To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(100)
It was her sketch, of course, but seeing it sitting there on the wall, in a gilt frame, surrounded by portraits of Jeremy’s forebearers, she was able to view it more objectively. And, she had to confess, it was good. No, it was better than good—it was a mere sketch, a preliminary to the portrait she intended to begin work on shortly, and yet its bold strokes and the raw honesty of Jeremy’s gaze were arresting.
She was not used to standing in awe of her own artwork. She knew that she enjoyed creating it; she knew that others (the few others who had seen her art, at least) told her that she was talented; but that was an entirely different thing from seeing something she had created with her own hands and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was good. That this simple sketch was able to hold its own among the formal portraits that surrounded it.
Jeremy’s face as she had drawn it was entirely stripped of the mask of cool sophistication that would have been so familiar to so many of his acquaintances; instead, he stared directly at the viewer, his gaze open. There was so much in that gaze: a bit of vulnerability; a touch of desire, yes—enough that Diana felt her cheeks warm, knowing the others were seeing this, too; a look of confidence, of a man who knew—or was learning—his place in the world; and a look of love, directed straight at the viewer.
Or, as Diana knew to really be the case, the artist.
It was Jeremy as she saw him. And he had hung it here, in this gallery, surrounded by paintings of his father and grandfather and all the marquesses before them. As she glanced around, she noticed empty frames scattered about the walls. Beautiful, ornate, undoubtedly expensive frames. Frames containing nothing.
“They’re for you to fill,” came Jeremy’s voice, low in her ear. She felt his breath against her neck, goose bumps rising in its wake. She turned, and there he was—tall, golden, insufferably handsome, and looking at her as though she was the only thing he saw. The only thing that mattered.
Some dim part of her realized that she had been waiting her entire life for someone to look at her like that, without ever admitting it—because to admit it would have been to confess weakness. Admitting it would have meant she wanted it. Admitting it would have meant that she needed someone else, for more than social advantage or a healthy bank balance. Admitting it would have made her vulnerable, and that was the one thing she had refused to be.
Until now.
“Please, fill them,” he said, his voice still low, rough with emotion. “Marry me. Live here with me. Paint me—or the furniture—or the blasted sheep, I don’t care. Just stay here with me.” His brow furrowed, and he hastily added, “Unless you’d rather live in London year-round. That’s fine, too. I don’t give a damn, so long as you’re there with me.” He reached out a hand that a dim, clinical part of Diana’s brain noted was trembling, and cupped her cheek in his palm.
“I love you, Diana. I love your mind and your art and your freckles and every single other inch of your body, and I want to marry you.” He reached his free hand into his coat, and before Diana could ask him what he was doing, he extended a closed hand to her. Startled, she held out her hand and felt the press of a fat wad of paper in her palm. She looked down, her brow furrowed, not understanding—
And then, of course, it clicked.
“One hundred pounds, I presume?” she asked, looking up and arching a brow at him.
“You have my solemn vow, down to the very last penny,” he said, placing a dramatic hand to his heart.
“I assure you I shall be counting it later,” she informed him; then she was in his arms, his mouth warm and urgent on hers, every other thought she had ever had fleeing her mind.
“I love you,” she murmured against his smile, her own mouth stretching into an answering grin.
Dimly, she heard the sound of appreciative applause and—if she was not mistaken—the dowager marchioness’s smug voice saying, “This has all turned out exactly as I predicted.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, barely noticing as the notes in her hand fluttered loose.
Winning a wager had never been so sweet.
Acknowledgments
I have been distressed to learn that writing a second book is not, in fact, any easier than writing a first book—you’re simply expected to do it more quickly. Writing can be lonely sometimes, but publishing is not, and I’m grateful to so many people, including:
My editor, Kaitlin Olson, and my agent, Taylor Haggerty, both of whom helped make this book infinitely better with their questions and feedback. I adore both of you.
The stellar, hardworking team at Atria, including Isabel DaSilva and Megan Rudloff, who make sure my books are read by all the right people; Polly Watson, for her keen (and hilarious) copyedits; and Sherry Wasserman. Thanks also to Kate Byrne and the team at Headline Eternal for giving my books such a warm welcome to the United Kingdom.
The many, many people who helped make launching a debut novel in the middle of a global pandemic somehow still feel special. At Root Literary, Melanie Castillo, Taylor Haggerty, and Alyssa Moore were clutch with their social media savvy and willingness to try new things in unusual times, and Holly Root’s words of wisdom for authors in an unprecedented year were much appreciated. I’m incredibly grateful to my fellow Root Lit authors who so kindly stepped up for debut authors in a time of need, including Becky Albertalli, Gretchen Anthony, Lauren Billings, Kate Clayborn, Jen DeLuca, Jasmine Guillory, Rachel Hawkins, Emily Henry, Christina Hobbs, Ashley Poston, Sally Thorne, and Sara Bennett Wealer. To my debut day twins and coconspirators, Marisa Kanter and Cameron Lund, an extra big (metaphorical) hug. Thanks also to Sarah Hogle and Margo Lipschultz for the world’s most hilariously chaotic Twitter event.