Epilogue
Gideon sprawled on the sturdy sofa he’d had installed in Gwen’s atelier for just such an eventuality—one whereby he had an afternoon free and his wife did not.
He studied her, seated at the desk he’d bought her, immersed in a manuscript, the sun pouring in from the open window to bathe her in its golden light.
He never tired of watching her work. He never tired of watching her, period.
His wife. His beautiful, bluestocking, fae-channeling, English-rose wife.
Without looking up from the book she perused she said, “You’re staring.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Can I help you with something?”
He could think of many ways she could help him, presently, one of which involved her on her desk, but he chose to keep those thoughts to himself.
If he managed to distract her from her precious work every time he entered her lair, he suspected it would not be long before she barred him from the chamber.
He unfolded from the couch and started toward the massive bookshelf he’d had installed for her, in part to store the myriad books and atlases, newspapers and journals she kept on hand. Sources, she called them, useful for verifying facts and figures and such.
Out of the corner of her eye, he saw her rise. “I didn’t mean I wanted you to leave.”
“If you’re certain?” He bit back a smile and made for the shelf on which she’d placed copies of the books she’d edited over the years. It was an impressive array. He picked one of these up now.
“Quite certain,” she sounded slightly breathless.
He recognized that particular quality in her voice. Evidently, his wife was considering taking a small break from her endeavors.
He heard her skirts swish as she crossed the room toward him. “What have you got there?”
He read the spine aloud. “An Intimate Affair, by GT Arlington.”
She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and rising up on her toes to read over his shoulder. Her sweet, feminine scent wafted up at him. “The author’s second book.”
He turned to face her, wrapping his free arm around her slender waist. “Oh?”
Her arms twined around his neck and she gazed up at him with her incredible sky-blue eyes.
“Have I told you today how much I love you, madam wife?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps it bears repeating.”
“Hm.” He flicked a gaze over her mouth, and her cupid’s-bow lips parted. She might be the editor in this relationship, but he could read her like a book. She wanted him to kiss her.
He was happy to oblige—in good time. “I love you, Gwendolyn Devereux.”
She sent him a brilliant smile. “Does that mean you’ll agree to allow me to publish the compilation of your works I suggested?”
No. “And here I thought you married me for my looks.”
She snorted.
He shifted his gaze to the book he held. “Arlington. Do I know this author?”
“Mm. I don’t think so. Why?”
He flipped open the book to a random page and scanned the text. “The name seems familiar. Arlington. I’ve noted that on multiple occasions, just never thought to mention it.”
“Probably just a coincidence.”
“What’s this book about?”
She cocked her head in thought. “It’s a romantic novel. All G.T. Arlington’s books are romantic in nature, with a mystery thrown in for good measure, and feature the same two protagonists. It’s really quite astonishing how the author has managed to keep the romance so thrilling, book after book.”
“I see.” He supposed she must be right. He doubted anyone of his acquaintance wrote romantic novels.
His wife shifted closer to brush her soft lips against his neck. “Gideon, have I mentioned that I love you beyond reason?”
His manhood stirred. Pressed up against him as she was, she could not fail to have noticed. By the smile he felt curving her mouth as she feathered kisses over him, he’d say she had.
He set the book aside, tightened his arm around her waist and hefted her into the air. When he started forward, she shrieked with laughter. “Sir, where are you…”
Her words died when he plopped her down upon the sun-warmed desk. “Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart,” he ordered, already pushing her skirts up to pool around her hips.
She did.
He kissed her then, reveling in the taste of her, the feel of her, the love she gave him so freely.
“Make love to me?” she whispered.
“Always.”
A long while later, their bodies naked and tangled and languorous on the sofa, Gwen could only marvel at the turn her life had taken when, on the advice of her friends and a gambling den proprietress she’d never met, she’d claimed this amazing, beautiful, sensitive man as her husband.
She curled atop him, as he sifted his fingers through her hair, eyes closed, a contented smile on his handsome face. She could not love him more.
“You know,” he murmured, “it occurs to me, I almost owe my ex-friend, Brice, currently ensconced in Newgate and awaiting trial for treason, a heartfelt thanks.”
