29. Epilogue
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
A year later, Wingfield Manor near Hungerford, Berkshire, England
Despite the chilly winter outside, the wood-paneled study in Wingfield Manor was warm and toasty given the roaring wood fire in the fireplace. The coffered ceiling made it seem even more cozy for the two who occupied the dark-green sofa that lined one of the short walls.
Catherine was lounging at one end, her red hair loose and curly.
Her attention was on the pages of a manuscript.
In her lap was her husband’s head, his gaze on an open volume he had propped on his chest. With them mostly covered with a woolen blanket, a newcomer might think they had interrupted a scene out of a brothel based in a library.
With the servants off for the day, they tended to wear fewer clothes and indulge in more affectionate behavior with one another.
“If this story gets any racier, I’m going to have to ask you to turn over and place your head betwixt my thighs,” Catherine warned with a teasing grin.
Matthew chuckled softly. “You say that as if you think it would be a hardship,” he replied, craning his neck back so he could see her face beyond the bottom of her bosom. From how her nipples peaked behind the fabric of her gown, he knew she wasn’t wearing stays.
She grinned down at him. “What are you reading?”
“Obviously not a story as good as yours,” he said, lifting his head from her lap. He turned over and reached down with a hand to her gown’s hem. “In fact, I’ve completely forgotten every bit of it,” he added as he slid the fabric of her gown and petticoats up her stockinged legs.
“Which probably means it’s not worth publishing,” she remarked.
The two were in the habit of spending their Sunday afternoons reading author submissions sent to their fledgling company, Kingston and Higby Publishing.
As an earl, Matthew was careful to keep his name from being associated with the business—his fellow aristocrats would no doubt chide him for endeavoring to earn money outside of the funds raised from his farms.
Kingston and Higby’s first three releases, along with that year’s harvest, had brought in enough money to reimburse Catherine’s dowry for all the debts the late earl had accumulated.
The freedom from debt had Matthew experiencing immense relief. He also felt happier than he had since before he had inherited. Catherine was responsible, of course. She not only saw to most of the business arrangements for the publishing company, but she also saw to running his households.
She was also a very willing bed partner.
“Possibly, but you may wish to give it a go before you send a rejection letter,” he advised, responding to her comment about the viability of the book he had been reading. “You’re a terrible distraction, you must know.”
She tittered, setting aside the manuscript she had been reading on an adjacent table before helping him with rearranging her skirts.
“Before you do my bidding, could you perhaps rid yourself of your breeches? Although your tongue brings me great delight, your cock sends me to ever loftier heights,” she claimed on an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, I’m going to remember those words,” he warned on a chuckle. “Might have to include them in a poem.” He quickly did her bidding, though, removing his breeches and his waistcoat before diving back under the covers. Sliding his hands beneath the globes of her bottom had her shrieking in surprise.
“Your hands are cold, you poor thing,” she said, hooking one leg over the back of the sofa while she rested the other on his back.
She heard his muffled, “Not for long,” and inhaled sharply when she felt first his nose and then his tongue separate her folds. The tip found its prey almost immediately, gently circling her swollen bud several times before he laved it across the tender flesh.
Catherine’s hips bucked as she cried out her pleasure, her fingers spearing his silky hair as a means to hold on as his tongue entered her in one quick and effective thrust. Her gasp of shock and subsequent spasm of delight was followed by a pop from the fireplace, as if the flames wished to add their own drama to the scene.
She struggled to breathe as a giggle erupted from her. “That tickles,” she managed to say between gasps for air.
Matthew appeared from beneath the edge of the blanket, his eyes narrowing as he watched her ecstasy. Under the blanket, his engorged manhood found her opening, and he buried himself inside her in a single thrust.
He watched as her chest lifted and her head was thrown back over the edge of the arm of the sofa, leaving her breasts exposed for him to suckle and nip.
Excitement had him pounding into her when he felt her feet come to rest on the back of his thighs, her toes digging into the soft flesh at their base as her fingernails scraped his back.
His release seemed to come too quickly, and yet Catherine never seemed to mind, her heavy-lidded gaze watching as the tendons in his neck strained when he lifted his head.
She took delight in reaching between their bodies to stroke his tight ball sac, extending his intense pleasure until he begged her to stop.
When he was spent and unable to hold himself up, he lowered himself until he was pressed nearly flat to the front of her body, the sound of their pounding hearts evident to both of them.
A moment later, and he allowed sleep to take him from the here and now.
“We should write our own story,” Matthew murmured, his words bringing Catherine out of her post-coital stupor. Her entire body made her feel as if she were a rag doll, her legs akimbo and her arms having not an ounce of strength to move from where they rested on his back.
“About… what?” she asked in a whisper.
“Us. How we came to be,” he answered, turning his head so his chin rested between her breasts. “How it is we’re such a… a happy couple.”
“Are we?” she teased.
He gave a start and climbed further up her body so their heads were aligned. “‘Although your tongue brings me great delight, your cock sends me to ever loftier heights?’” he quoted in a whisper, arching a dark brow when he reached the end of her words.
She chuckled softly. “It’s not my best poem,” she admitted on a giggle, which had his body molding to hers even more than it had been after he had passed out atop her.
“We would have to market it as a biographical tale, though,” she reasoned, turning her head so she could capture his earlobe with her teeth.
“Written by Anonymous.” She suddenly sobered and inhaled sharply.
“What is it?”
“I was once told if I married a lord, I was to instruct him to enact a law forbidding the use of Anonymous in place of an author’s real name,” she said, a grin finally returning to lighten her features.
He gave a start. “Why?”
She sighed. “Apparently as a way of protecting the book-buying public from charlatans,” she explained. “I don’t think they considered an author could simply use a nom de plume instead of their own name when they mentioned it.”
Pondering the comment for a time, Matthew tugged on his other earlobe. “Did this happen during one of your literary society meetings?” he asked, obviously suspicious.
“Indeed.”
“Do you want me to propose such a law?”
Catherine shook her head. “No. I rather like the mystery of not knowing who wrote a book.”
He scoffed softly. “But you know who wrote it,” he countered.
“Only for the books I publish,” she argued.
“Huh,” he responded. “So, what are your thoughts on our story? Should we write it, I mean?”
“Fiction? Or biography?” she countered, her attention returning to his earlobe.
“Well, it’s a true story. We’ve lived it,” he reasoned. “We’re living it still,” he added, chuckling at the sensations her tongue created on the whorl of his ear.
“Mayhap true, but who would believe it?” she asked in a whisper.
Matthew made an odd sound in his throat and was silent for a time before he said, “Huh.”
“What is it?”
“You’re right, of course. It would have to be sold as fiction,” he agreed. “No one would believe the truth of it.” He extracted one of his arms from beneath the blanket and drew his hand through the air. “Reluctant bride agrees to—”
“A bluestocking,” she corrected.
“—agrees to marry an earl—”
“Is tricked into marrying a blue blood.”
“To pay off his debts…” He paused, thinking she would offer a correction, and when she didn’t, he went on. “Start their own publishing company…” He stopped again when a pop followed by a crackle sounded from the fireplace.
“Go on,” she urged, grinning.
“And she doesn’t regret it one bit,” he finished.
Catherine tittered. “It’s the truth,” she said on a sigh.
Matthew’s sapphire eyes darkened as he gazed down at her. “Neither do I,” he whispered before he kissed her quite thoroughly. “The end.”
A series of pops sounded from the fireplace, the flames apparently in agreement.