Another wry laugh, full of affection. “Should we talk about this later when you’re feeling more yourself?”
The hand she’d hooked around his neck tugged at the silky strands brushing his collar. “You need a haircut.”
“Clearly hair is much more important than our future.”
His touch restored her better than any medicine. Every moment she lay in his arms, she felt stronger. “You need to look… respectable at our wedding.”
Beneath her cheek, his muscles tensed into rock hardness. He caught his breath. “What did you say?”
With some difficulty—curse this weakness—she braced to sit up. He looked completely bewildered. “You need to be tidy for our wedding. God knows, I’ll look a fright so the groom must appear the part. Although I think we should wait at least until your bruises fade. At the moment, the vicar will faint clear away with terror to see such a ruffian standing before him.”
“You never look a fright.” He frowned, his gaze searching. “Eager as I am to marry you, perhaps we should postpone this discussion. I’m not sure you’re in your right mind.”
“Are you saying I’ve gone mad?”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Some would say that marrying me is the act of a madwoman. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
“No.” She started to shake her head, then stopped abruptly when the movement made her vision swim. “Let’s decide now.”
“Eleanor…”
“Please?”
For an extended interval, he stared hard at her as if he saw into her soul. If he did, he couldn’t doubt her commitment to becoming his wife. Or her love for him. “Then let’s do this properly. Can you manage leaning against the pillows, my love?”
“Yes,” she said, and found that it was true, although she hadn’t been sure.
Careful not to bump the bed, he slid off the mattress to rise on one knee. Her hand still lay in his. His gray eyes told her that even in bandages, to him she was the most beautiful creature in the world. “My darling Eleanor, light of my life, the most wonderful woman I know, my reason for living…”
He swallowed and she realized that despite her declaration at the point of death, he still wasn’t sure of her. His hand tightened and he cleared his throat. Nervousness didn’t come naturally to James Fairbrother. Nell’s heart squeezed with love. At this breathtakingly significant moment in their lives, he was a million miles from his self-confident self.
His voice softened to the velvet that always made her ache with longing. “My darling Eleanor, I love you with all my heart. Will you do me the inestimable honor of agreeing to become my wife?”
She still marveled that such a man should love her. Marveled, but accepted. Whatever the right or wrong of it, she couldn’t meet that gray gaze and doubt that he pledged lifelong devotion.
She was shaking, and not this time because of her injuries. With all the adoration burgeoning inside her, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.
“I love you, James,” she said in a choked voice. “The honor is all mine.”
He frowned. “Is that yes?”
Nell realized with a stab of guilt how she’d wounded him with her wavering and rejections and mistrust. Silently she swore to spend the rest of her life proving that he was the center of her world. She summoned a smile, although tears hovered close once more.
“Of course it’s a yes. The last few days have given me a salutary lesson in sorting out what’s important from what’s merely trivial society nonsense.” In a gesture of boundless tenderness, she laid her palm against his bristly cheek. “Nearly dying showed me that I want to live. And when I say I want to live, I mean that I want to live with you. Always.”
“My darling.” Radiant joy lit his eyes. He leaned forward to place a reverent kiss upon her lips. When he raised his head, he stared at her as if she’d cooked up the stars in her kitchen.
With shaking hands, he tugged the Fairbrother signet from his hand and slid it onto her ring finger. It was too heavy and too big, and she never wanted to take it off again as long as she lived. She smiled through more tears as she stared down at the rich gold. “I love it.”
“It’s only a stopgap. I’ll get you something as beautiful as you are.”
“You’ve turned me into a cursed watering pot,” she complained thickly.
“Marchionesses are allowed to cry whenever they want to,” he said, the huskiness undermining his attempt at lightness.
It was miraculous how a happy ending soothed a headache. “I wish you’d told me that before. I’d have married you weeks ago.”
This time, his humor was a shred more convincing. “Well, my marchioness can do whatever she wants.”