Chapter Twenty-Two
The dahlias were in full bloom at Elgin Park, creating an enchanting display of vivid color. Feeling utterly content, Ambrose stood and admired them from the music-room window. The sound of the door quietly opening and closing made him smile.
“What are you doing?” Lydia asked, stepping to his side. “Ah! Admiring your dahlias. They are beautiful.”
“I’m counting my blessings,” he replied, placing his arm lightly around her waist. “I have much to be thankful for.”
“As do I,” she replied.
He and Lydia had been married for a little over a month.
It had been a quiet ceremony, here at Elgin Park.
Only three persons had been invited to the celebration, but only two of them, Edward and Harriet, had attended, thankful that their small daughter had recovered from her cough.
The third invitee had politely declined, which was not an unexpected response.
Bessie Dove-Lyon had a business to run, after all.
There had been no honeymoon. Lydia, upon seeing Elgin Park, had instantly fallen in love with it. “Why would we need to go anywhere else?” she’d pointed out. “It’s so incredibly beautiful here, Ambrose.”
So, here they stayed. Taking rides in the countryside, walking in the gardens with Flint at their heels, eating meals on the terrace at sunset. And as for the nights…
Lydia, his beloved countess, was his greatest joy, day and night. He couldn’t get enough of her, nor could he quite rid himself of the guilt and regret that had plagued him since he discovered the truth about Bertram Truscott.
“Will you play for me, my love?” he asked.
“With pleasure,” Lydia replied, and went to seat herself at the harp. “Speaking of pleasure, might we go to the summerhouse after dinner, Ambrose?”
Ambrose smiled again. “I don’t see why not.”
Who said intimacy had to remain between the sheets, after all?
Ambrose might be an earl on paper, but for Lydia, he was a prince.
Her prince. She knew he harbored guilt for the way he’d treated her.
Not that he actually said so on a daily basis.
It was just the way he looked at her sometimes, eyes soft with sadness and regret.
Lydia harbored no bitterness at all. If there was a debt to be paid, he’d already paid it a dozen times over.
One day, she hoped, the occasional sadness she saw in his eyes would disappear for good.
All she could do was love him, now and forever.
He was easy to love and she took great pleasure in doing so.
“We are two unique parts, Ambrose,” she said, later that evening in the summerhouse as he was trailing kisses across her breasts and down her stomach. “Not identical, but we fit together perfectly.”
As if to validate that, Ambrose moved up her body, eased her legs apart, and pushed himself into her. “Hmm,” he said, “it seems you are correct, my love.”
Lydia laughed softly and arched against him, feeling the rise of pleasure.
To be so close to her husband, to feel him inside her, to watch the intensity of his eyes as ecstasy pushed him to the edge, was incredibly arousing.
They always shared that moment, the mutual climax that was like no other pleasure on earth.
“I love you, Ambrose Michael Crossley,” she told him as they lay together in the sweet candlelit aftermath. “More than anything in this world.”
Ambrose shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at her, his finger tracing a line between her breasts. “I love you too, Lady Pendlewood.”
“I’m still getting used to that.” Lydia smiled and glanced out of the window where a full moon hung just above the horizon. “Oh, look. How splendid. Reminds me of the night I fell in love with you.”
“Which night was that?
“The first one,” Lydia replied. “It was such a magical night.”
“Yes, it was rather special.” Ambrose kissed the tip of her nose. “That’s when I fell in love with you, as well.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He looked at the moon. “Perhaps I should have hired a violinist.”
“For tonight?” Lydia giggled. “I’m naked, Ambrose. I think a nightingale would be more appropri—”
As if by design, at that precise moment, faint birdsong filtered into the space, an enchanting, and exceedingly familiar, crescendo of chirps and trills.
“It can’t be!” Lydia gasped. “Ambrose, how is this possible?”
Ambrose shrugged. “Well, obviously, he got my letter.”
And, as in all good fairy tales, they lived happily ever after.
The End