Anna screamed so loud that all of London must have heard it, and the shrill waver continued to ring in Matilda’s ears as she walked away, heading for her husband with an amused chuckle on her lips.
“Is someone hurt?” Albion asked, running up to her.
Matilda shook her head. “They will survive.”
* * *
Albion awoke with a start, blinking his blurry eyes at the gloom that surrounded him. He did not know what had stirred him, nor where he was, but as he was about to move, he felt a weight upon his thighs that should not have been there.
Matilda…She was fast asleep, her head upon a folded blanket that, in turn, rested on his lap.
He rubbed his eyes, for they occasionally liked to be temperamental with his vision, usually when he was very tired or slightly inebriated. A reminder that he had almost lost his sight and needed to be very grateful to whichever stroke of luck had spared it.
But he remembered where he was long before his eyesight cleared. He was in the carriage with his wife, having enjoyed the merriest, most wonderful night of his life. They had laughed, smiled, danced, jested, eaten until their stomachs ached, and imbibed until they had begun to sway.
What he could not remember, however, was how Matilda came to be sleeping in his lap. He recalled folding up a blanket as a pillow and setting it on the opposite squabs, so why was she on his side? His foggy mind refused to fill in the blanks.
“Matilda?” He rocked her gently.
She grumbled in her sleep, wafting a hand.
“Matilda, we’re back at the townhouse,” he urged, his gaze flitting to the window to be certain. They had, indeed, made it home.
She twisted around, burying her face in the blanket. “No swimming today,” she mumbled, her voice muffled.
He chuckled at that. “No, no swimming today. But I have to get you to your bed. You can’t sleep in the carriage; you’ll hurt your back.”
“Comfortable,” she muttered.
“You’re already twisted up like a tree root,” he insisted, noting the position of her body on the squabs; her legs were turned almost opposite to her upper half, akin to the contortionists they had seen at the Countess of Grayling’s overwhelming ball.
She shook her head. “Wake me later.”
“I can’t leave you in here, Matilda.” He wondered if the driver could overhear them—moreover, how long the driver had been waiting for his passengers to emerge.
“Teach me swimming tomorrow,” she said, covering her head with her arms.
Albion sighed. “Matilda, the driver needs to retire for the night, too. You’re delaying him.”
He realized, a moment later, that she had fallen dead asleep again. If he was going to get her into the townhouse, he was going to have to do it himself.
She’s so… quiet,he mused, smiling as he took the opportunity to observe her. She had twisted again, her neck bent at an awkward angle, her face in profile, but she seemed entirely comfortable.
She was beautiful. As beautiful as their wedding day, as beautiful as the day they met, as beautiful as she had been in the gardens when she had hidden her writing from him, as beautiful as the morning he kissed her. Had she always been so breathtaking? Was it the wine and champagne they had sipped together all night? He would have blamed it on that, but he felt completely sober.
I would kiss you again.A wayward thought slipped through. The same thought that had been creeping in and out of his mind all evening.
Watching her, lightly brushing his fingertips across her dark brown hair—the color of overripe chestnuts—he allowed visions, dreams to fill up his head: their hands clasped as they promenaded in a dance, her wild grin as she hurled a ball at a pyramid of skittles and lost spectacularlyalmosthitting the man in charge of the game, and the way she had pulled eagerly on his hand to bring him to the lake’s edge in the center of Kensington Gardens, so they could watch the couples in rowboats.
“Do you want to?” he had asked.
She had shaken her head, eyes bright with wonder.“I just like to watch.”
“Do you think, one day, you could swim from one end to the other?”
“You must be kidding,” she had replied, laughing heartily. “The water is filthy! Not at all like the beach. I know one should not drink seawater, but does it not look so tempting—that sea of ours?”
Hearing her say “ours” still had a peculiar effect upon him, awakening protective instincts that he had assumed he was leaving behind on the Continent. From that moment on, he had stayed by her side, even when gentlemen tried to sway him into conversation about his military campaigns and what he intended to do now that he was a society man once more. Such conversations could have led to business associates and exchanges, but he had not cared; his sole duty, all night, had been to stay beside Matilda and enjoy himself in ways he had not for years.
