Season for Scandal (37 page)

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Authors: Theresa Romain

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency

BOOK: Season for Scandal

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“How do you know you love me now?”

He thought about this. “I just know. Like a man knows when his hand isn’t frostbitten anymore.”

“That is horrible.” She set down her cup, then took his, too. Turning, she straddled him and kissed him squarely on the mouth. “It’s so horrible that it must be true. And I love you, too, of course.”

He must be a bit fogged from the kiss. Or the end of twenty years’ tension. “I am delighted to hear it. Why ‘of course’?”

“Why would I ever stop? The better I knew you, the more there was to love about you. Even the secrets you thought would drive me away—well. I told you who I thought the hero of that story was.”

His throat had gone tight. Somehow, he managed to croak, “Not every story has a hero.”

“Maybe not. But this one does.”

“Kiss me some more,” he said.

“Later.” She smiled down at him, twining her fingers in his hair. “Before we get extremely distracted—”

“I am quickly reaching that point.”

“Tell me, what was your foolish gift?”

He tried to think of something other than her nails whisking over his scalp, her breasts before his eyes, her scent of soap and heat wrapping around him. “Um. Let me think. Oh, I remember. I meant to offer to teach you to ride your horse.”

“You did? You will?” She rested her head in the angle of his shoulder, clutching him close. “Thank you. You don’t have to.”

“I realize that. I’m a baron, not a groom. But I want to because you want me to.” She squirmed, and he laid a hand on her back. “Peace, peace. I’m not just trying to please you.
I
am pleased by the fact that you wanted me to teach you. That you wanted me.”

“That’s just the beginning.” She squeezed him tight, then shoved herself to her feet, shaking out her skirts. “I have some presents for you to open.”

Quickly, she collected an armful of small packages from a hiding place behind the sofa, then walked back to Edmund and dumped them in his lap.

Bemused, he looked at the litter of paper-wrapped parcels. “All these are for me? I really should have got you a bonnet.”

“I’d have thrown it in the fire.”

“You flirt.”

She snorted. “Well, it’s beside the point, because they’re not for you. They’re for me. But you get to open them.”

Mystified, he did so. The first one was flat, its wrapping gummed closed. When he worked it open, a sheet of letter-paper fluttered free. On it was written in Jane’s script:
What makes you happy?

He held it up, waiting for meaning to waver into existence. “Is this for me to answer?”

“No. Quit trying to take my presents. I told you it was for me. But you need to hear my answer.” Hazel eyes, so deep and clear, looked into Edmund’s. “Nothing can make me happy except me. But it certainly helps to know that my happiness matters to my husband. He shows me this when he gives me a gift, but most of all, when he gives me his time and trust.”

“That seems so simple.”

She lifted her brows. “Oh, good. Then you’ll have no trouble doing it.”

“It doesn’t seem like enough to me. It’s just . . . me.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Her words, clean as a new blade, seemed to pry weights free from Edmund. It would take time for him to trust in this: simple truth, love without strings or scandals. His whole life, he had seen love bought, sold, and betrayed, but he’d never seen it freely given. Love without a price on it . . . why, that was priceless.

“You shall have it,” he said. “All of me. And I hope you’ll give me the same in return.”

“Always.” She smiled. “That went beautifully. Open some more presents.”

“Are they all like that?”

“Cheap excuses to trick you into spending time with me and talking to me, because that is what I want most?” She paused. “Yes. As a matter of fact, one of them reads ‘Have Edmund teach you how to ride a horse.’”

Edmund grinned. With such a wife, he could do anything. Even trust his heart. “I shall savor and delight in them all. But let’s save them for tomorrow. You must open your gift from me now.”

He retrieved the paper tube from its resting place, then seated himself next to Jane again. Her fingers trembled a bit, fumbling the string. Finally, she had the paper wrapping off, and within she unrolled . . .

“
La Sicilia
,” she breathed.

Weeks ago, she had looked at this old hand-drawn map of Sicily when they’d visited Hatchards. She hadn’t bought it, but he had seen her study it. Had seen her fingers trace it reverently, as though she could feel the contours of the land through the watercolor and ink. Judging from the look of wonder on her face, she had lost none of her fascination with the map.

“You said you didn’t want a small life,” he explained. “I want to make sure that we don’t have one. Together.”

Her eyes roved the bright-tinted lines; then, with a smile, she laid the map carefully aside. “I don’t think we need to worry about that. When I left, I felt worse than ever, and I realized—that feeling of having a small life isn’t a matter of going places, or of having certain things. It’s a matter of choice. It’s a matter of the heart.”

“What’s mine is yours,” he said. “All yours.”

“Likewise.” She grinned. “If you’re suggesting travel, I would like that very much.”

“To Sicily?”

“Someday. But first I thought we could go to Cornwall.”

She looked uncertain of how the suggestion would be received. In truth, Edmund had no idea. His first response was a hearty “hell, no,” but for Jane’s sake, he quelled that and considered.

He’d thought all he had connecting himself to family was legality and duty; but no, he hungered for more. For a real family such as he’d never had. Now that Turner was gone, they could start anew. End the cycle of blame. The purpose of atonement, after all, was to right a wrong. Surely twenty years was long enough for that.

Jane, strong and bright, could be the bridge that brought them all together. “They have a right to know you,” he said. “I would like them to know you.”

She looked pleased. “I would like that, too.”

A soft chime sounded from the clock on the mantel; then eleven more. “It’s midnight,” Jane said.

“Happy Christmas,” Edmund said, and he took her in his arms and kissed her. This was even better than the kiss under the mistletoe; this was sweet and hot and intoxicating, like the mulled wine he tasted on her lips.

Jane broke it off with a gasp. “The gossip about my return to you will be terrible.”

“No, it will be
wonderful
. Especially when they remark how besotted I am with you.”

She tossed him a wicked smile. “Is that what the gossips will see?”

“Eventually.” His lips found her earlobe. “But if you are amenable, I don’t think the gossips will see anything of us at all for a while.”

“Ah.” She shivered. “You want to make an heir, do you?”

“I want a son. Or a bloodthirsty little daughter. Someday.” With a flick of his fingers, a button at the back of her bodice came undone. “But most of all, I just want you.”

And before the fire on that Christmas morn, without even noticing that they had kicked over the mulled wine, Lord and Lady Kirkpatrick gave each other the gift they most wanted. Each other.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3243-4

eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3244-1
eISBN-10: 1-4201-3244-X
First Electronic Edition: October 2013