Bonus Epilogue
One week after the wedding
A woman should make love in nature at least one in her lifetime.
—From the Diary of Lillian Wright
“This is madness. We are in the garden.”’
“The perfect place to be.”
“A stone is pressing into my arse.”
Pippa pecked her husband on the cheek. “Could you at least try to say something more romantic?”
“I can’t think of anything romantic while my arse is being ground by rocks.”
“Well, move your arse.”
“You’re becoming saucier with each passing day.” Pippa suddenly found herself being lifted by her waist while Chatteris squirmed into a better position before lowering her back on top of him. His sharp gaze narrowed. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re enjoying my discomfort?”
She pursed her lips but couldn’t hold back a burst of laughter. “I’m truly not.”
“Then let’s go inside.”
“Why? Is this not thrilling? Mother wrote that a woman should make love in a garden at least once.”
“Please don’t bring your mother into our bedroom matters. Men are visual beasts.”
Pippa blinked, before the meaning of his words sunk in. Marvelous. Now she could not help being implanted with an uninvited image of her mother doing the deed. “Point taken.”
“Then can we put this madness to rest? We have a perfectly comfortable bed in our chamber.”
“Not a chance! Come on, husband, we shall make it a quick romp.”
“A quick romp? No such thing.” A finger slowly, lovingly, traced the hollow of her neck, and the slight curve on his lips sent a lick of thrill up her spine. “I like to take my time, love.”
Pippa almost groaned, a deep provocative chill spreading through her body.
Ever since she wed Chatteris, his voice had changed.
Not in tone or timbre—he still sounded the same—but rather in what his tone and timbre did to her insides.
She melted. Every single time. Which wouldn’t be a bother if she didn’t feel like she would surrender her life to the man whenever he whispered in her ear like this.
But it was a bother. A bother to the point where she wanted to cling to him day and night.
Her gaze dropped to his gaping shirt; a shirt she had ruined by ripping the fabric open in her excitement. She placed both her hands on his bare chest, the heat of his skin seeping into her palms. “Please, Nic.”
His body trembled beneath her fingers, and Pippa knew she’d won. Because to him, her voice had also changed. He couldn’t resist. Couldn’t object. Couldn’t deny.
His fingers dug into her waist, as he pushed his lower half up against hers. “Don’t complain if your body itches for a week because of the grass.”
Pippa gave him a toothy grin. “Oh, it won’t itch.”
“You seem sure of yourself, love.”
She leaned in to hover her mouth just over his ear. “Because I’ll be the one on top.”
“Christ, Pippa.” And just like that, his lips captured hers in a demanding, yet gentle kiss.
Pippa would have laughed had her mouth not been fully claimed. The kiss was filled with sweeping desire unfolding with burning complaint. The irresistible pull of building passion yet the all the grievances of being forced into a miserable setting.
What was this, if not love?
She looped her arms around his neck, her tongue dancing alongside his, retreating and teasing before embracing once again.
She wanted to anchor this moment deeply into her memory.
Like all moments with her husband. She did not want to lose out on a single one.
Later, she would record them into a journal of her own, hoping to one day pass it on to her daughter.
And if she only had sons, then she would pass her thoughts down to them, hoping they would find such magnificent love as well.
And a bit of scandal. Everyone needed a bit of scandal in their lives.
Her husband suddenly flinched and pulled away from her to curse. His body twitched below her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something bit me on the inside of my thigh.”
“Impossible. You still have your pants on.”
“Damnit, I’m telling you, something bit me, Pippa.”
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. “Very well, let’s see where you were bitten. I shall kiss the spot better for you.”
Another curse. “You cannot be serious. I’m not a child,” he complained, but he didn’t stop her.
“Lift your waist.”
“No. I’ll be unveiled to more bugs.”
“You jacket is beneath you.”
He sighed. “I’ll never wear this jacket again.” He lifted his waist so that Pippa could tug off his breeches. She manoeuvred them to his ankles before her gaze scrutinized the inside of his thighs.
A groan. “Why do I feel so damned exposed while you are perfectly covered.”
“It rather reminds me of our wedding night.”
His gaze narrowed. “I don’t remember you being cold and itching?”
She grabbed a certain member of his body. “Your body feels warm and . . . ready.” She ginned down at him. “I’ll relieve this itch of yours.”
“Damnit, Pippa, where did you learn to say such things? What books have you been reading? Don’t tell me in your mother’s journal?”
She squeezed him. “You shouldn’t be bringing up my mother at a time like this.”
His body twitched again. “What cursed insects are in this garden?”
“Shhh.” Pippa placed a finger of her husband’s lips. “Forget about the garden and insects, just look at me. Focus only on me.”
He blinked, casting her a disgruntled look.
And then Pippa did what Pippa did best. She seized the moment of his distraction and kissed him without holding anything back.
No chance for protest. No chance for complaint.
