Epilogue #2
We fell into step behind Verity and Mr. Denning, who walked with Mr. Drake.
The couple spoke animatedly, but Mr. Drake walked with his hands in his pockets, head bowed slightly.
He was quiet, a strange occurrence for the man.
Did he feel out of sorts, being the only bachelor guest in attendance?
He shouldn’t, considering he was Jack’s closest and oldest friend, but his curious change in mood did make one wonder.
“I think,” I said to Alexander in a low voice, “it is high time we found someone for Mr. Drake.”
Alexander narrowed his eyes. “Is matchmaking also one of your special skills?”
“There is much you’ve yet to learn about me, husband.” I tapped him smartly on the arm. “Mr. Drake is in need of the stability and contentment that comes from having a woman in his life.”
“Stability?” He exhaled an amused chuckle. “You do know you threw every stable and orderly facet of my life into chaos the moment you entered it?”
“Yes, yes, you are welcome.”
He shook his head. “Drake can manage himself. The last thing he needs is us meddling in his affairs.”
I only hummed a noncommittal sound. I would take every opportunity I could once we returned to London to find Mr. Drake a proper match.
It was the least I could do for all the aid he had rendered me.
Besides, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to convince any decent, halfway intelligent woman that a handsome Bow Street officer would make an excellent husband.
I knew that very well for myself.
“Are you certain you wish to return to London with me tomorrow morning?” Alexander asked. “You could always stay another few days with Ginny.”
I was still growing accustomed to living farther than four miles from my closest friend. Though London was but an afternoon’s journey from Little Sowerby, it was an adjustment. One that was very much worth it. “I’ve far too much to do at home,” I replied, which was true enough.
We were nearing the end of some fairly substantial renovations in our new townhome, conveniently located near Bow Street.
It was not so large or grand as to provoke too many questions, but it was perhaps a bit more than could strictly be afforded on Bow Street wages.
Not that it mattered terribly much—Alexander had finally told his friends about his history, about Briarstone and his wealth.
Beyond their teasing insistence that he now pay for drinks every time they stopped at The Brown Bear at the end of the day, they treated him precisely the same as before.
“And,” I went on, “we both know you’ll pine for me endlessly, and it will distract you from your work.”
He exhaled. “There is more truth to that than you know.”
I tightened my hand around his arm. During our time at Briarstone, he hadn’t dared voice any of his feelings.
He’d held so much of himself back then. But since our engagement and wedding, a new openness had bloomed between us—a sweet closeness, a vulnerable honesty.
I loved it. I loved seeing behind each and every one of Alexander’s layers.
“Besides,” I said lightly, “your mother and Helen arrive in a week. I want to ensure the house is ready for them.”
“A good point,” he replied. “Mother is a most particular houseguest.”
“Shocking, to be sure.” I grinned up at him. “At least we shall have Elijah there to soften her.”
“Quite thankfully,” he said with a low chuckle.
“He is most keen to see Vauxhall,” I reminded him, our steps crunching through the snow. We’d fallen behind the others, their conversation and laughter echoing through the trees, our steps lazy and slow. “And I’ve also yet to fully appreciate its delights.”
“Yes, so you’ve said,” Alexander said, amused long-suffering clear in his voice. “I shall do my best to ensure we are not interrupted by a thief bent on revenge.”
“I’m not so concerned about that.” I brandished a saucy smile. “Only I am very curious as to whether you shall dance with me this time.”
“Marriage has not altered my views on dancing.” Alexander narrowed his eyes slightly.
I released his arm, spinning to walk backward a few steps as he followed just a pace behind. “So you would not dance even to please your wife?”
“Why would I do that when there are other, more enjoyable ways to gain her favor?” He caught my hand and pulled me against him.
A sudden bolt of fire blazed over my skin, and my heart tumbled inside my chest. I looked up at him, my hands grasping his arms. His eyes . . . He gazed down at me with such desire, such devotion that my throat went dry.
“Such as?” I did not bother to hide the raspy anticipation in my voice.
He lifted my chin with one finger and gently brushed a kiss to my lips. “You seem quite partial to kissing,” he murmured.
“I suppose,” I attempted nonchalantly, our lips a breath apart.
He glanced up and down the path, flashed me a wicked grin, then pulled me behind the trunk of a great oak tree with low, thick branches spreading out above us.
Then he kissed me, a dizzying press of his lips that sent a cascade of delightful tingles up and down my spine.
I slipped my arms around his neck even as his hands fell to the dip of my waist, his thumbs brushing against my stomach.
Our lips matched in pace and fervor, this connection now familiar but no less thrilling.
He knew I had no resistance to a kiss like this—no reserves of strength to deny myself this heady awareness, this delightful, tangible intoxication.
Alexander finally pulled away, though he also seemed less than inclined, his chest rising and falling. We stood there in the still shadow of the oak, surrounded by a frozen countryside, cold creeping through our clothes. I barely felt it, enclosed in the warmth of Alexander’s arms.
“Very well,” I breathed. “I suppose I can forgive you for not dancing. But that is because I am a generous and thoughtful wife, not because of your thoroughly masculine wiles.”
He made a sound of pure disbelief. “Masculine wiles?”
“What else would you call kissing me until I’m dizzy to get what you want?”
“A highly enjoyable pastime?” he replied indignantly.
I laughed. “Wiles, Alexander. Nothing more than wiles.”
“I do not need wiles,” he said in that gruff, knee-weakening tone. “You know I will dance with you if you wish it.”
Oh. My breath was snatched away, stolen by the underlying care in his words.
It was more than simply agreeing to a dance.
It was the fact that he thought of me before anything, that he put my desires and wishes before and beyond his own.
I saw it in his every action and word, and my chest felt as if I might fly into a million glittering pieces.
This. This was the sort of man a girl dreamed of. And he was mine.
I rose up onto my toes and kissed him again, this time a soft caress of my lips that somehow felt more intimate than the deep kiss we’d just shared.
“What was that for?” He sounded caught off guard.
“Nothing.” My throat suddenly ached, tears pricking. “Only I am reminded every day how very fortunate I am. That you should love me. That you should want me.”
His hands tightened at my waist. He swallowed, gazing down at me, his expression shifting into something deeper.
Something more real and more vibrant. “I know a man is not supposed to disagree with his new bride,” he said roughly, “but in this case, you are most certainly wrong. I am the fortunate one. There was no love before you, Beatrice. My life was half lived, my soul barely formed. You have made—” His voice broke off, and he had to clear his throat.
“You have made me whole. And I shall never stop wanting you.”
I pressed my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes against my suddenly blurry vision. “How I love you,” I murmured.
His arms came around me. I relished his nearness, his steadying, deliberate warmth. It was a reminder that he would be with me through every part of our life together, whatever we faced.
We held each other close—a promise, a vow.
That this would be our forever.