Epilogue
Almost one year later
Summer had come again to Somerset, which delighted Mrs. Scarlett Brown. The winter had been very dreary, and although she and Malcolm had spent a good portion of it in London, that hadn’t been enough to blot out the long succession of gray days.
And today itself was a special day, indeed. One year ago, she had met Malcolm.
He had spent the entire day over at Parkhorne overseeing the cutting of hay, but he was just coming back through the gate now. She had finished writing a letter to Tilly, checking in on her and the new babe, and inquiring when she might next expect them in Somerset.
She also had spent the morning looking over some of the improvements she thought Malcolm might make to a thresher. He had been struggling with jams on the machines over at Parkhorne, and she had an idea for a little tweak that might help matters.
She had never imagined that she could enjoy life in the country so much.
Of course, she needed to go to London at least quarterly, but that was easy enough.
They had no shortage of people and events drawing them thither—in fact, between her sister and Malcolm’s sister, they could be away from home constantly if they so chose.
But they did not so choose. Scarlett found that the retirement of country life, punctuated by lively bouts of urban living, was exceedingly pleasant to her. And that being alone with her husband was often much preferable to having to share him with others.
It helped, of course, that her husband had bought Cresswell. She had never thought she would have her own establishment, with her own gardens and drawing rooms. Perhaps that was why she took so much pride in the place.
Or perhaps it was because she just loved Malcolm so much.
He came through the door then. “Good God,” he said. “I thought I’d never get back to you.”
He often acted this way when he came home.
Whereas he had once not thought anything of domestic pleasures—or so he’d informed her—he now often became disgruntled if anything kept him from home for too long.
She often had to remind him that certain activities on a farm were guaranteed to take all day and that he wasn’t paid for his activities pleasing her in the bedchamber.
He was likely to grumble more soon. In addition to his duties at Parkhorne, he had agreed to serve as steward for both Mr. Dermott and Mr. Lambet.
The increase in income was significant, but it would naturally mean more time away from home.
He had wanted to decline the positions when they had been offered on that score, but Scarlett knew they had to think of the future.
She reached up and kissed him. “You must be hungry,” she said.
“Yes, I am,” he growled in her ear.
She laughed. “You must eat first. Supper is ready.”
Despite his eagerness, she could see that he was tired.
It was only later that night, when they were in bed, that she reminded him of the day.
He was lying beside her, reading over a treatise on a novel type of seed drill.
“Do you remember, husband, what day it is today?”
He looked at her. “I believe it is June the seventeenth.”
Her stomach dipped in disappointment. He did not remember, then.
“Yes, I believe it is,” she said, looking down and feeling almost foolish.
He was ardent—but she also knew he was a man of practicalities. And, after all, it wasn’t as if it was the day they had been married. It was silly of her.
“Is there some particular reason you remark on the day, my darling?”
“Oh no,” she said, blushing and looking back to her novel.
“Are you certain? It is unusual of you to ask such a question, especially so late in the day. In fact, I think of you as the type of woman who always knows the day.”
It was possible, she thought, for a husband to be too attentive. “And yet I am a mere mortal, like any other.”
“I am not at all sure of that.”
She was still looking at her book, even though she knew he was teasing her. “Well, I can assure you I am.” Indeed, she thought, because only a mortal would feel this childishly hurt over nothing.
“Is it perhaps because today is the day we met one year ago?”
She looked up at him, her mouth parting in surprise. Her cheeks flamed. “You scoundrel!”
He laughed. “You do not think I was really capable of forgetting, did you?”
“You said nothing!”
“Ah, well, perhaps you aren’t the only one who fears looking foolish.”
“You do not have to fear looking foolish with me.”
“I say the same to you.”
They were smiling at each other now. It was always this way with them. Sometimes, they could both be a little bashful. She had learned how similar they really were. But they always teased candor out of each other. As they had when they had first met.
Then, to her surprise, he reached over to the nightstand and opened its drawer. When he turned back toward her, he presented her with a small box.
“I told myself that if you didn’t remember, I would give it to you as another anniversary gift.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“But really, I wanted to give it to you today.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She did so, her heart in her throat, even though she had some idea of what it would be. Instantly, she saw that she was correct.
When they had married, he had just purchased their house, their future home, and neither of them had thought wedding jewelry practical. And he had said that he preferred to wait until he could purchase her something worthy of her.
This ring certainly was. The gold band shone, and it had five diamonds strung across it, with the largest in the middle.
“Malcolm!” She gasped. “It is too much.”
“No, it is just enough. It is almost as perfect as you, my wife.”
A tear rolled down her cheek and he wiped it away with his lightly calloused thumb.
“I don’t know what is wrong with me.”
“If they are happy tears, then I have no objections.”
“Yes, of course they are.”
Now, she had to kiss him, and so she did, with trembling fingers.
When she drew back, she confessed, “I have no gift for you.”
He laughed. “I did not expect one.”
“Well, no gift, except a piece of intelligence.” She fingered the coverlet. She could have told him days ago, but she had been putting it off. “I believe-I believe we have succeeded. There will be a baby by March, I expect.”
“Scarlett,” he said, his voice gone hoarse.
Soon after their marriage, they had discussed how they both wanted children. But months had passed without her falling pregnant, and she had begun to worry it would never happen.
“It’s true. It’s early, of course.”
He kissed her and then pulled her into his arms. Then they kissed again and murmured to one another and spoke of what might be.
It was only later, when she lay with her back toward him and she began to think of sleep, that they returned to the night they met. And of how they had first become intimate.
“You have never told me the details of your dream,” he teased. “The one that you had so many times that you did not notice the real man in your bed.”
She laughed, feeling his body curl around hers.
It wasn’t true, of course. She had told him the full extent of those dreams long ago.
They had discovered how similar their dreams had been, all the way down to the positioning of these torrid nocturnal fantasies.
It had been a kind of fate. Strange and unusual and utterly right.
He pretended now to feign ignorance of her dream as a kind of joke because he liked her to tell it all to him again.
“You will probably be too scandalized, Mr. Brown,” she said, employing the aloof tone she had used with him that first night at dinner. “It would shock you.”
“Oh, but I love to be shocked. I delight in it. Tell me, did he take you from behind? This man in your dream?”
She could feel his cock hardening against her arse, and she laughed. His hand was pulling up her nightdress.
“That’s very improper. I am shocked you would think it.”
“Perhaps I think of it only because I once had a very similar dream. I never thought it could be real, of course. It was just a hopeless vision. The woman that I tupped was too beautiful to actually exist.”
She flushed, suddenly hot and needy. The pleasure of such language still undid her, even after a year of marriage. She couldn’t believe that he saw her in such a light.
“And then think, dear wife,” he continued, “I met you and you put her, the woman from the dream, to shame. The most beautiful woman I could imagine didn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Malcolm,” she chided, blushing afresh at such extravagant praise. “You cannot be serious.”
He had entered her now and was slowly, only slowly, giving her what she so needed. His hand had found her breast, palming it, and she gasped.
“I am very serious, my darling. In fact, I have never been more serious in my life.”
After that, all talking became impossible.
She was lost to sensation. To him. To this love that she had told herself could not be, and yet now thrived more and more every day.
It was just like her dream. The one that had reoccurred to her again and again. The one where she was precious, treasured, and absolutely desired.
Except this was so much better.
Because he was real.
And she was wide awake.
The End