“I do believe I would enjoy seeing such a spectacle!”
Unable to suppress the need, he pushed her to her feet, took her into his arms in a silent and intimate version of the waltz. She flowed with him, elegantly and gracefully. “Someday you’ll have servants, a carriage of your own and endless dresses,” he vowed softly, for she deserved that and far more.
“I do not need any of that,” she whispered achingly, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head against his pounding heart. “I only need you.”
And he wished to God he could believe their love would be enough. He ran a fingertip gently over her lower lip. I’ll take care of you, he vowed silently. He touched her cheek, amazed at her, just as he had been from the first moment he had seen her. “Merry Christmas, Primrose Markham.”
“And a jolly Christmas to you, Gabriel Northcote.”
Then he held her and danced, putting aside all thoughts to dream of being with her.
Primrose lived in contented bliss. They’d let a cottage of four rooms—two bedrooms, a small but tastefully furnished parlor, a private sitting room, a very large and surprisingly modern kitchen—surrounded by one of the most beautiful outdoor gardens. It was neat, tidy, well-furnished, and more than she’d ever dreamed of in a home. A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying through the open windows the scent of evergreen and pinecones.
The cottage was lit with several lamps—a frightful expense given the state of their economy—bathing the parlor in a warm, inviting glow. The fireplace crackled merrily, and Gabriel had procured an evergreen tree for their home, and they had laughingly decorated it with cones, twigs, and ribbons.
It had been five days since they departed Sancrest Manor with their belongings, and five days since they'd been living in glorious sin and h
appiness, while they waited to marry. The village folks hadn't yet realized they spent most of their time together, for Gabriel had rented a room above the local assembly room to keep up the proper appearances. But every day he slipped away to be with her and was always cautious in his coming and goings. Only one more day and all would be well. For they were to wed tomorrow morning by the local vicar, on the first day of the new year. Gabriel had just returned from London a few hours past, after using all his influence and a sizeable chunk of their money to procure a special license.
Gabriel had hired a widow to serve as a cook and housekeeper, managing the bare appearance of gentility for a gentleman of his station. The widow, Mrs. Wallwright, came in the day, tidied the cottage, prepared dinner, baked loaves of bread and cakes for the following day, and then left them for the night. Primrose insisted that she teach her everything as she cooked and she explained what needed to be done regularly to maintain their comfort. Several times Gabriel had promised Primrose a finer life as soon as he sold his novels, a horse where she could learn to ride, elegant dresses, hats, and all sorts of fripperies she’d never had. And each time she’d reassured him, he was all that she needed.
In the corner by the windows, a desk was set flush against the wall, and her husband to be was seated before the desk, his dark head bent, his shirt rolled to his elbows, and his fingertips smudged with ink as he lost himself in the world he'd created.
Drawn up before the fire, a sofa invited repose, but Primrose paced the floor of the cottage, devouring the riveting story unfolding on the sheaf of papers carefully clutched in her hands. Her love was the most amazing writer, and she believed in his vision. However, he had atrocious penmanship, and she helped him by carefully transcribing his jumbled scrawls into neat, clear, and elegant drafts.
Gabriel had fiercely opposed the idea of her working when she had suggested seeking a teaching post to assist with their living expenses. Primrose suspected she'd offended his pride. Their partnership worked out quite well, and he often remarked that her intelligent mind and gift for languages had elevated her to the status of his co-author. She quite liked the sound of it and loved working with him. Lowering the pages, she stared at him. “Mrs. Wallwright has left dinner for us. We should dine before our food grows cold."
He did not glance up from his furious scribbling. “One more—”
“Chapter,” she ended with a soft laugh. The very thing he’d said an hour ago. Primrose strolled over to him and pressed a kiss at his nape. Her lips curved, for immediately he lowered the quill and closed the inkwell. She would never tire of how he made her the center of his sole regard as if she were the most important thing in his world.
Shifting in his chair, he smiled sheepishly and tugged her into his lap. With a laugh, she surrendered and tumbled into him, looping her hands around his neck. "And how is the rest of the book coming along?"
“Great,” he murmured, pressing a brief kiss to her lips.
When he tried to withdraw, she captured his mouth with hers in a more sensual kiss, sliding her tongue against his.
“You greedy minx,” he said with a teasing kiss. “How with so little effort you captivate me.”
“Magic perhaps,” she said with a light laugh, loving his playful nature.
“Must be, for I’m bewitched.”
“Tomorrow I’ll be Mrs. Northcote,” she whispered shyly.
Pleasure lit in his eyes. “That you’ll be, and I’ll be the most fortunate man this side of England.”
“Only this side?” she teased.
He smacked a loud kiss on her lips. “What did you think of the rest of the story?”
“Oh Gabriel, it is truly brilliant. I would, however, suggest not allowing Peter to believe even for a second that his Henrietta perished in the fire at the abbey. Surely that it is too heartbreaking."
“They’ll once again find each other, my love.”
"But how? He's caught up in the war, and he'd been stationed in India, and she is a nurse in Edinburgh. Their journey is so exciting, but it feels impossible."
“They’ll meet up again at the Dover’s Inn in Tunbridge Wells, where they first met, and all will be well."