Page 112 of Gentleman Jim

“A license for what?” Maggie asked.

Allendale handed the paper to her. The gleam in his eyes was very much like the one in St. Clare’s. “A license for you and my grandson to be married.”

Thus far, St. Clare had been singularly unmoved by his grandfather’s revelations. He knew when the old earl was putting on a show. Everything, from the manner of his arrival to the dramatic fashion in which he’d produced his proof, had reeked of the theater. But this…

This was real.

Maggie lifted her gaze from the special license, meeting his eyes. And this time he wasn’t cold and impassive, revealing nothing of his feelings. Quite the reverse. He gave her a lopsided smile.

An answering smile shone in her face.

“Have you agreed to this, Miss Honeywell?” Sir Roderick asked. “To marry this man?”

“I have, sir. With my whole heart.” Maggie went to St. Clare.

He rose to meet her, taking her hands in his. “I promise you, you won’t have cause to regret it.”

“Foolish man,” she said, making the words a caress. “Of course I won’t regret it. You’re the love of my life.”

Fred was up from his seat in a flash. He paced to the mantel. “An affecting scene.” He turned to confront Maggie. “I’ll never approve of you marrying him, you do realize that? And without my approval, you may bid goodbye to Beasley Park.”

“I’m aware,” Maggie said.

Allendale stood. “And why won’t you approve a marriage between my grandson and Miss Honeywell?” he demanded in a growl. “You can’t hope for a better match for the gel.”

Fred drew himself up. “Miss Honeywell is going to marry me.”

“I’m afraid she isn’t,” St. Clare said. “You had best accustom yourself to the fact.”

“No, I’m not,” Maggie agreed. “I never promised to marry you, Fred. You only assumed I would because of Papa’s will.”

“Two suitors to choose from,” Miss Trumble’s aunt said. “Who, pray, is the second lad? The ginger-haired fellow?”

“Mr. Burton-Smythe,” Miss Trumble replied. “He lives on the neighboring estate.”

“Who, dear?”

“Mr. Burton-Smythe!”

“As romantic as this all is,” Mr. Beresford said, rising from his chair. “Madre and I must excuse ourselves.” He made for the door.

Mrs. Beresford sprang up to follow her son. “Quite right. We have matters to attend to. Our departure to arrange and so forth. We won’t remain where we’re unwelcome.” She bobbed her head to Allendale as she passed. “My lord.”

The pair hastily took their leave, frantically whispering to each other as they exited the room.

“Probably trying to catch the post before all those letters of theirs go out,” St. Clare murmured to Maggie.

Her mouth curved. “They shall have to be quick about it.”

A footman appeared at the door, narrowly avoiding a collision with the exiting Beresfords. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, Salter?” Maggie asked. “What is it?”

“Dinner is served, Miss Honeywell.”

“Splendid.” Allendale offered his arm to Miss Trumble’s aunt. “Shall we go in, ma’am? Give the betrothed couple a few moments of privacy?”

“An excellent idea, my lord.” She took his arm, permitting him to escort her from the room. Miss Trumble accompanied them, stopping only briefly to offer a word of congratulation to Maggie.