “Shall I roll myself in a rug and have myself delivered to your rooms?”

“Make certain it’s a soft rug,” he retorted, “for I would unroll it before the fire and not let you off it for an hour.”

Cleo pretended to think. “I may have such a rug, in the shop….”

His eyes ignited. “That sounds like yes.”

This time her smile was wide and unrestrained. “Because it is. A hundred times yes.”





Epilogue





“ARE YOU CERTAIN?” Cleo took her sister’s hand.

Helen nodded. Her face was pale but determined. “I should have done it days—weeks—ago.”

“I doubt it would have upset them more.” Cleo shrugged philosophically, drawing a quickly repressed smile from her sister. Helen took a deep breath and opened the door in front of them.

There was a moment of stunned silence before their mother let out a piercing wail. “Helen! Oh, Helen, there you are! We were so worried—where did you go?” Her gaze flickered over Helen’s dark blue traveling dress, her dusty boots, her braided hair. “Never mind that,” she quickly added, as though deciding she didn’t actually want to know where Helen had been. “There’s still time—we must hurry!”

“Mama, there’s something I need to tell you and Papa.” Helen resisted her mother’s attempts to drag her toward the dressing table.

“Surely it can wait!” Millicent’s laughter trilled nervously. “We must get you ready for your wedding. Oh, we’ve barely half an hour—Rivers! Rivers, come at once!” she called for her maid.

“No, Mama.” Helen glanced at her. Cleo nodded in encouragement. Her heart was racing almost as much as her sister’s must be doing, but Helen had insisted that she would tell their parents. It was her wedding—at least, it was supposed to be her wedding—and she would be the one to call it off. Since Cleo had a feeling her parents wouldn’t listen to a word she said anyway, she hadn’t argued. “Mama, I won’t marry the duke,” said Helen in a clear, firm voice.

Millicent’s eyes darted warily to Cleo, then veered away. “Don’t be silly, dear. Your father signed the contract. You must marry the duke.”

“I’ve already told Wessex I’m breaking our engagement,” Helen went on, two bright spots of pink in her cheeks. “He took it very well.”