London—September 1815
‘Will you marry me?’
Olivia said the words aloud, thrilled by the way they flowed. She tried it a different way. ‘Lady Olivia, will you marry me?’
Oh, that sounds wonderful! She grinned at herself in the bedroom mirror, glad no one was present to witness her giddy foolishness.
Perhaps he would kiss her instead. She dearly hoped so. Thoughts of kissing him had been uppermost in her mind for many weeks. Her heart skipped as she imagined the sensation of his strong, handsome face approaching hers, his lips on her lips, his arms wrapped around her. She closed her eyes, savouring the image. Oh, how wonderful it would be! Could it happen? Perhaps all this time he had been developing warm feelings for her, too. He might say ‘Lady Olivia, I love you. Ardently, truly, deeply. Will you marry me?’
And she would reply Yes. Of course she would. She wanted nothing more than to be his wife. Now, should she offer a shy yes, or an enthusiastic one, or perhaps a coquettish one?
Honestly, at this point, she cared not. The important thing was that she adored him and he had said it was important that he speak with her. He had said so, in that solemn way of his, and so she had agreed to meet him in the garden after nuncheon.
Quite when she had fallen in love with Jem Ford, she was not certain. Was it the first time she had seen his crooked smile, the day they had met? He had been carried into the Fanton townhouse by two of the footmen, the leg injury he had sustained at Waterloo still healing. Having made the long and tiring journey from France, he had then faced the entire Fanton family who were waiting to greet him, including the Earl of Shalford, Olivia’s eldest brother—an ordeal for any stranger. But how much harder must it have been for him? Olivia reflected. Unable to walk, exhausted and clearly feeling uncomfortable about the number of people waiting to receive him, he had nevertheless behaved impeccably. He had thanked his commanding officer, Olivia’s other brother Harry, for the invitation, but insisted he would remove to a hotel on the morrow.
Harry, of course, was having none of it. ‘Having resigned from the Army, I am your Captain no longer,’ he had said, ‘and so I cannot command you. But I do hope you will stay with us until you are recovered.’ They had agreed to discuss the matter later, but even then—having known him for all of two minutes—Olivia had been conscious of a strong wish within herself for him to stay.
She had looked at him closely, noting the dust of travel on his clothes and the lines of pain and tiredness etched on his face, yet her thought had been, ‘My! How handsome he is!’ Surely the beginnings of love had sprung into life in that moment? Like a trickle of water on a hillside in spring, it had begun almost silently. But, during the months of his convalescence, as she had spent more and more time with him, the trickle had grown slowly and steadily, until now a flood of love for him consumed her. He was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. She lived for the times they spent together, especially the precious moments when they were occasionally alone.
He had been
