SHE’D SAID YES. He was going to marry Chrystabel.
Chrystabel would be his wife, and he would be her husband—assuming they made it out of this priest hole unscathed.
And assuming Creath married Matthew.
Because if something did go wrong on their journey…
Holy Hades.
“I love you,” Chrystabel whispered.
“I know,” Joseph returned, his own whisper filled with wonder. He could scarcely believe he hadn’t known her four days ago. “I love you, too. But—”
“We’re betrothed. We’re betrothed!” Her whisper was pure glee. She was adorable. Even when he couldn’t see her, she was adorable. “You said you would kiss me if I said yes.”
He hadn’t, not really. But he could see how she might think he had, so he came up off his knee and sat again beside her. Peering into the pitch-black, he reached for her—then pulled back.
It didn’t feel right kissing her in a dark priest hole. For one thing, until Creath was safely wed, their betrothal was on tenuous footing. He had to keep that in mind.
And for another thing, he wasn’t sure he could find Chrystabel’s face. “When shall we be married?” he finally asked to fill the expectant silence. “Tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow.” He heard rustling a moment before something grazed his arm. He felt her scoot closer, until her right leg and his left were pressed together from knee to hip. When she spoke, her breath warmed his ear. “I want a church wedding. We’ll have to wait three Sundays for the banns to be called.”
“Three Sundays? Three weeks?” That seemed a lifetime. “Are you sure you want to wait that long? Church weddings aren’t legal anymore, anyway.”
“They’re not illegal, either. They’re allowed—they just don’t count as far as the government is concerned. We can be wed by a Justice of the Peace in the morning to satisfy the law and then have a church wedding in the afternoon. Our marriage won’t feel real if it’s not blessed by the church.”
“Very well,” he relented. He certainly wanted their marriage to feel real.
But three weeks seemed a long, long time.
Not a lifetime—a lifetime and a half.
“Joseph?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t you want to kiss me now?”
He swallowed hard. “I’m not sure my parents would approve. We don’t even know if Creath and Matthew will marry. What if—”
“I’m certain they’ll marry. And I think your mother might approve of us kissing.” Groping in the dark, her hand found his knee.
He sucked in a breath. “Beg pardon?”
“What did she say your family motto was?”
“Interroga Conformationem.” He took her wandering hand in his and sighed. “Question Convention.”
“Exactly. This is unconventional, perhaps, yet not particularly dangerous. And I think she’s rather hoping you and I will fall in love. Kissing is part of being in love, is it not?”
He couldn’t argue with that.
Especially because he really did want to kiss her.
And what was the worst that could happen? Even if he had to marry Creath in the end, at least they would both have the memory of this kiss to cherish.
“And you are not going to have to marry Creath,” she added.
That settled it.
Possibly because he simply couldn’t resist.
“I wish I could see you.” Carefully, he slid his fingers up her arm and over her shoulder to meet her smooth cheek. “There you are,” he whispered, bringing both hands to cup her face. His thumbs slid along her jaw until they found her quivering lower lip. “You’re shaking, Chrysanthemum.”
“Am I? That’s probably because I’ve never been kissed before.”
That gave him pause. “Never?” How had a girl as pretty as Chrystabel nearly reached her seventeenth birthday without being kissed?
“Never,” she confirmed. “I was hoping you’d be so good as to rectify that.”
He hesitated. “Are you certain this is how you want to get your first kiss?” Creath aside, the circumstances seemed all wrong. For pity’s sake, he hadn’t even looked Chrystabel in the eye when he’d asked her to marry him. What sort of a proposal was that?
“I’m certain I want to get my first kiss right now, from you. The first of many.”
Her sweetness was disarming, but not enough to erase his misgivings. It struck him that if everything worked out, he’d be the only man she would ever kiss, and that seemed a big responsibility. He didn’t want to disappoint her. He wanted her first kiss to be everything she’d dreamed of, and more.
But he also really, really wanted to kiss her right now.
Feeling torn, he pulled away with a groan of frustration. “It’s just that we’re, you know, in a musty cellar. In the dark. In a bed. Is this really how you pictured your first kiss?”
“Our first kiss. And we’re not in a bed—we’re on a bed. And it’s not even a bed, really.”
“Even so,” was his feeble protest, since she did have a point. The “bed” was just a thin, straw-filled pallet on top of a low wooden box that someone had probably built in the last century.
“Besides, the dark has its advantages,” she went on, scooting closer again. “I find it rather freeing, don’t you?”
He chuckled low. “I fear that’s exactly why my parents wouldn’t approve.”
”Perhaps they wouldn’t. But they’re not here.” She shifted, and he felt as if she were looking him over from top to toe, reading his emotions, measuring his intentions. Which was impossible, of course. It was pitch-black. ”And I’m glad for it,” she added. “I like being alone in the dark with you.”
“I like it, too,” he confessed, his temperature hiking as he breathed in the scent of flowers. The visual deprivation seemed to make him more aware of his other senses. Her fragrance was making his head swim, and his thigh felt on fire where it pressed against hers. When his hands found her cheeks again—without mishap this time—her skin was silken and exquisitely soft.
And she’d said yes. She wasn’t going to Wales. If everything worked out, she was going to be his Chrysanthemum.
When he noticed his face felt tired, he wondered how long he’d been grinning like an idiot in the dark.
“You’re certain you want me to kiss you now?” he stopped to whisper, an inch from her lips. “Because we can wait—”
“Joseph?”
“Yes, Chrysanthemum?”
“Don’t be such an old fust-cudgel.”
And then they were kissing.