Chapter Twenty-Four

T he ride back to Hayton was torture, almost as much as the previous night had been. The feeling of Hope sitting on his horse, nestled against him, continually reminded Samuel of their night spent in the bed at that inn. Indeed, it had been a full night. Despite his insistence that he would leave once she fell asleep, he had fallen asleep too and had remained there, holding her in his arms, until the first hints of the sleepy autumn dawn slipped through the thin fabric of the curtains which hung at the small window.

Nothing improper had happened, of course—they had both been far too exhausted for that and, besides, he was a gentleman. But still, the experience of waking beside her, of feeling her warm, petite form pressed against him, of burying his nose in those dark curls while he kissed her good morning had been overpowering. It was more than lust—although God only knew he had felt plenty of that. It was a sense of rightness, of belonging. A sense that if he was fortunate to spend every morning waking like that, with Hope in his arms, then at the end of his life he would die a happy man.

It was love, but then he knew that. He'd known that for some time. Now, as he caught first sight of Hayton Hall's castle-like roofscape, he knew he needed to make things formal. To ask, in the proper way, the vital question. In the aftermath of Hope's rescue and George's apprehension, he'd blurted out his intentions in the heat of the moment, and yet he had not actually asked her.

Last night he'd gone to her room intent upon proposing, but one look at her pale, weary, worried face was all he'd needed to understand that it was not the right time. It had been clear to him that Hope needed to talk about what was on her mind—her ordeal and the death of her father, not to mention her clear and persistent worries about what Samuel thought of her, now that he knew the truth. What she'd needed from him, he'd quickly realised, was comfort and reassurance. Proposals, he'd decided, could wait.

Although, he realised now, not for much longer. He wanted her to know that his intentions were serious and sincere. And he desperately wanted to know whether she would accept him or whether, in the cold light of a dismal, damp autumn day, she would decide that she wanted to return to Richmond and to the stage. To that life she had so admirably carved for herself against all the odds.

His horse drew to a gentle halt outside the grand front entrance to Hayton Hall, prompting a flurry of activity from all directions. Samuel was vaguely aware of the simultaneous approach of his groom, his guests and two of his household servants as he climbed down, before reaching up to assist Hope. Gently, he lifted her down, once again overcome by the feeling of holding her in his arms, the heightened awareness combined with those more desirous emotions which were absolutely not appropriate with so many people nearby. As he drew her level with him, Hope's eyes met his and he gave her a smile—one which she returned with just as much affection as he hoped his would convey. A good sign, if ever he wished for one.

Composing himself, Samuel turned to greet the assembling welcome party. He would ask her soon, he told himself. He would find the right moment, and until then he would simply have to be patient.

‘Well done, Sammy,' Charles declared, patting him on the back. ‘You've brought her back. I do hope there was no harm done, Miss Swyn—Miss Sloane,' he corrected himself swiftly as he turned to Hope.

Samuel watched as Hope nodded, a look of uncertainty momentarily clouding those lovely green eyes as she regarded his friend. ‘I am quite well, thank you, Mr Gordon, all things considered. Samuel tells me that you went with him as far as Lillybeck, to look for me. I am grateful to you. I know what you must think of me, now that you know who I really am...'

‘Ah, yes. I'm afraid that in the past I have been far too adept at judging books by their covers, Miss Sloane,' Charles replied, a deep blush rising from beneath his collar. ‘Such opining will cease henceforth. As a rather spirited young lady once informed me, I'd do well to pay more attention to the character of my acquaintances rather than other, more avaricious considerations.'

Samuel smiled at his friend's words which, for all his embarrassment, were clearly heartfelt. Beneath that boisterous personality and propensity for outright snobbery lurked a good heart. Hope, meanwhile, inclined her head politely, the ghost of a smile playing upon her lips. ‘I am glad of it,' she replied. ‘Especially if you intend to extend such generosity beyond your own acquaintances and consider, perhaps, those of your sister's acquaintance by the same standard?'

Charles's beetroot visage was all the confirmation that was needed that Hope's message had indeed hit the mark. Samuel could have kissed her out of sheer admiration for the way that, despite her own ordeal and exhaustion, she did not miss the opportunity to champion Miss Gordon's lovelorn cause. Instead, he reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers and giving them a squeeze in solidarity.

Miss Gordon, meanwhile, hovered beside her brother, looking somewhere between relieved and chastened. ‘I owe you an apology, Miss Sloane,' she began, her lip trembling. ‘If I had not run away to the docks, you might never...'

Hope shook her head. ‘It was my choice to join the search for you, and to get out of the carriage when I saw you,' she insisted, touching Miss Gordon delicately on the arm. ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for. My father was determined to find me—if he hadn't then, he would have eventually. At least it is all over now.'

The brave smile Hope gave Miss Gordon made Samuel's heart lurch for her, and he squeezed her hand again before releasing it as Hope hurried towards Maddie. He watched as the maid gathered Hope into her arms, letting out a few heartfelt sobs of relief as she whispered words that Samuel could not quite hear.

Next to them, Smithson hovered, endearingly trying and failing to remain composed as he clasped his hands behind his back and grinned from ear to ear. Samuel could not help but think about the wily old butler's warning to him all those weeks ago, about lies and the way they could all too easily get out of hand. How right the man had been, although Samuel suspected that even the ever-perceptive Smithson could not have predicted where Samuel and Hope's deceptions would have led them. Nor could he have known, that evening when he'd lectured Samuel on being truthful, just how close to the surface the truth had always bubbled between them and how, despite the disguises they'd worn, they'd come to know and understand each other's true characters nonetheless.

