“Yes, but as you said, I did not ask you for the right reasons. They were mostly the right reasons, but not all.”
“I—I—” She was stumbling on the words, choking on the emotion.
He was staring up at her, his eyes glowing clear and blue in the dim light of the streetlamps. “I am asking you to marry me because I love you,” he said, “because I cannot imagine living my life without you. I want to see your face in the morning, and then at night, and a hundred times in between. I want to grow old with you, I want to laugh with you, and I want to sigh to my friends about how managing you are, all the while secretly knowing I am the luckiest man in town.”
“What?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “A man’s got to keep up appearances. I’ll be universally detested if everyone realizes how perfect you are.”
“Oh.” Again, how could a woman argue with that?
And then his eyes grew serious. “I want you to be my family. I want you to be my wife.”
She stared down at him. He was gazing at her with such obvious love and devotion, she hardly knew what to do. It seemed to surround her, embrace her, and she knew that this was poetry, this was music.
This was love.
He smiled up at her, and all she could do was smile back, dimly aware that her cheeks were growing wet.
“Hyacinth,” he said. “Hyacinth.”
And she nodded. Or at least she thought she did.
He squeezed her hands as he rose to his feet. “I never thought I’d have to say this to you, of all people, but for God’s sake, say something, woman!”
“Yes,” she said. And she threw herself into his arms. “Yes!”
Epilogue
A few moments to bring us up to date…
Four days after the end of our tale, Gareth called upon Lord Wrotham, only to find that the earl in no way felt the betrothal was binding, especially after he related Lady Bridgerton’s promise to take one of the younger Wrotham daughters under her wing the following season.
Four days after that, Gareth was informed by Lady Bridgerton, in no uncertain manner, that her youngest child would not be married in haste, and he was forced to wait two months before wedding Hyacinth in an elaborate yet tasteful ceremony at St. George’s, in London.
Eleven months after that, Hyacinth gave birth to a healthy baby boy, christened George.
Two years after that, they were blessed with a daughter, christened Isabella.
Four years after that, Lord St. Clair was thrown from his horse during a fox hunt and instantly killed. Gareth assumed the title, and he and Hyacinth moved to their new town residence at Clair House.
That was six years ago. She has been looking for the jewels ever sinc
e…
“Haven’t you already searched this room?”
Hyacinth looked up from her position on the floor of the baroness’s washroom. Gareth was standing in the doorway, gazing down at her with an indulgent expression.
“Not for at least a month,” she replied, testing the baseboards for loose sections—as if she hadn’t yanked and prodded them countless times before.
“Darling,” Gareth said, and she knew from his tone what he was thinking.
She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t.”
“Darling,” he said again.
“No.” She turned back to the baseboards. “I don’t want to hear it. If it takes until the day I die, I will find these bloody jewels.”