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glanced down at Caro, stunned by the sight of her in the seemingly brilliant light that flooded in from the hallway. She was watching him, and she was smiling too. It took him a moment to recognize the feeling that filled him, made him feel taller and stronger.
    Joy.
    “Marry me, Caro,” he said softly, taking her into his arms. She didn’t protest his embrace. Instead she reached for him, wrapped herself around him, stretching to hold him. He stopped her before she kissed him. “Wait, I need to hear it, please.”
    She laughed. “I see how it will be. Demanding, always.”
    “Caro?”
    “What?” She was laughing and he loved the sound. He pressed her against the wall, captured her lips with his own. She tasted wonderful, and he drank her up as a man parched for ten years. The scent of her skin intoxicated, the touch of her hands tormented, and the brush of her hair against his skin drove him wild.
    “Yes.” He loved the way she responded to him, wanted more. And then he stopped. Pulled back.
    “Yes?” he repeated.
    She nodded and he thought he’d never seen anyone so beautiful before in his life.
    “Perhaps I am the most unwise, romantic fool ever in this world,” she said softly, belying the warning of her words with the buoyant tone of her voice, “but yes, I love you. And yes, I will be your wife.”
    • • •
    Hundreds of candles illuminated the grand ballroom. Even after a fortnight of residing at Sutbridge’s ancestral estate, Caroline wasn’t quite used to the size of everything. Her two boys, however, loved it and then adored it even more after John showed them the secret corridors. They were, he had said, “one of the benefits of being a duke.”
    Caroline liked those discreet passages as well.
    This room, however, was the opposite of secret, everything being for show, for the purpose of spectacle. From the lush potted plants to the twelve-piece orchestra, whose members were even now tuning their instruments.
    The room was empty and yet chaotic.
    Not so dissimilar to her thoughts.
    Tonight, Twelfth Night, she was hosting her first gathering since the wedding, which had been a rush affair by special license. But her concerns were far more domestic, her pleasure more intimate.
    I shall get you with child and then marry you.
    She rather suspected that had been the order of things after all.
    Oh, it was too soon, too soon to be sure of anything in this fledgling marriage. And yet, with two babies delivered, Caroline knew––experience wasn’t always about the bitterness of life.
    “Duchess.” She turned at the low word, stepped forward to meet Sutbridge’s fervent embrace. She had only an impression of his handsome face, framed with its loose waves, the impeccable exquisiteness of his coat, before he crushed her to him. “
My
duchess.”
    She laughed at that, at the reminder of her new title. Only a few weeks earlier she had set her own terms for marrying again: A duke…and a rich one at that. Terms that were ridiculous, and that should have resulted in her never marrying again. Yet Sutbridge was both.
    “And good evening to you, too, my love.”
    “Dance with me.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, swept her up into a waltz. The discordant sounds of the orchestra stopped, and then began again matching their steps. A nice touch, that.
    All at once Caroline didn’t want the guests to arrive. She wanted to keep dancing in her husband’s arms, in this glowing paradise of their own.
    She laughed again with joy at the ridiculousness of it all. Her terms, his demands, her protests. Now, here in this ballroom, it seemed as if life were fated, inevitable. After all, she was dancing, finally, with Sutbridge. And she was completely, utterly and helplessly in love.

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