“Perhaps I love you because you’re a scoundrel.” I hear the smile in his voice. My heart flutters. “I’m not the one who’s half-Folk.” I sniff. “Do you really love me?” “I really love you, Miss Hester Flanders.” He shifts so he’s facing me, leaning a hip against the pasture wall. His hands slip around mine. “Let me ask you again, properly: will you marry me?”
