She was beautiful, lovely, charming, and the wealthy partial owner of the newest direct line to London.
And that was only what one could glean from the surface.
“I hereby declare this line open,” she said. She didn’t speak loudly, but her voice carried over the waiting masses. She smashed the bottle atop the train, and cheers washed over them. Behind them, the engineer gave a long blast of the whistle.
“God,” Andrew Fortas said beside Simon, with a shake of his head. “That woman.”
“That woman,” Simon agreed happily.
One of the many men who was nearby offered her a hand as she descended the scaffolding. No; not just one; four of them held out hands, practically falling over themselves to help her.
“Was that your idea or hers?” Fortas demanded.
Simon looked up. “The champagne was my idea. The rest of this was hers.”
“She’s a holy terror.”
This, Simon suspected, was as close to a compliment as Fortas would ever deliver.
“I know,” Simon said.
She had clambered down to the ground. He couldn’t see anything of her in the milling crowd—nothing except the bobbing silk flowers that adorned her bonnet. But he could mark her passage: The crowd grew dense around her, and people turned to look at her.
He almost felt sorry for the other men—thinking that Ginny was nothing more than a sweet, kind, lovely, wealthy woman. They didn’t know her strength. They didn’t know her stubbornness. And they certainly didn’t know how dangerous it could be when she smiled. By some obscene miracle, Simon had been given the power to make her smile.
He was never going to take it for granted again.
“She’s having you on,” Fortas grumbled. “It’s been weeks, now. How long are you going to have to court her?”
Finally, he caught a glimpse of her. Ten yards distant, but still surrounded by others.
“If I’m lucky,” Simon said, “the rest of my life. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
GINNY COULD TELL the instant that Simon joined the ring of admirers that surrounded her. He didn’t glower at the other men. He didn’t threaten them. He even greeted two of them by name and exchanged pleasantries. Nothing that he did signaled to the other men that he was in possession of her heart.
It was what she did. She could feel herself turn toward him like a lily seeking the sun, opening up in a broad smile.
He stood a few yards away, adjusting his cuffs. As he did so, the little diamond-eyed beetles winked at her, as if the sun were reflecting a secret between just the two of them.
“Well, Mr. Davenant,” Ginny said bravely. “You look tired. Never say the ceremony has worn you out.”
“Not the ceremony. I was up last night watching for a meteor shower.”
“There were meteors showering last night?” She unfolded her fan and waved it languidly across her face. “I heard of no such thing, and I read the astronomical section of the newspaper with regularity.”
The corner of his lip twitched. “You’ll notice I didn’t say I saw any meteors. I was given false information.”
And what deliciously false information it had been. Come watch the meteor showers with me, her note had said. He’d helped her clamber out of her hotel window, much the way he’d helped her escape her bedroom when they were younger. They’d laughed and he’d taken her up a hill, spread out a blanket for her, and they’d lain next to each other, joined only by their fingertips.
There had been no meteors. They’d not even seen a single shooting star. But he’d held her hand and told her jokes. As they lay in the warm night, she’d breathed out the last of her bitterness. They’d made mistakes. They’d hurt one another. But he was still the man she wanted to hold her hand in the dark of night.
“Entrapped by false reports of incoming asteroids,” Ginny said demurely. “How awful. I hope you hold the fellow who misled you accountable.”
He shrugged. “I hope I do, too. Now, would you be willing to come on a walk with me?” He held out his arm to her.
Only her fingertips touched his elbow. But there was no only to it. He was so warm; he drew her eye. He smiled. She smiled. The whole world could see them smiling at each other.
Well. Ginny curled her fingers into the crook of his arm. If the whole world could see them smiling, it could watch them leave together.
He waited until they’d left the crowd behind, until the cobblestone streets of Chapton had given way to a dusty tree-lined track, before he spoke.
“I’ve sold three of my railway lines,” he said.
“No! But why?”
He shrugged. “They’ve been a fabulous investment. They made me my money back one hundred to one. But anything that fabulous is inherently risky. I started thinking, what would happen if Parliament changed its mind about railways? What would happen if it were discovered that the steam engine had a fatal flaw? What if someone invents some way to transport goods more economically by…by, I don’t know, hot air balloons. All my money would be in trains. And then it would be gone.” He glanced at her. “I procured the buyers over the last few weeks. I put almost half of the proceeds into a tinned-goods manufacturer, and another half into the five percents.”
“The five percents.” She stopped and looked at him. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because I wanted you to know.” He set his finger under her chin and slowly, slowly tilted her face up. “When you marry me, I want you to know that your future is secure. Always. It’s what I should have offered you from the start: that if you give your heart into my keeping, I will never let you down.”
Ginny swallowed and leaned into the palm of his hand. It wasn’t just her cheek that he warmed; it was all of her, from head to toe. “We’ve both made mistakes.”
“I made a worse one,” he said baldly. “I was so fixed on how much I wanted you that I never stopped to ask myself what you wanted.”
