Chaperoned. Because he had the good sense not to ask her to marry him that day.
Margaret had found the idea most appealing.
And of course, Beatrice was happy to fund Margaret’s exploration of the world.
If she hadn’t been so consumed in the running of so much of England, going abroad would have seemed an excellent plan for her, too.
Enraptured letters arrived almost daily, having been sent from coaching inns from Plymouth to Rome.
There was also rumor circulating the ton that they had been married in Naples.
This was blatantly true.
Ben had been in attendance.
He had written several long letters about the getting of licenses and the creative negotiations at which he had excelled in that far-off land. His letter had also suggested that Kit and Margaret had discovered a shared passion for outdoor pursuits.
They were forever running off together into the forest, Ben complained. Though he seemed highly amused.
They brought her daily joy, those letters that proved that Margaret had come into her own. Apparently, she quite enjoyed the fall of evening.
Just as Beatrice did. Though Will did not limit himself to moonlight. Something Beatrice was quite grateful for.
She put her quill down and stretched, happily thinking about this morning, being awoken in their bed chamber by Will’s exceptionally skilled mouth upon her—
There was a knock on her office door, and she stood. She knew that knock. Self-possessed and determined, could it belong to anyone but her husband?
Most definitely not.
“Come in,” she called, and Will entered, a stack of pamphlets in his hand. He clutched them, full of eager enthusiasm as he strode across the room.
She laughed.
It reminded her dramatically of the night they had met, when she was so determined to make him see her point of view.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “are you about to try to convince me of something?”
He arched a brow. “I am not about to convince you of anything,” he said, “but I wish you to come and see something. Will you come?” he asked, brandishing the pamphlets.
She gazed at him suspiciously. “I suppose I shall. You’re covered in ink, Will.”
“Am I?” he asked. He stared down at himself, then laughed. He indeed was covered in black smudges.
“Damnation,” he replied, his brows crooking with dismay. “I think I might be giving away what I’m about to show you.”
“It has not,” she assured, crossing around her desk. “I cannot guess.”
He took her hand in his, winding their fingers together, his pamphlets still cradled in his arm, the fresh ink wreaking havoc on his linen shirt.
“Trust me,” he said. And he guided her out of the room, through the hall, down the sprawling stairs, and into one of the studies on the first floor.
“What the devil are you doing?” she asked, completely flummoxed.
He positively beamed at her, so pleased it was like Christmas morning.
“I have something for you,” he announced. He stood before her, leaned in, and whispered, “Close your eyes.”
A laugh slipped past her lips at his infectious mood. “Will, we aren’t children!”