Weeping Angel (38 page)

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Amelia had gone to Narcissa's house right after her breakfast, but when she saw the ladies converging on the stoop of the Dodge residence, she'd turned around and gone home. She longed to tell Narcissa about yesterday. A disclosure of this importance was a private matter between her and her best friend. She could never blurt out how she was feeling about Frank with the others sitting on the edges of their brocaded chairs, hanging on her every word. Though they wouldn't say so outright, most likely they'd think her foolish to become involved with the very man who laid claim to her piano; not to mention, he was a server of alcoholic refreshment. They'd started to gun down Frank Brody's occupation during their card games, despite having once stuffed him with finger sandwiches and candies. She feared the newness of Frank's arrival in town, and their inquisitiveness being sated about his showplace, had begun to ebb. Their acceptance of him and his establishment was dissipating, and it angered her they could be so fickle.

Since Amelia hadn't been able to readily talk with
Narcissa, she'd spent the morning ironing, took her lunch in the wicker settee on the back porch, and was now weeding the flower bed on the side of the house.

Humming a bright melody while the sun warmed her back, she felt a bottomless satisfaction and contentment as she worked. Last night she'd been so wrapped up in her cocoon of euphoria, it had taken her awhile to fall asleep. When she'd finally drifted into a light doze, she dreamed about Frank . . . about his arms around her . . . his firm lips on her own. She'd relived their kiss dozens of times in her sleep, and when she awoke at dawn, she was embracing her pillow. She'd stared romantically at the downy plumpness through half-closed eyes, imagining what it would be like to wake up and see Frank lying there next to her instead of a lump of feathers stuffed into a pillow slip.

A month ago she never would have thought such a thing, much less put a face to a man she was pretending to be sleeping in her bed. But now, things were different. She was different. She no longer projected her life to be lived in solitude as a withering raisin on the vine. Frank had made her feel pretty and desired. He'd given her hope, and in that, she'd found joy in his company, in his kisses.

She had fallen headfirst in love.

She wondered when she would see him again . . . be able to touch him again. Raking a dandelion with her weeder, she dropped it in her bucket. Amelia sighed, stood, and took her bucket of weeds to the rear of the house, where she put them on the porch steps. Then she reached for her watering pot and went to the pump to fill it. That done, she began to sprinkle the petunias growing along the walkway.

Immersed in her thoughts, she didn't hear Frank until he said her name. Looking up, she broke into an inviting smile as he walked toward her. He looked especially handsome in his black trousers, silk shirt,
and blue vest. He'd combed his hair away from his forehead, his panama hat giving her a marginal view of his inky black hair.

His stride was purposeful as he shortened the distance between them.

“Hello, Frank,” she greeted warmly. “I wasn't expecting you, but I'm glad—”

She was unable to finish her sentence. Frank slipped his hands around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her hotly on the mouth. The sudden passion of his gesture caused her to drop her watering pot. At first she did nothing, but as his mouth worked over hers, as the heat of his lips melted her shock, she wrapped her arms around his neck and settled into the kiss that was divine ecstasy.

He parted her lips, his tongue seeking hers with tantalizing persuasion. She felt a quickening start in her ribs, spreading and warming her with delightful shivers. Her knees weakened; her pulse beat erratically. His arms tightened around her midriff, and he pulled her roughly against him. She felt the press of his shirt buttons on her collar, the solid muscles of his chest and the length of his long legs as they tangled in the soft gathers of her skirt.

His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, and she melted into every rugged curve of his body. Her breasts were crushed, and a tingling radiated from her nipples as they tightened into peaks beneath her chemise. Groaning into his mouth, she slid her hand to the nape of his neck. His hair was silky cool, and she sifted the fine locks with her fingers.

“Marry me, Amelia,” he whispered on her lips.

It took her a moment before the words sunk into her mind. “What?”

“Marry me.” Brushing her open mouth with hungry kisses, he left her reeling. His lips caressed her along her jawline, and he breathed hotly into her ear, “Marry me and you won't be sorry.”

She shivered as his deep voice vibrated through her, making her heart drum wildly. She couldn't believe what she was hearing and had to ask, “You're proposing?”

“Yes.” His arms tightened around her, and he bent her back against his arm to kiss her once again. His possessive grip took her wits away. Her head whirled as she gave herself over to his kiss, aware she hadn't answered him.

Amelia couldn't think; she couldn't breathe. Every fiber of her being was focused on Frank—his body hard and firm against hers, his lips tasting and pleasing her to her toes.

“Marry me,” he asked once again, the words fluttering over her kiss-dampened mouth. “Say yes.”

“I . . .”

“Say yes.”

“I want to.”
And she did want to!
Her head was swimming; her gaze was locked with his. The startling intensity of his eyes told her he was serious.

Her frivolous side wanted to shout yes. But her reasonable side, the side she knew best, couldn't help wanting to know why he wanted to marry her. Did he love her? Did he feel the same things about her as she felt about him?

He must have sensed her hesitation because he said, “Don't think about reasons. Seize the moment, Amelia. Take it. You want to be happy. You can be happy with me. Marry me. Now.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” His palms slid seductively down her back, his touch evoking a shower of exhilarating tingles across her skin. “Let's go see the Rev.”

“I . . .”

“Christ, Amelia. Don't make me keep asking.” His hold on her tensed. “I want to marry you now, but if you keep making me ask, I'm going to—”

“You're unsure then,” she interrupted.

