The Shamrock & the Rose by Regan Walker Page A

realized that
now.
    His lips teased hers and she opened to him,
accepting not just his kiss but the man himself. His hand caressed
her breast, and though an alarm sounded in her head at that
unprecedented intimacy she was unable to find the will to protest.
No man had ever touched her in this way, but with Morgan it felt
right. Her hands rose to his nape and she pulled him close.
    “I assume you are sealing a promise to wed
with that kiss,” said a stern voice.
    Morgan pulled slightly away, but he still
held Rose in his arms, and they turned their heads as one to the
doorway where the silver-haired dowager stood, a decided crease
between her brows.
    “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we are.
With your approval, of course. Though Rose has yet to give her
assent.”
    “That, I daresay, after what I have
witnessed, is a mere formality,” the countess admonished.
    “But Countess—,” Rose protested.
    “My dear, when you allowed Mr. O’Connell to
kiss you in that manner, you gave him your ‘yes.’ Aside from
that, I have yet to inform you that Alvanley is circulating some
tale that the two of you were seen in a compromising position in
the park. Atop Mr. O’Connell’s horse.”
    Horrified, Rose glanced from the countess to
Morgan.
    “I told you,” Morgan said, “and, if the
countess approves, I am ready to send for the vicar this very
moment.”
    The countess smiled. “There is no need for
such haste, Mr. O’Connell. I think a fitting day for the wedding—so
that Miss Collingwood’s mother might attend—would be the day the
Irish celebrate the feast of St. Patrick next month. It will allow
me time to prepare a proper wedding.”
    Morgan turned back to Rose. Letting her go
to grasp her hand he said, “Rose? Will you have me?”
    “She’ll have you, O’Connell,” said the
countess emphatically.
    “I want to hear it from her lips,” said
Morgan.
    His gaze was fixed upon her. Did she want to
be the wife of the Irish barrister? Rose knew it could mean one day
living in Ireland. If she chose this Irishman, it might well take
all she had to stand by his side. Just like the words she’d heard
so many times in The Merchant of Venice , the words written
on the lead chest :
    “ Who chooseth me must give and hazard all
he hath.”
    Nodding her head, she smiled. “Yes…oh
yes.”
    He kissed her then, right in front of the
countess, who sounded a loud “Humph!”
    * * *
    They were wed on St. Patrick’s Day with many
friends and family in attendance. Fitting for the occasion, Rose
wore a satin gown of Paris green, which pleased Morgan’s Catholic
relatives, it being the day for the wearing of the color. Her
betrothed, delighted, remarked that the hue matched her eyes.
    Rose’s mother had traveled south to be with
her, and of course Morgan’s uncle Maurice was there as well as
Morgan’s two younger brothers. His famous cousin, Daniel O’Connell,
sent a letter approving the match, and acknowledging another
Protestant in the family. Morgan’s friend Roger, whom Rose had met
since they’d become engaged, brought a lovely young woman named
Judith that he introduced as his fiancée. Mr. Colman from the
theatre and Lord and Lady Ormond, whom the countess had introduced
to her when she’d first arrived, also joined in the
celebration.
    When the ceremony was concluded, the
countess was the first to congratulate them.
    “You take good care of her, Mr. O’Connell.
I’ll be watching that you do!”
    “I will do it and gladly, Countess,” said
Morgan. “I have many plans for my lovely English Rose.”
    Lady Emily Picton was next to hug Rose and
wish her well. “Now that you are wed, I think I must be the last of
the countess’s single friends to hold out against matrimony.”
    “I was caught by a man’s smile,” Rose
replied, looking at her new husband fondly.
    “I never shall be,” insisted Lady
Picton.
    “You won’t stand a chance if Lady Claremont
is set upon a match for you,” said Rose.