And certainly, no chance for escape. Granted, the setting was not as dreamy as she had imagined in her mind.
She would never admit to it, but her legs were being attacked by wily bugs, too.
Still, she refused to give up this moment.
Because perfect had never been the goal.
Cherish every moment.
Love even with discomfort.
Live without regret.
This was the holy grail. The ultimate dream.
***
The first rule of being an exemplary husband: Never, ever, under any circumstance, read your wife’s journal.
Nicholas shouldn’t smile. He shouldn’t even be feeling this fulfilled. His back ached. The inside of his thigh still itched. And he had a bruise on his arse that stung every time he sat down. Still, his lips found a way to quirk upward.
He stretched out his upper body before leaning back into his chair, surveying the account books on his desk. He’d taken his wife on this desk only a few days ago. The memory still made him flush with heat.
Insatiable wench.
Not that he was any better. He couldn’t help but embrace her every time she appeared in his presence. If he were a moth and she were a flame, he’d be dust by now. Admittedly, sometimes the most imperfect situations made for the most perfect memories.
Because it’s her.
Best not reveal this to his wife. Who knew what ideas she might get into her head next? His gaze fell on the red leather-bound journal resting on the corner of his desk.
Pippa must have forgotten to take it after spending the morning with him in the study. A woman’s mind was a minefield of wild imaginings. Yet, he could not deny, he’d always wanted a glimpse into hers.
Curiosity pulled at the muscles of his arms.
No.
A husband does not read his wife’s journal. Not under any circumstance.
But . . .
He could pick it up. He could stroke the soft leather. He could . . .
A piece of paper escaped from the pages of the journal, floating onto his lap. He pinched the paper between his fingers. This folded paper couldn’t be considered her journal, right?
Ha! Pushing the boundaries, are you?
Well, it could merely be a placeholder.
He unfolded the note with no shame. No guilt. But surely with a pinch of regret. His eyes widened as he poured over the content. Or a list, to be more exact.
A list . . . of all the places his wife wanted to make love?
Bloody, bloody hell. He couldn’t stop heat from rushing all over his body.
The garden where they had made love—if one could even call it that—had a tick. The desk in his study had a tick. Their carriage had a tick.
Well, the carriage had been fun.
But what the hell was the rest? The back of a horse?
In the ruins of a castle? On the beach? She had even titled the list: Thrilling moments to seize with Nicholas.
But what kind of moments were these? They didn’t sound like thrilling moments at all.
They sounded more like newfound ways to torture a husband.
His arse already hurt just thinking about them.
He needed to burn this list.
Burn it to ashes.
Or else what he saw for himself was painful future ahead of him. That little wife of his was going to be the death of him.
He could just make a new list.
Or jot some of his own thoughts down to ensure his safety.
Save his behind, so to speak. Otherwise, he must deploy a few of his own strategies to distract her from these acts of disasters waiting to happen.
Show her that the setting did not matter, no matter how ‘thrilling’ it seemed.
The only thing that mattered was the two of them. Together.
His gaze stopped at one particular entry.
“What are you doing?”
Nicholas blinked, his gaze darting to his wife, who appeared in the doorway, before flicking to his boots where they rested on his desk, before dropping again to the open journal in his hand. He snapped the book shut and straightened into an impeccable sitting position. “Studying.”
“Is that my journal?”
“Your journal?” He dusted off the cover of the book. “It seems to be the accounts of the confounding inner workings of the female mind.”
She gave him a deadpan look. “It’s my journal.”
“Oh . . .” His voice trailed off. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She strode over to the desk. “I never thought you would be that sort of man,” she murmured, leaning in close once she stopped at his side. “The sort of husband who reads his wife’s journal. Are you going to rummage through my belongings next?”
“Will I find whips?”
Her eyes widened, before she let out the low melody of a chuckle, tapping a finger on the leather binding. “Thank you for the marvellous idea.”
Nicholas groaned. He didn’t think a whip would be good for his arse either.
Her head titled to the side. “Read something interesting?”
Too much.
His wife had written about their “encounters” in detail. Not explicit detail but enough to fire up his blood and have it all rush down to his . . .
Nicholas cleared his throat.
“Well, the scenes are quite fascinating. Downright scandalous.”
“Oh?” She settled herself on his lap, looping her arms around his neck. “Then let’s fill the pages with our scandals.”
Dangerous. “You’re not planning to hand this down to our children are you.”
She laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Do not think I cannot see through your little schemes.”
She pressed her lips against his Adam’s apple. “What schemes?”
Nicholas swallowed. Damn temptress.
“Your lips are scheming right now.”
“You’re right. I do have a scheme. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Why?”
“I had the servants draw a bath.”
Nicholas did not hesitate. He rose with his wife in his arms, striding from the room. Noon or not, scandalous or not, he could, and would, happily fall for his wife’s little schemes over and over. For his entire lifetime, he planned on doing exactly that.