“No, I'm not. I'm just impatient.” His hands lingered at her waist, and he pulled her flush against him. The way he held her was indecent, but she wasn't shocked or repelled. Something deep inside her screamed for him to go further, to take her further. She wanted him to kiss her again, to touch his tongue with her own and feel her body respond to him.

Amelia closed her eyes and thought of her bed—the vacant place that was cold on winter mornings; the vacant place that had only been filled with her musings of a husband, and all the while knowing she would never have one. This was her chance. Her last chance. She'd taken the risk before with Jonas. She'd put her hopes into a wedding ring, but he'd tricked her. His deceit had hurt so bad.

But Frank wasn't like Jonas Pray.

Frank wouldn't lie about marriage. He wouldn't ask unless he truly wanted her to be he wife.

Opening her eyes, Amelia smiled tenderly at him. His face, the face she would grow old with, was looking down at her. She lifted her hand and put her palm on his cheek. Turning his head, he caught her fingers in his and brought them to his mouth for a kiss. “Yes,” she said. “I'll marry you, Frank.”

“Let's do it now.” He sounded as if he had trouble getting the words out of his mouth, and he cleared his throat. “I've already talked to the Rev about marrying us.”

“You spoke to Reverend Thorpe?” she said in disbelief.

“Yes. He's waiting for us at the church. I told him we'd be there in fifteen minutes.”

Startled by his confession, she gasped, “You were that sure I'd say yes?”

“I hoped to hell you would.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “I would have convinced you even if you said no.”

She didn't doubt that. The touch and expertise of
his lips could make her do crazy things—things her aunt and mother would have disapproved of. But they'd gone with the angels, and though her love for them was strong in her memories, she had to live her life without them. She had to ask herself what she wanted.

She wanted Frank.

She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anything. Even more than that New American piano.

“Fifteen minutes?” She heard her voice go unnaturally high. “I can't get ready in fifteen minutes.”

“You'll have to be.”

Her mind was awhirl. She didn't have a wedding dress. She had nothing in her wardrobe that was all white. All her clothes were suitably drab, and those with color were in darker shades. She had shirtwaists in white and natural linen . . . perhaps if she put one with her Henrietta skirt. Glancing at Frank, she asked, “Why can't we wait until I can make suitable arrangements for a dress?”

“Because”—his head dipped and he kissed the side of her neck—“I don't care what you wear.”

“But—”

He silenced her protest with his mouth on hers. She felt her resolve slipping, snuffed out by the heat of his kiss. “Oh, very well,” she said in a wispy tone. “I don't care either.”

Lifting his head, he caught her chin in his fingers. “I'll wait on the porch. You have ten minutes left.”

She backed out of his arms, her gaze unable to leave his. Her heart soared with happiness, and she couldn't stop smiling.

She was going to be Mrs. Frank Brody.

T
he Christ Redeemer church wasn't decorated with a marriage bell, white doves, or garden roses, or any of the symbolic tokens Amelia had envisioned having at her wedding. The smells in the air were not of fragrant petals but, rather, the Burnishine furniture polish on the wooden pews and a mustiness that exuded from the rafters. No one played the pipe organ to announce her walk down the aisle. The only music in her ears was the clamor of horse tack as wagons traversed Dodge Street, kicking up dust and sending it through the seams of the marginally lifted window sashes.

But she was standing next to Frank, and that alone dismissed her youthful dreams of a traditional wedding. The groom was all that mattered. He would be what she remembered most of all on this important day in her life.

Amelia felt Narcissa's presence; her dearest friend was at her left side acting as her bridesmaid. She'd been taken aback to find the Dodges at the pulpit with Reverend Thorpe when she and Frank had walked into the church. Frank had spoken in a low tone when
telling her he'd invited Narcissa and Cincinatus to be witnesses for the ceremony. Amelia couldn't have been happier about the arrangement, and the couple gave them their blessing without a question as to the impetuousness of the nuptials.

The initial awkwardness of their quick arrival had faded, and now Reverend Thorpe began the ceremony with a winded sermon about the duties of a husband and wife.

Amelia did her best to fix her attention on the insightful words, but her mind wandered.
This is it. My moment. My wish come true.

Standing next to the man she loved and taking her vows before God was what every woman desired. She didn't care that she was dressed in her Persian patterned shirtwaist and her black grenadine skirt instead of white silk with a long wide veil of tulle. She didn't care that she held a simple pink-ribboned bouquet of daisies instead of a wreath of maidenblush roses with orange blossoms. The daisies meant far more, especially since they'd come from Frank. So what if she hadn't had an engagement reception or a bridal party in which her friends would give her cruets, vases, figurines, and memory books. The intentions were here, and just thinking about Frank giving her his name made her overcome with emotion. She struggled to hold back the tears gathering in her eyes. She couldn't look at Reverend Thorpe or at Frank; if she did, she'd start to cry. She kept her gaze safely downward as the clergyman finished his speech on conduct and duty.

“Do you, Amelia Ruth Marshall, take Frank Wolfgang Brody to be your lawfully wedded husband?” Reverend Thorpe asked. “For fairer or fouler, for better or worse, for richer or poorer?”

Amelia was so stunned to hear Frank's unusual middle name, her reply wasn't forthcoming.

“Miss Marshall?” the reverend queried with a raised brow over the edge of his black Bible.

She wet her dry lips and swallowed. “I do.”

Reverend Thorpe turned to Frank. “Do you, Frank Wolfgang Brody, take Amelia Ruth Marshall to be your lawfully wedded wife? For fairer or fouler, for better or worse, for richer or poorer?”

“I do.” Frank's deep voice carried through the rectory without a hint of doubt.

“Is there a ring?” Reverend Thorpe asked.