Epilogue
Eighteen Months Later
She looked in the study first. Then the library and morning room. After that, she checked the garden and still found nothing. There was no sign of her husband. And then Harriet realized that she need not have even considered those locations because she knew precisely where Benedict was.
Climbing the stairs, she made her way to the nursery and quietly opened the door.
There, seated in a rocking chair near the window, was her husband.
In his arms was Marisol, or Mari, as they called her.
She’d been named after Harriet’s own mother.
Benedict cradled the child against his chest, pointing out the window at a bluebird in the trees just beyond. Mari cooed with delight.
“You are giving Miss Pemberton unnecessary cause for worry, Benedict,” she said. “The poor woman was hired to be a nurse and finds herself increasingly lacking in duties every single day.”
“I like holding her. And looking at her. And watching her little face light up as she discovers something new.”
Harriet smirked. “She’s an infant, Benedict. Everything is new to her!”
“And that is precisely why I find her to be an absolute delight… and she looks like you,” he said.
Harriet’s heart melted a bit at that regardless of her attempts to steel herself against his charm. No doubt that had been his plan all along. “You are impossible. But I love you… I have yet to ascertain whether it is in spite of or because of your incorrigibleness.”
Reluctantly, Benedict rose and placed the baby in her cradle.
She immediately began to fuss, and he rocked it for a moment until she settled.
Then he rose to his full height and crossed the room to Harriet, taking her in his arms. “I received word from Mother. She intends to descend upon us tomorrow and spend the entire day with Mari. Apparently, she has embroidered an entirely new wardrobe for our child.”
Harriet laughed. “Of course, she has. Between that and your father’s insistence that he must begin looking now for a suitable mount for her when she cannot even yet crawl, our child shall be spoiled beyond measure.”
Benedict shook his head. “I have it on good authority… Mrs. Mercer’s, in fact, that babies cannot be spoiled. Only loved. Perhaps to excess, but still… If you really wished to occupy my parents with something other than Marisol, we could always set to work on getting them a second grandchild.”
Harriet’s breath hitched. “I might be persuaded to do so. There’s no pressing estate business to keep you occupied now?”
“None. Are there any household tasks that must be attended to immediately?” he queried.
Harriet shook her head. “No.”
“Then I’ll race you to our chamber,” he said with a wicked grin.
“A race, Benedict? Are we children?” she asked as she stepped out into the hallway.
But the moment she cleared the door, she broke into a run, hoisting her skirts up nearly to her knees as she made for their room.
By the time she reached the door, he’d caught her.
Just as she intended. Laughing, giggling like schoolchildren, they slipped into their bedchamber and locked out the world.
“Sometimes it’s so perfect I think it must be a dream,” she said as he freed the laces of her dress and slid it down over her shoulders.
“Then we’re dreaming together… and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
THE END