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“There is one thing you have not said. I have said it, more than once. But you, Lady Mary Hope, have not.”
“But what is it?”
Delagarde rose from his chair and went around the table. Catching her hands, he pulled her up, holding her so. “In all this tender talk, you have not once mentioned your own feelings—about me.”
“But you know how I feel,” Maidie said, her cheeks growing warm.
“Do I, indeed? Allow me to point out to you that I am no mind reader.”
“You wish me to say it?”
“No, I wish you to fly to the moon! Of course I wish you to say it, simpleton. And you had better, with frequency and tenderness, if you know what is good for you.”
Maidie eyed him. “Is this your idea of love talk?”
“No. It is my idea of bringing you to heel. Abominable wench that you are—say it!”
Maidie smiled at him, and Delagarde’s heart melted. He could not resist kissing her. She drew away a little, and reaching up her fingers, delicately touched his face.
“This,” she said, with all the required tenderness he might desire, “is my brightest star. If I had to choose but one to gaze upon throughout my life, I would forsake all others for this one.” She reached up to him and her lips brushed his. “Does that answer you?”
Delagarde’s dark eyes glowed. “Yes, star-gazer, it answers me indeed. And yet you claimed you could not foretell the future.”
Her gaze searched his. “Meaning?”
He drew her into his arms. “I will not have you abandon the heavens entirely. Merely at interludes throughout the night—for refreshment such as this.”
Maidie, giving herself up to his kiss, was moved to approve this very agreeable compromise.
