Chapter Twenty-Four
If it wasn’t for Emmaline poking her head back out of her garden, eyes round, Meg would have assumed she’d imagined the voice.
But she hadn’t.
Mr. Hughes was already bowing low. She turned on her heel.
Dougal.
He had on the fine breeches and coat of a duke, but his cravat was simply tied. He wore no gloves, no jewelry. But the carriage behind spoke volumes. It was nearly as resplendent as the one with the broken wheel, all lacquered wood and detailed carvings. It was pulled by four horses her uncle would have sold his liver to parade through London.
“Doug—Your Grace.”
Oh, how she wanted to leap on him. Simply run and throw herself right at him so he was obliged to catch her up against his chest. She swallowed hard. She knew the entire village was watching them. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for you,” he said simply.
Unexpected joy chased all through her, like a cat after a ribbon. She was afraid she might actually start purring if he stepped any closer.
Of course, he stepped closer.
She had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes, blue as a summer sky. “You forgot something,” he said.
“I did?” Him. She’d forgotten him.
“Me.”
She blinked. Was he a mind reader, now?
“You forgot to take me with you,” he continued. “Because I want to be where you are.” He took her hand and though she didn’t say anything, she held on tightly. His nails were neatly trimmed, his scars faded like satin. “I know I have to get married, and soon, but I still have a choice left. And I choose you, Meg. I will always choose you.” He lifted her hands to his lips. “Please say you’ll choose me back.”
She hesitated. She wanted to say yes more than anything. She knew marriages that had succeeded with far softer of a foundation than they already had together. She wanted to chase ducks through the dining room and debutantes out of the garden.
And hadn’t she just decided to leave this place?
Surely this was fate.
Dougal misread her pause.
“Is it me you object to? I know I’m not good enough for you. I was—”
“Who says you’re not good enough for me?” She interrupted, outraged. She wanted very much to kiss his face and to punch whoever had put that thought into his head.
He was bewildered. “No one had to say it. It’s the truth.”
“It’s rot,” she insisted. “Utter rot. I’m the one who’s not good enough for you.”
Dougal barked a surprised laugh. “Get off.”
“If you don’t marry him, Meg, you daft cow, I will.” Emmaline called out from behind the relative safety of her garden fence. Several of the other women laughed and threw Dougal appreciative glances. So did Richard, the blacksmith’s apprentice. Who could blame them?
Never mind a glance, she’d been contemplating throwing her entire body at him not two minutes previous.
Not wanting the audience who was drawing closer and closer under pretext of pulling a weed, moving a stone from the road, and picking late-season cabbages that had already been picked, Meg pulled Dougal towards his carriage. Even Mr. Hughes would fall right over if he craned his neck any harder in their direction.
After asking the coachman to take them to the gatekeeper’s cottage, they climbed inside, enveloped in soft quiet. Also, a thousand vines of green, red raspberries and blackberries poking between tiny leaves. Meg touched one of the tendrils painted on the ceiling. “This is nearly as opulent as the other carriage.” There was a basket on the ground, filled with Jumbles, gilded almonds, vegetables. “Are those turnips?” She asked, confounded.
“You seem to hold turnip crops in high esteem,” he admitted sheepishly.