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“And then his arms were suddenly around her. For a split second, time stood still for Laurel, and what was more, she wished it to. She wanted to preserve that moment, the moment just before, when everything was still possible and perfect. When the night was bright with anticipation and the promise of a kiss hung in the air between them, filling the room with a hair-raising charge like the feeling just before a bolt of lightning strikes during a terrific thunderstorm. He stepped closer and she breathed in deeply. The scent of a clean masculine soap, the rich spice of an expensive cologne, and beneath it all, the duke himself, earthy, woodsy, and so very male. Laurel’s eyes closed as his body pressed against hers. It was very firm and hard, just as she had imagined it would be. The sensation was intriguing. She could feel his breath on her face. Smell the rich caramel notes of the whisky he had been drinking. He was very close now. Then the moment was over and a new one began, and things would never, ever be the same.”

“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?”

“He kissed her bottom lip, stroked it with his tongue. “You are so beautiful. When is the last time someone told you that?” “Hmm, I believe a gentleman on a London street may have suggested something of the sort,” she said, with faux sweetness. He loved her sauciness. “In deed if not word.” “He should have said it out loud,” Cross murmured. “In front of everyone. He should have shouted it from the street corner, to all who would listen. Cherry Lambe is a beautiful, beautiful woman.” “Yes, I’m sure that would have gone over well,” she whispered. “I can see the headline now. Duke draws attention to himself over infatuation with female journalist gone rogue.” “Infatuation?” he said, delighted. “Is that what you would describe this as?” He could almost hear her blushing in the shadowy room. “Well, I did not mean to presume…” She sounded wonderfully embarrassed. He lowered his lips to her ear. “It is all right, Mrs. Lambe. I assure you. It’s true. I am infatuated with you. Consumed, in fact.” Lovesick. Besotted. He could go on, but decided it would be unwise.”