Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Rosalind? When were you talking about this?”
“Today,” she said. “As it happens, she thinks she might be expecting again, too.”
“Ah, that’s fun. The two of you might make it to the Warrens’ end-of-Season ball before you start showing,” he teased. “After that, your gowns will have to be let out.”
“After that, the Season’s done and we shall return to the country, and while away the hours together at St. Pierre.”
“You and Rosalind?”
“You know I mean you and me. That is, if you still want me after my gowns are let out.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you?” He traced the concerned lines on her forehead. “I adore you, darling. I will always want you.”
“Rosalind says she’s not telling Marlow about her condition yet, out of fear he’ll curtail his…intimate behavior…on her behalf.”
August burst out laughing. Marlow’s “intimate behavior” was surely as bad or worse than his, and Rosalind, apparently, wasn’t willing to part with it.
“Perhaps Marlow is wise to restrain himself.” He feigned a deep sigh. “You know how I can be. What if I should hurt you?”
“You won’t! I’m not a delicate flower. And surely you can exercise a bit of control—just a small bit, mind you—over these next few months.”
“Hmm. I suppose I can try.” He traced the collar of her light shift. “I brought you here to rest before dinner. Now I see that I am to be dinner.”
He took off her shift and let her tug at his shirt and trousers a bit before he relented and stripped. She regarded him hungrily, then a bit wistfully.
“We shall not be parted,” he said, answering her unspoken thoughts. “Not by death or childbirth or anything else.”
Her eyes widened. “There you go again, reading my mind. I’m not the only gifted one in this marriage.”
“I don’t need to read minds to tell you’ve been ruminating on it since this afternoon.” He stroked a hand down her side, tracing her beloved shape. “We won’t end up like Charlotte and Leopold. Why, she told you as much.”
“I know. I want to believe her. I just keep thinking about how sad she was.”
He pulled her beneath him, positioning himself over her. He kissed her throat, her ear, her lovely, perfect breasts. “I’ll make you stop thinking about it.”
She gasped as he found her sensitive place and stroked it to life. He felt her get wetter, hotter. He caressed and teased her until her pleasured sighs turned to pleas.
“Do you want me? Now, Lisbet?”
“Yes, please.” She clutched his buttocks, trying to pull him closer. “I want you inside me.”
“Show me how much you want me.”
She moaned, arching her hips, and he answered her need with a deep, powerful thrust. No, wait, he must control himself. The next one was gentler.
“That feels…so wonderful…” she whispered.
“I’ll never leave you, darling,” he whispered back, just to drive it home. “Never, ever.”
“Deeper, please. August, love…deeper. Oh God, yes!”
“Like this?” he asked.
“Mmm. Pleeease. Ohhh!”
Yes, she’d already forgotten. Good.
Epilogue
Five Years Later
Outside, St. Pierre’s grounds lay white and silent. Inside the music hall, it was warm and bright. Their holiday houseguests—the Townsends, Wescotts, and Marlows—attempted to corral their offspring, who were uniformly full of punch and candy.
“Hurry, children, come sit down by the tree. Saint Nicholas is coming,” Ophelia said, using her loud singer’s voice. “He’s to give out some special presents for good girls and boys.”
“Saint Nicholas is here?” The Wescotts’ oldest son looked dubious. “In Oxfordshire? Tonight?”
“It is Saint Nicholas Day,” said his mama, arching a brow at him.
Behind the far door, Elizabeth laughed softly, holding her husband’s hand. They watched as the children were finally seated in a ragged semi-circle. Their dark-haired twins, Esther and Bridget, sat on either side of Sylvie, Marlow and Rosalind’s oldest, whom they idolized for her long, white-blonde curls. Their almost-two-year-old son, Henry David, clung to his nurse’s neck as she settled him into her lap. Jane handily broke up a scuffle between her three children, sending the oldest, Charles, to sit near the Wescotts’ boys, and the youngest, Penelope, to perch upon her papa’s knee.
“How do I look?” August whispered.
She grinned as he adjusted his gold-trimmed cloak and tugged at his long, fake beard.
“Your dark hair’s peeking out.” She tucked the errant strands beneath his matching white wig. “That’s better. Is my hair all hidden beneath my wig?”
He nodded, flicking the jolly gold pom-pom hanging from her drooping cap. They’d had a great deal of fun creating their costumes. His fur-trimmed robe had been located at a second-hand shop, while her green-and-red gown had been cobbled together from a couple of last season’s day frocks.
“Have you got your sack of trinkets?” she asked.
He lifted the velvet pouch. “Let’s make our entrance before they start running about again.”
August threw open the door, striding forward with his sack thrown over his shoulder. “Oh, ho, ho, Happy Christmas to all,” he called in a jovial voice. “It is I, good Saint Nicholas, with my wife, er, helper, Mother Christmas.”