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“Laurel stood on stage. She was very still. Her lovely blue eyes were lowered modestly. Her silver blonde hair fell in disheveled curls around her face, white roses and strands of pearls woven artfully throughout. A necklace of what looked like diamonds clasped her slender throat while white kid gloves were drawn up to her elbow. She held a fan of frosted silver in one hand, dangling at her side. Her dress was a shimmering sapphire blue, and it fit her exquisitely, molding to her form, hugging her small bosom and lifting her breasts until they appeared ready to spill from the satin bodice. A silver braided sash cinched her waist, emphasizing its narrowness. And then, she lifted her head, raised the hand that held the fan, then the other one and, tipping her head back, opened her eyes. They were haunting and luminous, soft in the candlelight. Her skin was pale and smooth. The crowd was utterly quiet, watching her. And then, she began to sing. If Dare had thought Laurel Spencer beautiful before, now she became goddess-like to him in an instant as a melody so heart-wrenching and lovely spilled forth from her lips.”

“Refusing to meet his eyes, she looked at his mouth instead. It was a beautiful mouth for a man, she had to admit. Full and sensual, yet masculine. A layer of dark stubble coated the bottom half of his face. Apparently, Mr. Calvert did not shave as frequently when he traveled. There was something rather erotic about the contrast between the alluring lips and the rough dark hair. Something which almost made her want to run a finger over his skin, to touch those lips, to feel that layer of stubble. Would it be rough to the touch or was it softer than it looked?”

“You loved me for me, no matter who that was. You fought for me. You almost died for me. My heart was yours from the moment I met you. I gave it, freely, never expecting to receive yours in return. Now I ask you to be my husband, for I am desperate to be your beloved wife. With the two of us bound together as one, we will never lack for joy. We will take on any sorrow, any challenge, and face it together. I love you, Linden Chevalier. Have I said that already?”

“I was so lonely,” he heard her say, and he felt her body shaking. “There seemed no point in saying yes, no point in saying no. So, I simply did as he wanted.” “Your father?” Henry said, with understanding, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her hair gently. He held her close, in the dark of the foyer, letting his hands and his arms speak for him. She was safe, they said. She was loved, they said. He would never let her feel that way again. He felt her nodding. She lifted her head. “You did not let me finish before,” she said, her eyes widening with some unspoken news. “In the alcove. You distracted me.” She hit him playfully on the chest as he grinned at the memory of how he had indeed distracted them both. “But I had been trying to tell you…” She began. “Wait,” Henry said, with a frown. “Did you hear that?” “What?” She said, looking ever so slightly annoyed. “Let me finish this time, please, Henry.” “A baby,” he said, looking around the foyer wildly. “I thought I heard a baby.” He looked back and was shocked to see her looking unconcerned.”

“He hurt you. If I had been here then… I would tear him apart with my bare hands if he were still here, Maggie. Believe that.” She trembled, then nodded slowly. “I… do.” The duke nodded. “Good.” Abruptly his face changed. An expression of shock came over him. She looked around the room, confused, then realized he had glanced down at her gown. And in that moment, Maggie realized she had let go of the robe. It hung open, revealing the plane nightdress beneath. Which would not have been so terrible had it not been so thin, so pale white, so clinging. It clung to every curve. She clutched the robe, pulling it closed quickly, but she knew it was too late. “Good God, Maggie,” the duke said, hoarsely. “Tell me you are not…” He met her eyes. “Tell me I am being foolish. I am a man. I know little of such things. I am sorry to have even dared to look at you in such a way. I must be mistaken. But…Tell me, truly, am I mistaken?” Maggie’s throat was dry. She felt frozen in place. Unable to even shake her head, though she wished to. Then he took a step forward, towards her, and she let out a little cry—her arms raising protectively, instinctively.”