"Yes. Between everything you, Spencer, Fritzborne, and I told him, Carmichael will never see the outside of a prison cell again." He slowly crossed the room, stopping with the length of the Axminster throw rug between them. "You said you wished to speak to me."

"Yes. Before Spencer and I returned to the house, we visited the gardens and shared a long talk." She turned and walked to the small cherrywood table near the window and picked up a bouquet of flowers, the stems wrapped with a red satin ribbon. When she returned, she held out the bundle, praying she did not look as nervous as she felt. "I picked these. For you."

Surprise flickered in his eyes as he took the flowers. "Dicentra spectabilis, " he said, his voice rough.

"You remembered the Latin name."

He stared at the red-and-white flowers, and a humorless sound pa.s.sed his lips. "For bleeding heart? I'm not apt to forget something so... descriptive." His gaze seemed to burn into her. "I remember everything, Catherine. Every look. Every word. Every smile. I remember the first time I touched you. The last time I touched you. And every touch in between."

She clenched her hands to keep them from fidgeting with her gown. "I found your note. The ring. And the letters. I... I'd had no idea that your feelings for me were of such a long standing."

"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? The fact that I've loved you for years rather than months?"

"Yes. No." She shook her head. "What I mean is that I want to speak to you about my feelings."

His gaze sharpened. "I'm listening."

"After you left my bedchamber, I spent the rest of the night thinking, and I finally arrived at what I believed was a logical decision. I went to tell you, but you were gone. Then I read your note, saw those letters I'd written, and all my fine decisions disintegrated. I was left with only an undeniable, irrefutable realization-that I'd already made one terrible, dreadful mistake by refusing you and had been on the verge of making another. I do not wish to make any more such errors." She drew a bracing bream. "Andrew, will you marry me?"

Never in her life had she heard such a deafening silence. Her heart seemed to stall and race at the same time as he regarded her with a cautious expression. Finally, he spoke. "I beg your pardon?"

She c.o.c.ked a brow in her best imitation of him. "Do you not know what marry means? Must I fetch a dictionary?"

"Perhaps you should, because I'd like to be certain we're speaking of the same word."

"A very wise person recently told me that marriage means caring for one another. Loving together. Sharing laughter and helping through pain. Always knowing that there is another person standing beside you. For you." She took one step closer to him, then another. "It means I want you to be my husband. I've spoken to Spencer, and he wants you to be his father. I want to be your wife. Now do you understand?"

His throat worked, and he jerked his head in a nod. "You've left very little room for misinterpretation, although I'm not certain I understand how my note precipitated this change of heart."

"The thought of you loving me for all those years... it touched my heart. Opened my heart. I realized with painful clarity that if you'd been my husband, my feelings toward marriage would be vastly different. I realized I wished you had been my husband. My fears made me deny my feelings for you, but I cannot deny them any longer. I love you, Andrew."

He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, Catherine's breath caught at the raw emotion burning in his gaze. Reaching out, he yanked her into his arms, and kissed her, a long, deep, pa.s.sionate kiss that stole the bones from her knees.

"Again,"he growled against her lips. "Say it again."

"I love you, Andrew."

"Again."

She pushed her hands against his chest and frowned at him. "Not until you answer my question."

He nuzzled her neck, wreaking havoc on her ability to concentrate. "Question?"

She pushed back farther and glared at him. "Yes. Will you marry me?"

"Ah. That question. Before I answer, I want to make certain that you understand several things."

"Such as?"

"I'm afraid I am no longer available as a single ent.i.ty. I now come with a dog."

One corner of her mouth twitched. "I see. I can accept those terms. What else?"

"Although I am financially secure, you should know that I will unfortunately be five hundred pounds

poorer than I'd planned since I won't be able to deliver Charles Brightmore to Lord Markingham and his friends."

"As I am deeply grateful for that, I can hardly quibble about the money."

"Excellent. In order to keep Markingham or anyone else from instigating another search, I'll offer them irrefutable proof that Brightmore has escaped the country for some far-off land with no intention of returning."

"How will you come by such proof?"

"I'm a very clever fellow."

"You'll get no argument from me."

He smiled. "This morning gets better and better."

"Is there anything else I need to understand?"

"Yes. You still owe me a boon, and I shall demand payment." His eyes darkened and he pulled her

closer. "In full."

A delighted shiver faced down her spine. "A truly heinous demand, but I shall concede. Anything else?"

"One more thing. I believe I'd like to follow in your literary footsteps and try my hand at penning a

book. I've come up with the perfect t.i.tle: A Gentleman's Guide to Masculine Survival and Understanding Women."

She stared at him, nonplussed. "You're jesting." "I'm not. After our courtship, I consider myself something of an expert." But perhaps the idea wasn't totally insane... "We'll discuss it," she said. "Fair enough. And you might want to consider writing a sequel to the Guide. I'd be more than delighted to a.s.sist you with any research requirements. Now, about your proposal-the answer is a resounding

yes. It would be my honor to marry you." Catherine released a breath she hadn't realized she held. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her gown, she withdrew the emerald ring. "Will you put this on me?" she asked.

"With pleasure." Tucking his flowers under his arm, he slipped the ring on her finger. "Do you like it?

Because if you don't, I'll get you a different-" "It's perfect," she a.s.sured him, moving her hand back and forth so the facets caught the light. "It is my most prized possession."

He captured her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a warm kiss in her palm. A slow, devastating grin curved his lips. "I've never received flowers before. Or a marriage proposal."

Warmth and happiness suffused her, and she returned his smile. "Yes, well you know how I like to be first."

"My darling, Catherine," he said, his eyes filled with love and pa.s.sion. "You always have been."

JACQUIE D'ALESSANDRO.

Growing up on Long Island, New York, I fell in love with romance at an early age. I dreamed of being swept away by a dashing rogue riding a spirited stallion. When my hero finally showed up, he was dressed in jeans and drove a Volkswagen, but I recognized him anyway. We married after both graduating from Hofstra University and are now living our happily-ever-afters in Atlanta, Georgia, along with our very bright and active son, who is a dashing rogue in the making.

I love to hear from readers! You can contact me through my website at www.JacquieD.com.

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