The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Julien felt a stab of anger mixed with relief. He didn’t care if Sir Oliver didn’t like his daughter. It didn’t matter. She would be out of this house just as soon as Julien could arrange the matter. He rose and sealed their bargain with a handshake. Sir Oliver thought to ask, “I presume your lordship has already spoken to my daughter?”

“No, sir, I felt it would be proper to secure your permission first.”

“Very proper, and quite right, my lord.” Sir Oliver sounded worried. But that was ridiculous, surely. He said, clearing his throat, “I suppose your lordship would like to speak to her now?”

“Yes,” Julien said, as he walked beside Sir Oliver out of the shabby drawing room.

Julien strode from the hall into the overgrown gardens and shaded his eyes with his hand from the bright sunlight. He scanned the landscape and, not seeing Kate, walked toward the pond.

He found her seated on the mossy bank, her arms clasped around her knees, a pensive, faraway expression on her face. Her hair was unbound and hung down her back in soft waves, reaching nearly to her waist. His calm assurance didn’t falter as he approached her. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, and he’d spent much of his day visualizing her response. She would be surprised at how soon he was declaring himself, but she would be prepared, for his feeling for her was obvious. Her face would flush slightly, and she would softly tell him that she cared for him as well. Perhaps she would even tell him she loved him. The altogether delightful vision ended with a discreet, yet promising kiss.

As he drew nearer, he could hear her singing a Scottish ballad. He grinned, for she had a small, wooden voice. He rather hoped she didn’t play the pianoforte, for he’d had to endure the painfully accurate performances of too many nervous girls out to impress him.

She didn’t notice his presence until he dropped down to his knees beside her. She looked up, not at all startled, and said cheerfully, “Good morning, sir. You are up and about quite early.”

“What is this? You think me a lazy sluggard, Kate?”

“Well,” she said slowly, the irrepressible dimples peeking through, “not exactly a sluggard. Being one of the— what is it you fine gentlemen call it— ah, yes, being a Corinthian, you would naturally be expected to be at your dressing table until at least noon.”

“Little baggage.” He lightly buffeted her shoulder and she laughed.

He looked at her searchingly for a moment, thinking suddenly of the way they’d parted the day before, of her fear at the copse and her undeniable response to him. Neither of these incidents appeared to be disturbing her now. She was perfectly at her ease, the pensive expression he’d observed on her face vanished.

She saw that he was looking at her very seriously. “What, my lord, can’t you find a suitable hunter to buy?” She laid her hand on the sleeve of his light-blue-broadcloth coat, thinking fleetingly how very exquisite he looked. His cravat was snowy white and arranged with such subtle perfection that she wished Harry could see it.

Julien looked down at her hand and clasped it in his own. She made no move to pull away, but simply cocked her head to one side and gazed at him inquiringly. With supreme confidence, emboldened by her gesture, the earl of March set course on his first proposal of marriage.

“I’ve spoken to your father. In fact, I’ve just come from meeting with him.”

“Good heavens, whatever would you have to say to Sir Oliver? I hope he didn’t annoy you.”

A bit daunted by her naïveté, he hesitated a moment, carefully choosing his words. “I of course wanted to make a suitable agreement with Sir Oliver before speaking with you. I have always believed this is the way it is done.”

“What is done?”

“You do not ease my task, do you? Very well, in short, Kate, my dearest Kate, I asked his permission to pay you my addresses. I want you to be my wife. I care very much for you. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”