Page 83 of Heart on the Line

“Not if you wish to be considered a gentleman.” Grace tried to make her face prim and prudish but failed miserably.

Amos bent his head close to hers. “Would I be considered a gentleman if I were to kiss my newly betrothed?”

Grace tipped her face up to meet his, her breath growing shallow. “I suppose it would be acceptable if the lady was willing.”

His attention dropped to her lips then languidly lifted back to her eyes. “And is my lady willing?”

“Oh, yes,” Grace murmured, her voice breathy in anticipation. “Very.”

His lips brushed hers, the contact light and tender. She lifted up to meet him, to deepen the connection. Some of the cider from her goblet sloshed onto her hand as she moved, but she didn’t care. Amos had finally proposed! If ever an occasion called for a little celebratory mess, this was it.

He tugged his hand from under hers and reached up to cup the back of her head. He drew her close, exactly where she longed to be. She wanted to be by his side forever, loving him, supporting him, partnering with him as they maneuvered through the challenges of life.

When Amos pulled away, Grace’s eyes slowly opened. She peered into his face for a long moment, then, as passion receded, she settled back on her heels. “I have one more favor to ask of you, Amos.”

He quirked a brow. “Oh?”

“Let’s have a short engagement.”

Rich, masculine laughter rang out across the countryside. “I think that can be arranged.” He raised his glass to her and winked. “So, a toast. To us!”

Grace held her half-empty goblet up as well. “To our future. May it be filled with love, laughter, and family.”

“Hear, hear.” Amos gently clinked his glass against hers, then sipped.

Grace did the same. The cool liquid refreshed her, its sweetness a promise of good things to come.

When they finished their toasting, Amos set his goblet aside and pushed the beribboned box toward her. “Open it.”

She handed her goblet to Amos, then gently picked up the box and tugged the bow free. The red ribbon fell into her lap as her fingers found the edge of the hinged box and pried it open. In the center lay a beautiful, heart-shaped gold locket. Delicate raised flowers decorated the pendant. “Oh, Amos. It’s lovely.” She ran a fingertip over the raised design, her touch light, reverent.

“I thought you might like to carry a photograph of your parents inside.”

She looked up from the gift to the giver, her eyes growing misty. “I love you, Amos Bledsoe.”

He smiled. “And I, you.”

Determined not to turn into a watering pot, Grace thrust the jewelry box toward him. “Put it on me. Please?”

He hesitated. “But there’s no photo inside yet.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “There’s love inside, and that’s what really matters.” She turned her back to give him access to her neck and to keep the earnest look in his eyes from melting her into a puddle of sentimentality.

He reached around her head and positioned the gold heart at the base of her throat, then fastened the clasp at her nape, his touch stirring the tiny hairs there.

She covered the locket with her hand and pressed it against her chest, her heart brimming with love for the kindhearted man who would soon be her husband. “Perfect.”

They lingered on the blanket for an hour, talking of everything and nothing and thoroughly enjoying being together. But when gathering clouds moved in to block the sun and the wind began to blow from the north, they recalled that this was, in fact, February, and outdoor excursions could become uncomfortably cold in quick order.

“Has Helen heard any news from Dunbar?” Amos asked as he packed away his mother’s glassware.

Grace pushed the rocks off the blanket then shook the worst of the dry grass from it. “She received a letter last week. The judge denied Chaucer’s appeal. Tremont Haversham’s amended will stands valid. Margaret Flanders’s inheritance is secure.”

“Excellent. And the investigation into Chaucer’s involvement with Lockhart?” Amos collected the two blanket corners closest to him and stood.

Grace grinned. Most men would wad the fabric up or leave the woman to deal with it. But not Amos. He was chivalrous to the core.

“Last I heard, they had uncovered enough circumstantial evidence to press charges, but nothing to guarantee a conviction.” They folded the blanket in half, then halved it again. “Chaucer has retreated to Boston, and he and his mother are circling an army of lawyers around them.” She stepped forward to meet Amos. She collected his corners then waited for him to bring up the folded edge. “Lee doubts the man will spend any time in prison, but with his fortune out of reach, he should no longer be a threat to anyone.”