Page 114 of Souvenir Heart

She patted the note in her pocket, resisting the urge to look at it again. Re-reading it would not hasten Marcus’s return.

With a sigh, she considered her work. The portrait of the elderly man Marcus had rescued from her sitting room occupied one easel. Her self-portrait, to her slightly embarrassed delight and amusement, he’d paid for and insisted on keeping in his study. The large painting of Diana the Huntress was with the London Academy of Art. She hugged herself as if she might contain the sheer joy bubbling up inside her chest.

Her current work, set on the easel closest to her, was a work in progress, though in her mind’s eye it was nearly complete. It was a charcoal sketch of a sleeping Eros. He was lying on his side; white feathered wings folded along the lines of his muscled back. A sheet was draped over his hips and one long leg was bent, the other stretched out to display the thighs and calves of a warrior. His long hair was swept back from his face—an oval face, with a high forehead, a slash of brow, and beneath the aristocratic nose, the serious, yet sensuous lips.

Her own lips curved as she examined it. Marcus Aurelius David George Tyndale, Viscount Radcliffe, wasn’t the only member of the household with perfect recall.

She picked up her charcoal and began to work on the piece, absurdly grateful to find her hands steady. While the odd sound or smell might thrust her back into the cell in the Conciergerie, her ability to draw was returning. Drawing kept the flashbacks at bay. And at night, the security of Marcus’s arms around her, his voice calm in her ear, soothed away the nightmares.

She cocked her head, studying Eros’s shoulder, then reached out a finger to smudge a line. She stepped back to study the effect, her gaze drifting distractedly past the sketch to the door, as if by looking at it she might will him to walk through it.

Setting down her charcoal, she went over to the table to pour herself a fresh cup of tea. She picked up the tongs and was reaching for a lump of sugar, when she heard voices, doors opening, then a blessedly firm and familiar booted stride.

Dropping the tongs, she turned, eyes fixed on the door. It flew open and Marcus entered. Without breaking his stride, he tossed his hat onto a chair, dropped his coat on the floor, and held his arms out wide to catch her. Marguerite, too, had been moving, and in another moment those arms were around her. He was lifting her, kissing her, spinning her about the room, so that the pale-yellow skirts of her gown flared like Eros’s wings, then wrapped around them both when he stopped.

He was home. And now, so was she.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, coming up for air.

“Such a foolish question.” She ran a finger down the elegant line of his nose, leaving a smear of charcoal in its wake. There was an indentation on the bridge, one she must remember to capture on her Eros. She was constantly learning new things about this man; she didn’t think she’d ever tire of it. Her eyes shifted from the smear to her sooty fingers and said apologetically, “I’m a mess.”

“You’re perfect.”

The certainty in his voice made her insides feel like sun-warmed honey. She looked back up at his sooty nose, considering where else she might like to leave a charcoal-dusted trail. Desire briefly, but fiercely, battled curiosity, before curiosity won out.

Drawing back from him with a sigh, she asked, “What did he say?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play games with me, Marcus Aurelius David George Tyndale, you know perfectly well who I mean. Grenville.”

“Well, I did also meet with your father…”

“Ah, bah, I expect I could repeat word for word what he said. He made himself quite clear when you brought me to his apartments in London.”

“I swore to return you to him. And I kept my word.” There was a wicked gleam in Marcus’s eyes and she knew they were both recalling the memory of that encounter. “I never said anything about leaving you there.”

“As if I’d have stayed.”

“He demanded that I return you to him. Again.”

“Of course he did.” She rolled her eyes. “As if I am his property.”

A corner of Marcus’s mouth quirked up. “I told him you were mine now.”

“That must have put him in a rare temper.”

“He was already in one. It merely raised the temperature. I feared he might become apoplectic when I showed him the special license.”

“Did he believe it was real?”

Marcus clasped a hand to his heart, an expression of mock horror on his face. “You wound me, my love. How can you doubt my artistry, when I have such faith in yours?”

“I have complete faith that you are, indeed, the finest forger in the business.” She kissed him lightly. Not a single guard or official had questioned the papers he’d created on that perilous journey to the coast.

Marcus smiled and kissed her back, a firmer kiss. “He accused me of marrying you for your money.”

“Money.” She sighed. “I was right, then. It was my money he worried about leaving behind.”