Page 69 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“Thank you, my love, but as I keep telling everyone, it was nothing. Indeed, I’m being more of a hero now than I was then. Have you the faintest idea how much effort it’s costing me not to pull you down onto the bed and ruin you once and for all?”

That sounded like a splendid idea. She couldn’t keep the mischief out of her voice when she said, “I’m already ruined, just by being here. I was ruined when I took you in my arms at Tresham. The deed, in the eyes of the world, is already done. And if we’re soon to be man and wife—”

There was no need to finish her sentence. She could tell by the quiver that ran through his body, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Minx! One minute you’re a ministering angel, another you’re a water sprite, and now I find you can be a complete wanton.”

The last word was whispered close to her ear, so she turned her head and ran her tongue over the rough surface of his stubbled jaw. He moaned softly and slid his tongue over her lips.

She dug her hands deep into his thick, wavy hair, and stretched up to claim his mouth properly, pressing her lips hungrily against his.

He needed no further invitation. Thank heavens.

Her body quivered as his mouth worked its magic on her, waking every sense, invigorating every nerve. There was nothing that mattered in all the world but this man and his kiss.

His hands found the open neck of her nightgown and traced rivers of heat along her collarbone and up the column of her throat.

But he pulled back, murmuring, “I want you so much. But not until I’ve got a ring on your finger. I promised myself that I’d court you slowly, Emma, and I want to savor every moment we spend together. I won’t let lust take over. You mean more to me than that.”

Her heart swelled at this, and tears pricked her eyes. Of all the women he’d known before, of all the toasts of Society and unmarried beauties, he’d chosen her, plain Miss Emma d’Ibert, to be his bride.

“Then just hold me,” she said, “and tell me exactly how much I mean to you.”

“You are the sun and the moon to me,” he said. “You are the stars that illuminate my world and the fire that warms my soul.”

Her heart glowed. James was the center of her world, the focus of all her care, and she couldn’t imagine feeling this way about any other man.

This was love, true love, divine and perfect, and she would do all she could to prove it to him. Even if it took a whole lifetime.

Epilogue

Emma and James’s wedding took place in early November, in the latter part of autumn when the trees were almost bare. They were married in the little church adjoining Birney House. To Emma’s delight, large numbers of the ton attended, and no one asked any awkward questions about where she’d been hiding herself these past few years.

In the months leading up to the wedding, she’d remained in the household of the Earl and Countess of Rossbury. The countess warmed to her considerably after her son announced his news and confided in Emma that she’d always thought that—with a little careful nurturing—she might turn out well. Emma accepted this faint praise with equanimity. Now that she was sure of James’s love, nothing could dim her happiness.

Shortly before the wedding, she learned Charles Keane had quit the country. Apparently bored with the restrictions of English Society, he’d left for India, to join the East India Company in their wars against the Maratha Empire, and hopefully make a fortune for himself—as Robert Cornwallis had done. The rest of the Keane family, bound forever to keep the secret of Emma’s service in their household, came to the wedding, and the reunion with Mary and a much-recovered Willie added to her joy.

That entire day, her heart was so full she feared it might burst.

James had already taken her to inspect his estates at Westwater and Langley. Both were so delightful that she couldn’t choose a preferred place of residence—they agreed they could be equally happy at each. But there was one place which remained a mystery to Emma, and that was the destination of their bridal trip.

The day of their departure was dry and fine, with a chill wind rattling the last of the leaves. Bundled up in traveling rugs, she sat huddled close to her new husband, trying—and failing—to get him to say where they were going.

His blue-gray eyes were alight with his secret, but he refused to say a word, just looked at her teasingly and kissed her thoroughly each time she was inclined to pout. When the coach set out northward, she started guessing. Perhaps they were going to Wales, or the Marches, or maybe even Scotland—though to travel that far so late in the year was a daunting prospect.

Then, as the farms and woods they were passing became increasingly familiar, she sat forward in her seat, exclaiming, “Why, this is the way to Tresham! Are you taking me home?”

“Indeed. I wanted you to see what I’ve done with the place.”

She stared out of the window, utterly conflicted, as the neatly clipped hedges flew past. Why did James want her to see all the alterations he’d made to her home? He knew she preferred it as it had been, that she’d hated his plans to gut it and change it beyond recognition. This was most insensitive of him.

Soon, the old brick chimneys of the house poked up above the trees. Pungent wood-smoke issued from their tops.

Her heart froze. How was she to keep her countenance in front of all the veterans? She didn’t want them to think she resented their presence. She’d have to summon up all the sangfroid she could manage.

But the place was strangely quiet. As James handed her down from the coach, she noticed a few men working in the gardens, raking over the flowerbeds and deadheading the last of the roses. Were these some of the veterans, those still fit enough to do physical labor?

She was even more puzzled when they entered the Great Hall. Instead of a group of uniformed nurses, they were met by a staff of liveried servants who scurried out to fetch their bags from the carriage.