Page 17 of Christmas with the Earl (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #1)
The small velvet box he withdrew was clearly antique, its surface worn smooth by generations of handling.
When he opened it to reveal the ring nestled within, Nell gasped at its simple perfection—a sapphire the color of winter sky, surrounded by small diamonds that caught the morning light like captured stars.
"It belonged to my grandmother," Thomas explained, his voice slightly rough with emotion. "She was, by all accounts, a woman of strong opinions and stronger affections. I thought... I hoped you might find it suitable."
Nell looked from the ring to Thomas's face, noting the vulnerability beneath his careful composure, the way he held himself as though prepared for either acceptance or rejection with equal grace.
"Thomas Greystowe," she said, her voice growing stronger with each word, "are you asking me to marry you?"
"I am," he replied simply. "I'm asking you to be my wife, my partner, my companion in all the joys and challenges that await us. I'm asking you to help me turn Greystowe Hall into the home it was meant to be, to fill it with love and laughter and whatever happiness we can build together."
Nell felt her heart swell with such overwhelming joy that she wondered how her chest could possibly contain it. Here was everything she had never dared to hope for—love offered without reservation, partnership freely chosen, a future bright with possibility.
"Yes," she said, the word carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Yes, Thomas. I would be honored to be your wife."
The ring slipped onto her finger as though it had been made for her, the sapphire catching the light with an inner fire that seemed to promise years of happiness ahead.
When Thomas lifted her hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss above the stone, Nell felt as though her heart might actually take flight.
"There is one more thing," Thomas said, his voice taking on a note of careful formality that made her look at him with sudden concern.
"What is it?"
"I believe," he said, rising from the bench and offering his hand to help her stand, "that a proper proposal requires a kiss befitting a betrothal. And I find I am very eager to begin my education in what it means to be your betrothed."
Nell felt heat flood her cheeks at his words, but there was something in his expression—patient desire tempered with perfect respect for her comfort—that made her brave enough to step closer rather than retreat.
"I think," she said softly, "that would be most educational indeed."
Thomas's hands came up to frame her face with infinite gentleness, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as though she were made of precious porcelain.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other, two people standing on the threshold of a new life, before he bent his head to touch his lips to hers.
The kiss defied every expectation—gentle, assured, and filled with promise. When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, she found herself looking up into eyes that held wonder and gratitude and the kind of love that promised to grow stronger with each passing year.
"My betrothed," Thomas said softly, as though testing the words.
"My future husband," Nell replied, and felt her heart sing with the rightness of it.
Above them, a single snowflake drifted down from the clear sky, landing on Thomas's shoulder like a blessing.
As they walked back toward Greystowe Hall hand in hand, their future stretching before them bright with possibility, Nell realized that sometimes the best gifts arrive not with fanfare and celebration, but in moments of quiet recognition—the sudden understanding that you are exactly where you belong, with exactly the person you were meant to love.
Behind them, the rose garden lay dormant beneath its blanket of snow, but already there were signs of life stirring beneath the surface.
By spring, Isabella's carefully tended beds would bloom again, filling the air with fragrance and color and the promise that beauty always returns to those patient enough to tend it with love.
As they stepped through the conservatory doors and into the warmth of home, Thomas paused to brush the snowflake from his shoulder.
"Good luck?" Nell asked with a smile.
"Perfect timing," Thomas replied, pulling her close for another kiss. "Though I suspect we make our own luck from here."
And as Lady Greystowe's delighted laughter echoed from somewhere in the house—no doubt she had been watching their romantic tableau from the windows—Nell knew he was absolutely right.
The Christmas season was ending, but their story was just beginning.
And like all the best love stories, it would be written not in grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but in the thousand small kindnesses, patient understandings, and quiet joys that transform a house into a home and two separate hearts into one shared life.
Outside, the snow continued to melt, making way for spring and all the new growth it would bring. Inside Greystowe Hall, love had found its way home at last.
The End