Page 108 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

His response was dry. “That would require a proposal.”

Farah laughed. “Something you haven’t been toying with at all, of course.”

“Of course.” The pleasant smile on his face faded as he grew serious. “I’m here to give you whatever you ask for, love. And if you want time, then time you’ll have. I’ll stop all the clocks for you if you need.”

“And you don’t mind?”

Grey took her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward his. “I have spent what feels like a lifetime waiting for you. What’s a few more years?”

“Years!” Farah squeaked. “I was more thinking along the line of months.”

He chuckled. “Even better.”

Farah sighed, unable to recall the last time she had ever felt so deeply, unshakably content. When she really thought about it, not a single second of her time had been wasted. All of that dreaming, wishing, and hoping had led her here.

Love, at the end of it all, had been a worthy goal for her to pursue.

The peace was broken by a loud creak. Farah lifted her head to see Leila’s head poking out of a window from the second floor.

“Did you finally put yourself out of your misery?” she called, the words directed toward her grandson.

Farah broke into giggles, turning to see that Grey’s face had gone pink in embarrassment.

“We should go inside,” he said, shaking his head. Standing, he offered Farah his hand. “Shall we?”

She took it with a nod, feeling his palm warm and steady beneath hers. As they walked past the flowers, Farah remembered the day she’d asked him to tell her what they represented. Without her knowing it, he had put words to the love she now felt for him. The devoted affection of the honeysuckles, the delicious ache symbolized by the red carnations. She let her fingertips brush over the cornflowers as they walked by, as they were the most important to her.

Be gentle with me.

Gentle. It was perhaps the best word she could use to describe what awaited them beyond the threshold of Montgomery House. A gentle love, a gentle life beyond the confessions they had shared in the garden. All the tenderness she had dreamed of with every fiber of her being.

Magical and all hers.

Epilogue

London, England—1852

Grey paced up and down the hallway, counting each step under his breath in an attempt to remain composed. What in the hell was taking so long?

“Your constant pacing won’t make her labor any shorter,” Oliver said from the floor as Grey passed him for the umpteenth time. “Why don’t you sit?”

“I can’t sit,” Grey ground out.

Oliver shrugged, returning to his newspaper. The entire family was at Montgomery House, awaiting the exciting conclusion to Farah’s pregnancy.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and both Grey and Oliver turned to see that Dameer had decided to rejoin them. He had disappeared at the first sounds of distress from the room beyond, claiming to be in need of fresh air, his face a pale, sickly green.

“All better?” Oliver asked.

“Barely,” was Dameer’s weak answer. “Have you heard anything from Kalila?”

Oliver shook his head. “Nothing. What has you so ill, anyway?”

“Excuse me for not being able to stomach my own sister’s suffering.” Dameer sank to the floor next to Oliver, wedging his head between his knees. “No more mention of illness, please. It makes me—”

“Feel ill?” Oliver guessed.

Grey exhaled in amusement. Thank goodness for Oliver, who could always be counted on to brighten up a glum room. He and Kalila still worked diligently on their research, their discoveries gaining more and more interest from their peers. Just last year, they’d gone on a tour of Europe, meeting with several high-profile societies and speaking at more universities than Grey could count. Despite being as different as two men could be, a friendship had bloomed between Oliver and Grey. It was a bit pathetic, really, for one to have made their first real friend at thirty-four years of age, but it was something Grey treasured, in his own quiet way.