Passionate (41 page)

“Definitely.” He grinned. “Most definitely—but not yet.”

They had spoken long and deeply about what their future would hold. She had assured James that if he wanted to take up his career in the military again, she would happily go with him. Her home was with him—the true home of her heart. Together, she knew, they could take any path and flourish, but he had shaken his head and declared himself finished with the army.

Between them they had a modest income, enough for a house in town or a spacious cottage in the country. James was as eager to leave London as she was. Lying curled together late at night their talk had ranged over where they could live and what they wanted to turn their hands to. He wanted to tend the land, he said, happy to boast muddy knees and rough hands. It could be a simple life, that of the country gentry.

For her part, Lily wanted only an airy, north-facing room where she could paint. Sir Edward was eager to have her continue illustrating for him. In fact, the
Mercerium
monograph had been wildly successful. She had been asked about her paintings so many times recently she thought perhaps she might assemble a book highlighting her best illustrations.

“You’ll know where we’re going when we get there,” James said, placing his free arm around her shoulders. “But it will be some time yet. Rest, my love.”

She did, lulled by the steady movement of the carriage and the warm sun. They passed through a village—she was dimly aware of the horses’ hooves striking sharply off the cobblestones. Later, shadows flickered across her face and she heard the susurration of wind through poplar leaves.

When the carriage slowed she roused. Long rays of sunlight slanted from the west as James guided the horses down a wide lane. Ahead she glimpsed the edges of a building through the greenery surrounding it.

“Are we there?” She rubbed her face and took a long breath.

“Nearly.” A mischievous grin tugged the corners of his mouth.

She scanned the roadside and sat upright. They had almost drawn even with the building—a small cottage with flowers blooming in the dooryard.

“It’s lovely, James.”

“Yes, it is.” He took the reins in a firm grip, but instead of pulling the horses to a stop he urged them on to a quicker pace.

Lily swiveled, keeping the cottage in sight as they passed. At his low chuckle, she glanced over at him. “You laugh, but I believe I could be happy there—as long as we were together.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He guided the horses around a turn, then drew them to a halt and gestured. “Look. Could you be happy here as well?”

Ranks of beeches lined the drive, their tall branches stretching into the clear air, rustling a welcome. In the field beyond a white horse lifted its head and cantered away down the gentle rise. She watched it go, tossing its gleaming mane. Then her eyes were drawn past, to a brighter sparkle.

A fountain played high from the middle of a small lake, throwing clear drops into the air. She could not hear the splash from where they sat, but imagined its watery music. Ornate steps led up to a series of terraces, large pots planted thickly with flowers adorning the walkway.

And presiding over it all—the house. Except it was not a house, or a spacious cottage, or even a manor. It was a mansion, four stories rising from the lush green lawns and terraces, the roofline sporting turrets and dormers and fanciful ironwork. The stone façade glowed warm gray in the westering light, and the windows winked at her.

Lily leaned forward. There, on the far edge of the building—was it possible?

“The conservatory,” James said, following her gaze. “It was my grandfather’s pride.” He clucked the horses into motion, smiling widely as she took it silently in. Was this their new home? How could it be? “The folly is just over there,” he pointed, “and the wilderness walk and grotto. And here we are.” The carriage swept up the drive and he halted them just before the doors. He leaped down and held out his arms to her.

She closed her eyes, afraid if she opened them again it would all disappear. Surely this place was a dream?

“Come, my lady.” His voice was laughing and tender. Lily opened her eyes, but before she could step down from the carriage he had taken her into his arms.

“I am quite capable of walking,” she said, sliding her hands around his shoulders to keep her balance. Being clasped in his embrace reminded her of the beach at Cadiz, of the long, long journey that had taken them, at last, to where their hearts belonged.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead but kept striding up the stairs. “I know. You are quite capable of so many things. But let me do this.”

The doors swung open at their approach and James carried her into a golden-lit entryway. His boot-heels clicked over the marble floors then were muffled by a rich blue and burgundy carpet.

“Welcome to Somergate, my love. Welcome home.” He gently set her on her feet and placed an achingly sweet kiss on her lips.

She leaned into him. “But how?”

“Reginald renounced his claim, and with some prompting from my uncle and his solicitor, Kew Gardens agreed that the property was fairly won—but I did not know it for certain until this morning.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a large key made of gleaming brass and ornamented with flourishes. “Lord Denby gave me this, just before I took my place by the altar, and told me the staff were prepared and waiting for our arrival.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Between that surprise and the sight of you walking toward me down the aisle, I was hard-pressed to keep from shouting aloud and dancing over the pews.”

“I’m glad you were able to restrain yourself. Though it came as a surprise when you whirled me off my feet after we kissed.” The memory made her laugh aloud. The look on her mother’s face at their improper behavior had been priceless.

“Ah, Lily.” He enfolded her in his arms. “With you at my side, I am capable of anything.”

“It seems as though you have your work cut out for you. This is a bit more than we were imagining.” She gazed around the spacious entry, then caught sight of the painting at the top of the stairs. Recognition made her gasp aloud.

It was the portrait of James—the one she had painted a lifetime ago in the conservatory at Brookdale.

Slowly she walked up to it, feeling his strong presence at her shoulder as he followed. Those features, so known now, so beloved. How could she have guessed that he would come to mean so much to her? “My husband,” she murmured, reaching to trace the lines of paint.

She paused, struck again by the look in the portrait’s eyes—the shadowed loneliness, searching for completion. Her heart ached to see it, then ached with happiness as she turned and cupped his face in her hands. His warm skin, his smile, a hint of a dimple in the left cheek. And his eyes.

No trace of sorrow remained there. Pure joy danced in those warm brown depths. He had found what he had been searching for, it seemed.

“You are what I’ve needed my whole life,” he murmured, then kissed her.

Lily’s blood sang as his mouth moved fiercely, lovingly, over hers. She embraced him, pressed herself against his hard, lean body and pulled him close.

They were, both of them, home.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2008 Anthea Lawson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-1-4201-2092-9