“Surely, I could have—”
“Goddamn it, Ginny. Stop trying to make me feel better.” He touched his thumb to her nose. “Let me apologize to you as you deserve.” His fingers were tracing her face, as if he could pull the curve of her smile into the palm of his hand.
And then he let go of her and got down on his knees. “Ginny,” he said, “I love you. I have always loved you. By some miracle, you appear to…to not be indifferent to me. If you would trust me with your heart, I promise from this moment forward that I will do my best to deserve it.”
“I—”
He held up one hand. “No,” he said. “Don’t answer yet. There’s something I have to show you. Do you know why I wanted to hold the opening ceremony in Chapton?”
“Because it’s halfway between Castingham and London?”
“No. It’s because my parents own a house here. After my father sold the house in Chester-on-Woolsey, he purchased the one here. My father says he’ll give it to me as a wedding present, but first, he insists on meeting the bride. D’you see that iron gate just down the road?”
She hadn’t seen it until this moment. But there it was—set back amongst the trees. Now that he’d pointed it out, the black metal seemed to loom, dark and cold. He was taking her to see his parents. Even though they were adults, even though they had three fortunes between them at this point, that reminder brought back those days so long ago.
He stood and wiped the dust from his knees. “Don’t look so distressed. Four years ago, my father told me, ‘If I had known you were going to mope over her forever, I’d never have kept you apart.’”
Ginny swallowed. “And your mother?”
“She just bumped him in the arm and said, ‘I told you so.’ They want grandchildren.” He gave her a tight smile. “Besides, they manage to tolerate even me. Once they know you, they’ll adore you. You’ll see. I wouldn’t have asked you to come here if I believed you would be hurt.”
“I’m not scared,” Ginny said brashly.
“Of course you’re not.” He took her hand and
swung it in the air. “Come. I have something to show you.”
A path led from the road, through the gate. It traveled over a little wooden bridge, past tuffets of sheep-cropped grass and a ragged copse of trees, before ending in a well-trimmed hedge.
She’d expected a formal garden. But once inside the hedge, she saw only beds of dirt alongside the path, dark and rich and newly turned.
Some twenty yards away was a good-sized cottage; two stories, with neat white shutters over the windows and morning glory climbing up to the eaves. Pink and yellow rosebuds peeked out from glossy green bushes planted near its walls—indications that once there had been gardens here. But all other vegetation had disappeared.
At least it had for the present. A white-haired man sat on a bench beside a trowel and a burlap sack.
“Good morning, Father,” Simon said.
The man turned, and his face creased into a smile. “Simon. You managed to convince her to come. Miss… well, it’s not Miss Barrett any longer, is it? Mrs. Croswell. I would offer you my hand, but…” He held up the trowel, and showed her his dirty gardening gloves. “I was just finishing pulling the last of the primroses.”
He was going to be her father-in-law. She would see him at holidays. It was best if they started off right.
“By the by, Mrs. Croswell,” the elder Mr. Davenant offered, “you can have no idea how terribly sorry I am for what I did. In my defense, I believed it was nothing more than calf-love.”
“From Simon?” Ginny smiled. “Surely you knew that even at nineteen, he was too bullheaded to be a mere calf.”
His eyes twinkled at her. “I was still hoping, back then, that he’d grow past that. If I had known how difficult he would prove to be, I would have shoved him at you straight away and wished you well of him. But then, England wouldn’t have had its finest railways constructed, so I suppose it’s all for the best.”
Their eyes met. They shared a tentative smile. And in that moment, Ginny knew it was going to be well. They could be friends. They could share in a teasing affection.
“What are you planting?”
“Oh, these?” He looked down at the burlap sack. “Well, Simon. You’d better be the one to explain, as you won’t let me help.”
Simon upended the sack and wordlessly let its contents spill across the path. Ginny would have known those smooth, papery roots anywhere. It felt as if a giant fist closed gentle fingers around her heart.
“Tulip bulbs?” she asked.
“There are three more sacks in the carriage house, and what I had to do to find this many bulbs in early summer…” He gave her an easy smile, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. “I’ve been planting them, these last days.”
She took a breath, but her lungs couldn’t quite seem to contract properly.
He picked up a bulb. “You told me that the tulips at Barrett’s Folly made you think of madness—of money tossed away without thought for the future.”
His voice had grown a touch raspy. She turned to him.
“I was hoping that when you saw these, you would have different memories.” He took her hands in his. “I’m not done with it yet. But I planted every bulb with my own hands. And with every one, I make a promise. I promise that from here on forward, I will guard you from your darkest fears. I will keep you safe. I will hold you dear to me.”
Her eyes stung, and Ginny found herself blinking rapidly.
“You were right,” he said. “The lady always wins.”
“The lady,” Ginny said, reaching out to him, “can share.”
He took her hand. “I know. That’s why you should always win. Ginny, will you marry me?”
The tulip bulbs were strewn around them. Their hands were connected over fertile soil, rife with promise.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. A million times yes.”
