“Sandrine. God, I want you.”
“Then, have me. I’m yours, Dane.” The words were heartfelt, and they were true.
She was his, now and forever.
Afterward, as they lay panting and breathless, Dane lifted her chin and stared soulfully into her eyes. “Are you going to marry me? And don’t say I’m only asking you to marry me because I’m ina hazy state of postcoital bliss. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing to think about. We consummated our love, and you’re marrying me.”
“Don’t be such an arrogant damned duke.”
“And don’t be so stubborn. It’s the only course of action.”
“The Pink Ladies helped me devise a campaign to disarm you, flirt with you, and make you fall madly in love with me so that you would grant the leasehold to the historical society. And after you’d signed it over, I was supposed to spurn you publicly. Show you how it felt to be the humiliated one.”
“And is that what you’re going to do?”
“The plan has changed. I’m the one who’s fallen madly in love with you, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still making my own choices, following my own path.”
He still hadn’t told her he loved her, and she’d given him so many opportunities to do so. She still hadn’t brought him to his knees. He hadn’t groveled yet.
The campaign wasn’t over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The sight of young ladies riding horses gives gentlemen licentious ideas.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“And then he asked me to marry him. Again,” Sandrine said.
Marta sighed dreamily. “And you said, ‘Of course I’ll marry you and become your duchess, you big handsome brute!’”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“You didn’t,” Francesca said with a giggle.
“I did. Because you know what? He hasn’t groveled sufficiently yet.”
“Well, my goodness, Miss Pristine Sandrine has outpinked us, ladies. She refused a duke’s proposal,” Roslyn drawled.
“The first evening you spent here, Sandrine, we talked about a make-a-rake-grovel gown.” Francesca’s eyes lit up. “I went the very next day to my modiste and gave her an order with your measurements. It’s finally ready.”
“Let have a look, then,” Marta said.
Francesca left the room and returned with a black riding habit made from buttery soft leather. The ladies helped Sandrine into the habit, which was no small feat given how tightly it fit.
“Ooh,” breathed Marta. “It’s perfect.”
Sandrine spun in front of the looking glass. “It’s extremely close about the bodice. I may not be able to breathe.”
“But you’re definitely going to make a rake grovel,” Francesca said.
“You’re brilliant, Francesca,” said Roslyn. “A riding habit is far more superior than a gown. It will put him in a mood to ride.”
Sandrine knew precisely what she meant by that. And she heartily approved.