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“I am not going back into that house, ever,” she said, conviction flowering through her soul.
He knocked on the ceiling, and the coach rumbled away. "You will not?"
“No. It has been unbearable for months, and I shall not bear it a minute more. I only have the clothes I am wearing and my dearest possessions in my pocket, but I do not care. My future husband is quite wealthy, and I daresay he will be able to replenish my wardrobe effortlessly. And when I come into my inheritance at five and twenty, we will be even better situated.”
A dark shadow passed over his face. “Your husband?”
“Why yes, of course. I am three and twenty and does not need my brother’s permission to marry the man I love, a man of my heart’s choosing.” Then she smiled at him. “May my Aunt Imogen live with us, James? I promise you shall love her.”
He stilled, hope, relief, and something more profound darkening his eyes. “Live with us?”
Verity frowned. “Do you mean to say that atrocious poem was about friendship?”
He grinned, and her heart lifted. "No." he tugged at his neckcloth. "I love you," he then said simply. "I do not have the elegant words, Verity, or the flowery flattery, but I promise you, none will love, protect, and cherish you as I do. You fill every crevice of my being with happiness, and I cannot imagine a life without you."
She flung herself at him, and he caught her and gathered her in his arms. She rained laughing kisses over his nose, his jaw, and his lips. “I love you, James, so very much. I should not be saying this, because it does not bode well for me, but I am no longer a lady of quality. My reputation is damaged and may never be repaired.”
He stared at her. “Verity, your qualities of strength and kindness are more valuable to me than a simpering miss with acceptable tonnish qualities. I love you, and since you have consented to be my wife, I'll not hear this nonsense about you not being…perfect. Marry me, Verity. Be my countess, my lover, and my friend."
She rested her forehead against his. “Yes, I absolutely will.”
The End
A Prince of My Own
One tempting kiss may be her undoing...
Lady Miranda Cheswick's is beautiful, witty, intelligent, and the family's great expectations are for her to marry a prince or a duke! A duty she intends to fulfill despite the craving in her heart to marry for love. An accident leaves her stranded at the country estate of the enigmatic and charming Dr. Astor, a man to whom she is inexplicably attracted.
Dr. Simon Astor has little expectation of making a grand society match. His sole focus should be on caring for his patients and raising funds for the hospital he hopes to build. However, the delectable and witty Miranda tempts him at every turn, he soon finds himself falling for her irresistible charm, and wants to marry her.
Except Miranda's mother's devious plot will test Miranda and Simon's resolve. Is their love strong enough to triumph?
Chapter 1
Lady Miranda Elizabeth Cheswick’s first memories were of her mother extolling her great beauty, and that she would one day marry a prince, or most certainly a duke. As the daughter of one of the most renowned and influential earls in the realm, it was expected any match she made was to a man of rank, respectability, and great fortune. To that end, her mother, the Countess of Langford, had made it her duty since Miranda’s come out three years ago to hunt a gentleman who fit those standards of the Cheswick family, with a single-minded intensity that Miranda admitted could be frightening and at times embarrassing.
Of course, her mamma did not regard her matrimonial fervor in the same light. The countess had often said Miranda’s incomparable beauty, grace, charm, and wit could not be wasted on a gentleman of mediocrity, and over the years the countess had impressed upon her daughter that very belief. And for so long Miranda had faithfully believed her beauty should only allow for the best in her life, and that belief had cost her the dearest of friendships. A friendship which Miranda had treasured. The rift between her and Pippa, the new Duchess of Carlyle, was so terrible they had not spoken in almost two months. And there was nothing Miranda wanted more than to mend that relationship.
She slowly lowered the newssheet which mentioned the Duke and Duchess of Carlyle were back in town after several weeks of traveling. A visit must be paid at once, and despite the fearful ache in her heart and the doubt rising inside, there must be no delay.
The door to the drawing room swung open then slammed shut as her mother marched inside in a swirling green dress and swishing petticoat. Miranda had been waiting for over two hours for this confrontation, for nothing had gone how her mother had planned it last night. She braced for the severe scolding that was about to be delivered.
“You will not disappoint our expectations ever again, young lady,” her mamma cried without any preamble, her violet eyes brimming with tears and unjust reproach. “It is your duty to this family to marry and marry well! I’ll not hear any more objections, Miranda!”
Miranda sat on the chaise longue, her spine rigid yet elegantly poised, daring not to blink as her mother scolded her most ferociously for yet another failure in snagging the man everyone had said was the catch of the season. “Mamma, I can explain—”
“Three eminently suitable suitors you have lost now! Three. You encouraged the Grand Prince Vladimir Konstantinovich to turn his regard to Miss Harriet Shelby, and now they are engaged! Why I still cannot credit it, a Russian prince with that nobody! Then the Duke of Carlyle was ripe for your plucking. I did everything to ensure you ensnared him and somehow, you foolish girl, you allowed him to get away. And I had the Marquess of Blythe conveniently locked in the conservatory with you at last night’s soirée! I had to pay a servant to discreetly deliver a note to you and the marquess, and you…you had the nerve to slip through a window to escape!”
Papa had often remarked fondly of the devious ways mamma had secured his hand for marriage more than twenty-five years past. It seemed her mother required her to act similarly and did not hide that it was her expectations. She lifted her chin, hating to recall the shock of horror she’d felt last night when she realized what her mother had planned. “Mamma, Lord Blythe inspires little emotion in my heart.”
Though the marquess was declared as handsome and a man of fashion and elegance, whenever he touched her, she felt cold and unmoved. Miranda had begun to wonder if passion truly existed. “He has never asked me about what I like to do or how I spend my day. He only compliments my beauty and—”
The countess shook her head as if in a daze. “You ungrateful, wretched girl! We have worked so hard to cultivate your reputation as a diamond of the ton, and you speak as if you wish it were not so!"
Over the last few years, Miranda had become a well sought-after social butterfly, coveted by the young bucks of each season. During the social season, her days were spent assisting her mother in ordering the household, planning balls, musicales, routs, and picnics. She
was admired often by both ladies and gents for her exquisite grace and form when dancing, and her skill at the pianoforte. It was often remarked that she would make a fine wife with her excellent upbringing, amiable disposition, and breathtaking beauty.
