Page 159 of Gilt

Regardless, Jameson West better watch his back where Ms. Southerly is concerned. According to a friend of the couple, the eighteen-year-old prep-school senior has major daddy issues and might have been one of her step-fathers, Hans van Essen’s many victims.

If the two are looking for honeymoon suggestions, might we suggest a brief trip to couples therapy?

I reach the end of the page, and a strange emotion begins to bubble inside me. A few seconds later, I’m laughing. Jameson steps back into the main cabin, eying me with concern as he finishes his latest phone call.

“No one will believe that,” he informs me, taking the magazine from my hands and dumping it ceremoniously into a nearby trashcan.

“People will believe it,” I tell him. “They’re always going to believe these things about me. I’m just a gold-digger desperate to get my claws into you, after all.”

Jameson’s jaw twitches. “If that’s the case, I take it I finally have my answer.”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s referring to his proposal. The gossip rags might take away my dignity, but they won’t take my freedom. I shake my head. “I’m not going to make life decisions based on tabloids. But you’re right. I have made my decision.”

“And?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“No,” I tell him softly. He begins to turn away before I add, “And yes.”

“That’s not an answer, Duchess,” he warns me in a cold voice.

“Let me clarify.” I stand up just as we hit a pocket of turbulence, and I’m thrown forward. Jameson catches me. I half expect him not to, given the chilling distance he’s demonstrating.

“Not right now. In five years, when I’m done with college, or my first parole has been granted”—at the rate we’re going, either seems equally possible—“then yes, I will marry you…if you still want me.”

“I will always want you.” His promise takes my breath away. There’s an absolute certainty to it that not even I can doubt.

“But I’m not marrying you to solidify an alibi or to legally prevent you from having to testify against me.” I need to be clear in this, especially as we jump into the fray at home.

“I don’t want you to marry me for those reasons. I want you to marry me because you love me,” he says sharply. “I didn’t ask you as a means of strategy. I asked you because you ran away and I thought I’d lost you. I never want to lose you again.”

“You won’t. But you don’t have to put a ring on it to keep me from running away again.”

“But you ran the first time,” he reminds me. A note of accusation in his tone.

“I had a reason to then.”

“There is never a reason to run from me, Duchess,” he growls. I want to point out that he’s completely wrong about that, or at least I thought he was. “Promise me you won’t run again.”

“I won’t run again,” I vow, staring up into his eyes. His arms tighten around my waist possessively.

“What does it matter if we get married young?”

“You aren’t going to let this go, are you, West?” I push onto my tiptoes and give him a soft kiss.

“That wasn’t an answer.” Before we can continue to debate our relationship in philosophical terms, his phone rings again.

“Go on and take it,” I urge him. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

He hesitates long enough that the phone goes to voicemail.

“Just one thing.” His arms fall away from me, and a moment later, he retrieves something from his pocket.

“Technically, you said yes, Duchess,” he says as he pops open the ring box.

“Listen,” I say, pulling away. “Your mom demanded we come home, probably because she wants to make sure we didn’t go to New York to elope. I don’t want to give her a heart attack.”

“Believe me. My mother has endured far worse shocks than this.” He ignores my protest and slips the platinum band onto my ring finger.

“The tabloids are going to have a field day with this,” I warn him.