Charity hiccoughed. “I suppose I drank too much,” she said, blinking in the light as if it hadseared her eyes.
“You most certainly did,” he said.
“But Iwon.”
“Because Iletyou.” He laughed at the little moue of consternation that settled on her lips as he at last nudged open the door of their shared room. A servant had been by at some point while they’d been out. A fire glowed in the hearth, painting the room in rosy golden tones. The counterpane had been turned down, the bed curtains drawn back. “You are going to have a wretched morning,” he said.
“I don’t care,” she said passionately as he dropped her on the bed. “I had a lovely evening, so it will have been worth it.”
“Tell me that when you’re casting up your accounts in a scarlet gown in front of a man of God.” He rolled her to her stomach to get at her laces, working the knot free and loosening her gown. Actions he’d grown significantly more proficient with just lately. Even limp as she was, divesting her of her clothes took only a few minutes.
“I love you,” Charity said again as at last he shed his own clothing and slid into bed beside her. She wiggled closer. “I love that you let me win when I want to. I love that you have never tried to make me ashamed. I love that you hold me through my nightmares. I love that you love your nieces, and that you came after me so quickly. I love that you have learned so well how to please me.” Her leg shifted, sliding between his. Her palm cupped his cheek. “I love your beautiful face.”
Anthony snorted. “It’s not beautiful.”
“It is to me. It is yours, and so it is beautiful to me,” she said as she gazed up at him. And as she did, he realized that there was nothing of patronization in her voice. Only raw candor. Her dark eyes took in every scar, every line, every flaw and imperfection, and still saw only beauty in him. She had never known him when he had been classically handsome, had only ever known him as he was now, and those scars he had once despaired of—they had made no difference at all to her. Still she had fallen in love with him. Justhim. Exactly as he was.
“This face,” she said, “is the one I wish to wake to every morning. To have beside mine every evening. Because it belongs to you.” A little pat to his scarred cheek. A kiss, soft and light, upon his chin. “I hope I have not ruined your evening,” she said on a yawn as she settled in to sleep.
“No,” he said roughly, slipping his arm around her and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You made it better. You make everything better.”
Epilogue
She’ll be down soon?” Anthony asked. “The reverend is expected at any moment.”
“I have been assured that she will be,” Thomas said. “I understand that she’s still”—he gave a vague wave of one hand as he searched for some delicate phrasing—“suffering the after effects of too enjoyable an evening.”
Anthony stifled a snort. That was, perhaps, a bit of an understatement. Charity had roused herself for breakfast—after he had all but tossed her out of bed to ensure that she did—but the faintly green tinge of her face had faded to stark white the moment he’d ladled a spoonful of coddled eggs onto her plate. And she had managed only a few pitiful bites of dry toast before the women had dragged her off to do…whatever it was women did in advance of their weddings.
Some manner of primping and polishing, he assumed. There had been a great number of servants carrying a great many cans of hot water upstairs, followed by quite a lot of splashing sounds and laughter, so he had assumed that she had either been in the process of bathing—or the process of being drowned. Given the general surliness with which she had allowed herself to be spirited away from the breakfast table, he guessed that either was equally likely.
“I suppose I ought to thank you,” Anthony said, “for offering up your estate for Christmas. And for our wedding.”
“It was our pleasure,” Thomas said. “We spend so much of our time in the countryside that Mercy and Charity haven’t had much time to visit in person lately.”
“They get on well.”
“Rathertoowell, at times.” Thomas’ lips twitched with barely-restrained mirth. “It says much of them that I can’t be certain exactly which of them proposed last night’s little romp down to the tavern. And I don’t suppose the townsfolk will allow me to forget it for some time.” But the toneof his voice suggested he was well-accustomed to a certain amount of gossip, and that it would slide off of him like water off of a duck’s back.
A bit of carousing in the village tavern was nothing in the way of the scandals Anthony supposed he and Charity might cause, eventually. In their negotiations, he had managed to get Charity to agree to attend the occasional Cyprians’ ball with him, should she receive an invitation. Not because he had any great desire to attend—but because he knew she enjoyed them, and that their opportunities to attend other, more socially-appropriateTonevents was likely to be slim indeed.
It would be a different sort of life than the one a duke could reasonably expect, but it was the only one he wanted. And between his family and hers, and the various friends that they could now both claim, he expected their social lives would still be quite vibrant.
A knock at the front door. “That will be the reverend,” Thomas said. “I’ll show him into the drawing room. You—”
“I’ll wait,” Anthony said. Right here, by the stairs, for Charity to come down at last.
There was the faint noise associated with the arrival of a guest; the muffled sound of voices, a maid sweeping through the foyer with an overladen tea tray held in her hands. Probably he should have gone in to greet the reverend, but the man could wait.
It wasn’t every day a man got married. And he would wait right here at the base of the stairs for that first glimpse of her when she appeared; a bride going to her wedding.
At last, on the floor above, there was the opening of a door, voices—no longer quite so muted behind the barrier—tumbling out into the corridor, and then footsteps approaching.
Charity appeared at last, her dark hair swept up and pinned into artful curls. The scarlet red of her gown pressed to elegant perfection. She glowed with happiness, with joy—
And still with the tiniest tinge of green. Which went rather well with her gown, actually.
But she swept down the stairs light as a feather, in a seamless perfect glide straight into his arms, and for a moment he could only marvel that he had somehow, someway, convinced this woman—the most beautiful woman in London—to have him. To love him. To spend the rest of her days at his side. To let him spend his at hers.