“What utter rubbish,” she said with a huff.
One corner of his mouth quirked upward and his brilliant eyes slit open. “Perhaps that is going too far. Still, had I not been on the run and presumed dead, the crafty Black Widow of Whitehall might never have matched us.”
She considered. “When you put it that way.”
Suddenly, Gideon’s eyelids snapped fully open and his green-gold gaze sharpened. He sat, bolt upright, nearly dislodging her, though he caught her easily as she was still nearly boneless from their lovemaking.
“Gideon, what on earth?”
“Sorry, my love,” he said, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. Then he disentangled himself, rose, and padded over to the bookshelf.
As she watched, curious now, he picked up the book he’d left open earlier and scanned several pages. He picked up another book, which also looked to be one of Georgina’s, and flipped through it. Then he eyed her. “G.T. Arlington, eh?”
“What about it?” She sat up slowly, hugging a pillow to her chest.
He stared at her. “You’re so beautiful.”
Her heart squeezed with pleasure. The way this man made her feel. So seen, so cherished. “Enough of that,” she chided without any heat. “What about the author?”
“Right. I know this man,” he said.
She sent him a condescending smile. As Georgina, the authoress, was hardly a man, that made his assertion highly doubtful.
“No. This man. The one in the books. The one the books are about, Gwen. One Viscount Theodore ‘Teddy’ Arlington. I suppose I could be mistaken, but I recognize him from the description, the way he speaks—and his name on the spine, of course. As I presume he is not the author, can I also presume the one who is, numbers among your dear friends? One of the women in your club, perhaps?”
She frowned at him and nibbled the tip of her index finger. “Do you have a point?”
He closed the book and returned to the sofa to sit beside her. “Only that the viscount has been a long time on the battlefront. He recently returned home from the war. I’m afraid he came back after having suffered a serious injury.”
She frowned at him, but her mind was busily piecing together what he had just told her with what she knew.
Georgina, her dear unmarried friend, who had written the books—featuring the same two characters—and had zero interest in meeting any eligible bachelors.
Who the rest of the ladies all agreed was likely pining for someone whose identity she had never revealed to them.
Whose nom de plume was, indeed, G.T. Arlington. As in Georgina Teddy Arlington?
An intriguing notion to be sure. “What sort of injury, Gideon?”
“I’m not certain. I heard something in my club. Evidently, the family’s keeping it very hush-hush. If your author friend is basing these stories on Lord Arlington, I would assume they are friends. Likely your friend knows of his return, and of his difficulty.”
“But if my friend does not…”
“You might want to inform…er…him.”
Dear Heaven. Georgina was not even in town. She had recently relocated to her villa in Brighton, following a row with her parents. Chances were, she knew nothing of Lord Arlington’s return, much less his injury.
“May I assume you’ll be calling an emergency meeting of the Ladies’ Literary Society, madam?” Gideon asked, drolly.
She sent him peeved glare.
He grinned.
Then, she cocked her head in thought. “Actually, I believe the ladies and I will soon be taking a short drive to Brighton where one of our members has recently—temporarily—relocated.”
“What?” Gideon sprang to his feet, all six-foot-two, gorgeous, naked male.
“Sir, we’ve talked about this,” she said, sending him a severe frown.
He frowned at her, equally. “Talked about what?”
“I do not care to be loomed over.”
“In that case…” He scooped her up and into his arms, laughing. “My wife. My beautiful bluestocking. You have such a way with words.”
Then, he kissed her.
As Gideon and Gwen whiled away their afternoon in enjoyable pursuits, the post arrived and now sat in a stack in its usual place on a silver salver in the foyer.
One of the missives, written in a sloppy hand and addressed to Gideon, bore the name of no sender nor a return address.
Indeed, Gideon would find when he opened it, the sender did not sign his name beyond a set of initials.
The letter was brief, no more than a one-line note. It read:
Miriam and Junior say hello. Many thanks, D.K.
The End
Thank you for reading Gideon and Gwen’s story. I hope you enjoyed it.