Epilogue
ON THE GLORIOUS MORNING three and a half weeks later when Simon finally made her his, he could think of nothing but his bride.
He scarcely noticed the blue and cloudless sky, nor the white stone of the church when he entered. He didn’t take note of the decorated chapel, of the sheaves of tulips that adorned the pedestals, or the petals that had been strewn down the aisles. It was the wedding of the Season, but he barely realized that his guests were streaming in. Instead, he focused on the doors where his bride would enter.
He almost couldn’t quite believe she would be here.
When the organ began playing, and the crowd rose, his whole heart swelled. And when she entered... Ah, sweet Ginny. She wore a gold gown of watered silk, swept up in complicated bows and flounces. She carried a simple bouquet of yellow tulips. And she came down the aisle, slowly, to stand before him.
He could scarcely breathe.
And then, she gave him a smile—a long, slow, mischievous smile that brought him back from the heavens opening up to angelic choirs. By the time the vicar made his way through the meandering ceremony, he’d remembered again and again why he most loved her—why nobody else had ever been able to complete him as she had.
And so when he spoke his vows, he didn’t just blurt them out. Just because the words were part of a sacred ceremony didn’t mean that they couldn’t be part of a game, too.
“With this ring,” he said, as solemnly as he could manage. “I thee wed.”
The emphasis was intentional. He hadn’t consulted her on the ring. He hadn’t even so much as made mention of it, and she’d simply trusted the details to him.
She should have known better. He pulled out a ring with an entirely too-realistic beetle on it, large, ostentatious stones set like bulbous orbs in its head. Her eyes widened.
To give her credit, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even pull her hand away. She just met his eyes in a silent dare: If you put that thing on me, so help me, I will…
Just because he’d put her first didn’t mean he couldn’t tease her a little. He’d practiced hiding the real ring in the palm of his hand for days. He slipped the weight onto her finger, and when she took her hand from his, she found he’d placed a single, perfect gold band on it instead.
Her only response was a faint, relieved huff and a twitch of her lip.
With one raise of her eyebrow, she let him know that he’d won this round—but that she’d be back for more. A lifetime of more.
Simon could hardly wait.
Thank you!
Thanks for reading The Lady Always Wins. I hope you enjoyed it!
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If you’d like to read an excerpt from The Duchess War, the first full-length book in the Brothers Sinister series, please turn the page.
The Duchess War: Excerpt
The Duchess War
available now
Miss Minerva Lane is a quiet, bespectacled wallflower, and she wants to keep it that way. After all, the last time she was the center of attention, it ended badly—so badly that she changed her name to escape her scandalous past. Wallflowers may not be the prettiest of blooms, but at least they don’t get trampled. So when a handsome duke comes to town, the last thing she wants is his attention.
But that is precisely what she gets…
Excerpt from Chapter One:
ROBERT BLAISDELL, THE NINTH DUKE OF CLERMONT, was not hiding.
True, he’d retreated to the upstairs library of the old Guildhall, far enough from the crowd below that the noise of the ensemble had faded to a distant rumble. True, nobody else was about. Also true: He stood behind thick curtains of blue-gray velvet, which shielded him from view. And he’d had to move the heavy davenport of brown-buttoned leather to get there.
But he’d done all that not to hide himself, but because
—and this was a key point in his rather specious train of logic—in this centuries-old structure of plaster and timberwork, only one of the panes in the windows opened, and that happened to be the one secreted behind the sofa.
So here he stood, cigarillo in hand, the smoke trailing out into the chilly autumn air. He wasn’t hiding; it was simply a matter of preserving the aging books from fumes.
He might even have believed himself, if only he smoked.
Still, through the wavy panes of aging glass, he could make out the darkened stone of the church directly across the way. Lamplight cast unmoving shadows on the pavement below. A pile of handbills had once been stacked against the doors, but an autumn breeze had picked them up and scattered them down the street, driving them into puddles.
He was making a mess. A goddamned glorious mess. He smiled and tapped the end of his untouched cigarillo against the window opening, sending ashes twirling to the paving stones below.
The quiet creak of a door opening startled him. He turned from the window at the corresponding scritch of floorboards. Someone had come up the stairs and entered the adjoining room. The footsteps were light—a woman’s, perhaps, or a child’s. They were also curiously hesitant. Most people who made their way to the library in the midst of a musicale had a reason to do so. A clandestine meeting, perhaps, or a search for a missing family member.
From his vantage point behind the curtains, Robert could only see a small slice of the library. Whoever it was drew closer, walking hesitantly. She was out of sight—somehow he was sure that she was a woman—but he could hear the soft, prowling fall of her feet, pausing every so often as if to examine the surroundings.
She didn’t call out a name or make a determined search. It didn’t sound as if she were looking for a hidden lover. Instead, her footsteps circled the perimeter of the room.
It took Robert half a minute to realize that he’d waited too long to announce himself. “Aha!” he could imagine himself proclaiming, springing out from behind the curtains. “I was admiring the plaster. Very evenly laid back there, did you know?”