“Oh.” Her face fell, making her look like a little girl who’d been told there wasn’t going to be a Christmas. “I see.”
“I have a different job in mind for you.”
“Wife, I suppose. Viscountess. Mother to our children. If—” She broke off and cleared her throat. “If we have any,” she whispered.
“Either way,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose, “there’s another role for you as well, if you want it.”
“What’s that?”
“This hotel needs a general manager.”
She pulled back, staring at him, looking so stunned that he laughed.
“I believe I’ve rendered you speechless,” he said. “Wonders never cease.”
“Well…” She paused, clearly confounded. “Me as general manager of the Mayfair? But don’t you want to do it?”
“I’ve already got four other hotels under my purview. And Jessop and Davis have two hotels by the sea they want me to consider as well. If I’m going to take on all that, I’ll need help.”
“And you want it to be me? But, Simon, you know how I am. I’m extravagant and over-the-top, and I’m horrible at keeping track of expenses, and—”
“That,” he interrupted tenderly, “is why you have me. I’ll keep you in line.”
One of her eyebrows rose, warning him he might have some trouble with that notion. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” he said firmly, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her.
EPILOGUE
London, 1900
Delia stared in disbelief at the budget estimates spread out across her office desk. “How?” she murmured, shaking her head. “How can flowers possibly cost so much? This can’t be right.”
“Delia, look.”
She lifted her gaze from the columns of figures she’d been studying and watched as Simon rose on his knees, their son’s fists wrapped around his index fingers. “Look. He’s walking.”
Any budget projections for the Mayfair’s coming year were forgotten as she watched Oliver slide one chubby foot forward on the carpet. It was a tentative move that only the proudest of proud parents would define as walking, but that didn’t stop a bubble of happiness from rising inside her, pressing against her heart, and making it hard to breathe. Was there ever a woman so lucky as she?
She pressed her fist to her mouth, choking back a sob, but it was too late.
His attention diverted by the faint sound, Simon looked up to find her watching them, and at once, she tried to dissemble.
“Oh, stop,” she said with a sniff, striving to sound no-nonsense and stiff-upper-lip about it all. “He’s only nine months old. You’re imagining things.”
“Did you hear that, my son?” Simon disentangled himself from Oliver’s grip, wrapped his hands around the baby’s midsection, and lifted him into his arms as he rose from the floor of her office. “Your mama doesn’t believe me,” he murmured as he propped the boy’s bottom on his forearm and crossed the office toward her. “Let’s show her what you can do, hmm?”
He paused in front of her desk, set Oliver atop the papers on her blotter, and then he let go, his hands cupped on either side of the wobbly baby, ready to catch him if he started to fall.
Delia smiled, holding out her hands. “Come to your mama, then, and prove your father right.”
She had no expectations of her son’s success, but to her astonishment, the baby took a step toward her, a real step, and the bubble pressing against her heart burst into a thousand shards of pure joy that made her feel as if she’d swallowed a box of fireworks. Oliver started to sway, pitching forward, and she caught him up before Simon could do so, pulling him to her breast. “My boy,” she whispered fiercely, holding him tight as a tear she could not contain slid down her cheek. “My darling boy.”
“Delia, are you all right?” At once, Simon straightened and circled her desk, halting beside her. “My love, why are you crying?”
She swallowed hard, struggling to find a way to explain what she felt, but words seemed so inadequate.
“My lady?”
