He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “If he does not, then he will find himself in more trouble than he could have imagined.”
“I suppose I will not feel truly safe until we are married,” she said.
Nor would he. Persephone as his wife was a heaven that had seemed beyond his reach the last few weeks. “I cannot wait for the day, love.”
“Oh, Mr. Winter,” Lady Emilia said, pressing a hand to her heart. “Look at the two of them. Do you remember when we were young and in love?”
“As I recall, it has only been three years since we wed,” Mr. Winter told his wife with a wry smile.
“Has it?” Lady Emilia was looking at her husband with blatant adoration. “It feels as if you have had my heart forever.”
Rafe would have been damned embarrassed—perhaps even a bit disgusted—if he did not feel the same way about the woman at his side. Already, he could not fathom a day when he had not known her. She had always been his, just as he had always been hers. He fully believed they had been meant to be together. Made for each other. And nothing and no one had been able to keep them apart.
He turned to Persephone, heart full. “I well understand the sentiment.”
She smiled back, tears shining in her eyes. “So do I. You have my heart, and it will forever remain yours.”
“Do you promise?” He was so bloody tempted to kiss her nose and that beloved constellation of copper flecks adorning it.
But they had an audience. Kissing her at all would have to wait, much to his dismay. His lovely was more than worth it, however.
“I promise,” she said.
EPILOGUE
“May I?”
Persephone paused in the act of unpinning her hair and met her husband’s gaze in the long, gilt-edged looking glass. “Of course.”
Husband. What a thrill that word still gave her, though they had been married for two months now. He settled his hands on her shoulders and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of her neck, then nuzzled her throat. “Mmm. I ought to have thanked Devereaux Winter for his soap in addition to his help with routing your despicable cousin. I adore the way it smells, lingering on your skin after your bath.”
The mention of Cousin Bartholomew, who had died suddenly just days following their wedding, no longer brought with it the accompanying dread and fear. He had been killed in a carriage accident. Fate had made certain he would never be a threat to either herself or Rafe, or anyone else, ever again. The new marquess, a distant country cousin, seemed kind and genuine, a happy turn of fortune for all.
Persephone could only hope the servants would be better treated. She and Rafe had offered all the domestics at Silwood Manor an opportunity to find placement with them in their new household prior to her cousin’s death. She had also situated Echo and her other horses quite comfortably now that she had a stable of her own. Echo and the others were happy in the mews at the town house Persephone and Rafe had taken together, not far from The Sinner’s Palace II, and quite near to Jasper and Lady Octavia’s home. The Suttons had welcomed Persephone with open arms and hearts, and she could not be more grateful to call them family.
At long last, she had found a place where she belonged. A place that was meant for her. A man who was meant for her.
“Mr. Winter may have been scandalized had you mentioned your appreciation for the scent of his soap on my skin before we were wed,” Persephone told her husband teasingly, reaching for Rafe’s left hand and guiding it to her breast.
She was wearing nothing more than a gossamer night rail which had been designed by London’s most sought-after modiste, Madame DePlessier, specifically with Rafe in mind. His thumb unerringly found the distended peak of her nipple, his other fingers skillfully caressing. She arched into his knowing
touch.
“Winter doesn’t seem the sort of cove who scandalizes easily.” Rafe’s lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, but he kept their bodies carefully separate though they stood together, heightening her eagerness.
She shivered, but not from the cold. “Perhaps not.”
He plucked at her nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger before giving it a tug. “Don’t suppose it matters now. I behaved myself.”
She smiled at their reflections. He was wearing a banyan of midnight silk, curls catching the candlelight and giving off a burnished glow. A thin slice of his strong chest was visible beneath the garment. Just enough to tempt. His feet were bare, his masculine calves peeping beneath the hem.
“I rather enjoy when you do not behave, husband,” she said, watching as he swiftly dismantled what was left of her coiffure with his other hand.
“And I enjoy the way you look in this gown. It’s so bleeding sheer, I can see the pretty pink of your nipples through it.”
His low rasp sent heat to pool between her thighs. “You approve, then?”
“Need you ask?” He finished with her hair and spread the wildly curling strands down her back before burying his face in her crown and inhaling. “God, lovely. I can never get enough of you.”