A Game of Hearts

by Joanna Barker

I was going to win. It would never do to acknowledge such a thing, of course. No one liked a braggart. But I’d played this game long enough to recognize the coursing energy inside me—the unrelenting certainty that I could not be beat.

He still wasn’t here.

How was it possible that he hadn’t come? A victory today meant little if Tristan Gates was not here to stand defeated.

I did not like to lose, and I had only ever lost to Tristan.

There were few people I trusted and loved in this world. Uncle Matthew was one of them.

Nothing put me to sleep faster than attempting more than two pages of a book,

I never planned to spar with Marigold. The girl always managed to taunt me into it with that infuriating spark in her eyes.

“If ever I heard an offer of marriage from you, I would laugh before the words finished leaving your mouth.” “And I’d hope Uncle would send for the doctor because surely I would be suffering from an episode of madness.”

Even with most people in the room eyeing me like I’d grown a second nose, I could not help my own smile.

I woke thinking of Marigold Cartwell, which was an unpleasant way to start the day.

But I would sooner sprout wings than understand the workings of a woman’s mind,

“Perhaps you ought to open your mind to new possibilities, Marigold,” I said, retreating to our normal repartee. “You might find you don’t know everything.”

I also was fully aware of my own contradiction—defending Marigold even in my dislike of her. But she was not here to speak for herself. It did not seem fair.

“Is it, now?” Tristan raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, praise the heavens. We thought we’d never find someone to take her off our hands.”

I was certainly not looking for Marigold. But I found her all the same.

“How strange. It must have been an odd sort of sea bird, attempting to build a nest.” “Very strange,” I said. “Perhaps the same kind that gathers stockings and shoes.”

“Love cannot be rushed, but neither has it a timetable.”

“But you would not know romance if it slapped you across the face.” “Like you are wishing to do right now?” “A lady would never.” “No, but you might.”

I tried to throw my hands over my head to protect myself, but—he was there.

“Oh, dear,” I said, turning to sit beside him and lean against the wall. “We are in trouble indeed. The two of us together in the face of certain doom. We shall likely kill each other before rescuers find us.”

Marigold Cartwell was holding my hand.

“All the people in England, and I get trapped in a cave with you.” “I am not leaping for joy either, you’ll notice.”

“You are my child, Tristan, and I won’t hear otherwise.”

Yet as I drifted off to sleep, my mind clung to one memory—the feel of Marigold’s small hand entwined with mine.

I raised my head, staring at the grass waving in the wind. I had to propose to Marigold Cartwell.

I stalked home, the rain falling harder now, wetting the shoulders of my shirt and dripping down my face. She’d refused me. I hadn’t even spoken the actual words, and still she’d rejected me.

It should not hurt. It should not burn my chest like a glowing ember. I did not want to marry her, I reminded myself. But the fact that Marigold would choose anything but me . . . . A man could only endure so much.

there is no harm in looking on the brighter side of life every now and again.”

Lady Archers of Sandcliffe.

“Do you not wish to call for the doctor?” I suggested innocently. “The doctor?” He furrowed his brow. “My head is fine.” “Is it?” I allowed a small smile to find my lips. “I recall you saying that if you ever proposed to me, it would be due to a fit of madness.”

“I daresay a man is allowed to dream of his newly betrothed.”

Why, on this of all days, did I have to discover how absurdly attractive Tristan Gates was?

That scar meant I had survived. That I had people who loved me enough to dig through the night to reach me. I decided right then that every time I noticed my scar, I would say a prayer of gratitude for each and every blessing that I had.

His eyes met mine, reflecting the vibrancy of the setting sun. He handed the rose to me, and I took it. No thorns pricked my skin—he’d gone to the trouble of removing them all.

How I wished we could be like Mama and Papa. They did not always agree on everything, of course. But it was how they disagreed that made the difference. They sought to understand one another’s perspective from a point of love, and from there compromise inevitably came.

“You are determined,” I said softly, my voice just barely audible above the strains of the violins. “You are talented. You love more fully and deeply than I can ever imagine. It terrifies me, in fact. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way you love.”

Perhaps it is time to stop assuming the worst and instead try to see each other for who we are, rather than who we think the other is.”

“I thought,” he said, not meeting my eyes, “that I should probably replace the one I broke.”

“Competition is the spice of life, as they say.”

Marigold was acting strange.

it's called love, Tristan;))

“Never say you love less than I do,” she said quietly. “I think you loved very deeply, once.”

I literally needed a crack to the head to change them. Bless that rock.

“It is certainly not the life I dreamed of,” I said, laughing softly. “But I am beginning to think it is the one I should have wanted all along.”

Uncle had been away when I’d returned home yesterday, which meant there was no one to wonder why I could not form full sentences.

Let Fate decide? Although, the last time I had attempted that, I’d broken Marigold’s bow. Perhaps that was not the best option.

“Marigold,” he said fiercely, “I am to be your husband. I will stand by your side, no matter the battles you face. You will never be alone. Not now. Not ever.”

How had I ever looked at this man with anything but the real and raw love that coursed through every inch of my body?

“I know I was not your first choice, or even your hundredth. But you are mine, Marigold. My first and only choice. And I’ll choose you every day, without pause, for the rest of my life.”

the moment when we both knew.

Blast. That had almost been poetic. Was Marigold right? Had I turned into a silly romantic?