He knew the essence of her, and she of him. Everything else, as he'd once told her, was simply window-dressing. He could only hope and pray that she would agree. That she would consent to becoming his wife. As Maddie released Hope from her embrace he stepped forward, offering Hope his arm. He could bear the wait no longer—he had to ask her. The right moment, such as it was, could be created as well as found.

‘Hope, would you mind joining me in the gardens for a few moments?' he asked her. ‘There is something I'd like to discuss with you, then we can freshen up and dine.'

Hope's eyes widened briefly, before she nodded her assent. ‘Of course.'

Samuel walked with her to Hayton's sprawling rear gardens, his heart hammering in his chest. The right moment could indeed be created, he told himself and, despite his nerves, this felt right. Hope deserved to be asked for her hand properly; she deserved to know just how sincere and honourable his intentions were. She deserved to know just how much he loved her. There would be no more secrets between them, and certainly no more lies.

They drew to a halt on the footpath, the earthy, damp smell of the surrounding shrubbery heavy in the air. Samuel drew a deep breath, hurriedly collecting his thoughts as he settled upon what he would say. He'd never proposed marriage before—he had to do it correctly, had to find the right way to express himself...

Before Samuel could utter a word, however, Hope relinquished his arm and turned to face him. ‘If this is about what I said to Mr Gordon, about his sister's acquaintances, I was only trying to...'

Samuel placed a gentle finger over her lips, smiling at her. ‘I know what you were trying to do, and I think Charles understood too. But this is not about Charles, or his sister's romantic entanglements,' he replied quietly. ‘This is about us.'

She furrowed her brow, then looked away. ‘It's all right, Samuel,' she began. ‘You don't have to explain yourself. I understand well enough that whatever this is between us cannot go on. You are a gentleman, whereas I am an actress and a...'

‘You are the woman I love, Hope,' he replied, still smiling. ‘And you love me—you told me so, only last night. Surely that is all there is to understand.'

She nodded. ‘I do love you, Samuel, but what if love is not enough? What if the circumstances make it impossible? What if there are simply too many obstacles?'

He gave her a knowing look. ‘Like Romeo and Juliet?' he asked, recalling her words in the library that night when they'd discussed Shakespeare. That night when they'd first kissed. That night when everything had changed.

‘Yes—like Romeo and Juliet,' she replied.

‘But, unlike Shakespeare's lovers, the only obstacles for us are ones we make ourselves. And for me, Hope, there are no obstacles. When I look at you, I see a woman I cannot fail to admire. You are not shameful, you are remarkable. Being an actress has not made you a scandal or a harlot—it has made you a talented woman with a passion for the theatre, not to mention a knowledge of the Bard which is second to none. I love you, Hope, and I believe with all my heart that love is enough.' He took hold of her hand. ‘As a clever lady I know once told a friend of mine, we love who we love and that should be all that matters.'

He watched as she pressed her lips together momentarily, suppressing a smile at hearing her own words quoted back at her. She regarded him carefully. ‘Are you sure that it isn't Hope Swynford you've fallen for? How can you be sure you're not in love with a character?'

‘How can you be certain you don't love Sir Samuel the baronet and not Samuel Liddell, the title-less younger brother?' he countered.

‘Because they are the same...' she began. He watched with delight as a wry smile crept on to her face. ‘All right—point taken.'

He held those lovely emerald eyes with his own. ‘The night that you told me your story, you said you'd allowed me to care for a woman who doesn't exist, but that simply isn't true. Hope Swynford might be a character, but she is also you. Calling yourself Hope Swynford rather than Hope Sloane and an heiress rather than an actress didn't change who you are, Hope, and even while you kept your true story from me and everyone else at Hayton, it was always there, wasn't it? Indeed, I would venture to suggest that a sheltered heiress would have been far less likely to astutely point out the unfairness of me not heeding my maid's wish to be called Maddie, or to recognise and empathise with Miss Gordon's difficulties. Only you, the real you, could have done those things. I'm not in love with a character. I'm in love with you. Marry me, Hope.'

Her eyes widened and she searched his gaze, clearly disbelieving. ‘When you spoke of marriage at the inn, I thought it was only because of the situation—that it was the stress and the relief talking. Never did I imagine that you could be serious.'

‘I have never been more serious,' he replied. ‘Do me the honour of becoming my wife, Hope, and make me the happiest man alive.'

Samuel held his breath for what felt like an eternity, watching her as she seemed to consider his proposal. Then, to his sheer relief and utter joy, she leapt forward, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close to her. He responded in kind, wrapping his arms around her waist and vowing in that moment to never let go. To make her the happiest woman that ever lived. To build a life together, one filled with laughter and adventure, with family and fun. With afternoons sipping tea and eating cake in the parlour, surrounded by all the children they would have, and evenings out at the theatre or spent cosily inside, savouring the finest bottle of Bordeaux and poring over a good book. With nights curled up together, and mornings waking to each other's embrace. A comfortable, contented life which consigned hardship and heartache to the past.

He buried his nose in the thick curls of her dark hair, breathing her in, imagining the years stretching before them, filled with promise. Then he realised that he had not yet heard her answer.

‘So, is that a yes, then?' he ventured, whispering the words in her ear.

Hope gazed up at him, an irrepressible grin illuminating her face. The best and most wonderful smile he'd ever seen. The smile he wanted to see until the end of his days.

She reached up, placing the briefest, loveliest kiss upon his lips. ‘It's a yes,' she replied, her mouth still close to his, inviting him to kiss her back.

Which he did, of course—thoroughly, and with wild abandon.