“Twice. Thrice, if you count that morning with the dizziness.”
Seth looked at her pointedly. “I do countthatmorning. You almost fainted into your porridge.”
Charlotte smothered a secret smile and slipped out of his arms. “As I said, it is merely a precaution.”
“That, or you’ve developed an allergy to peace and quiet,” he said, arching a brow.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m only saying, some women would be unnerved by too much contentment.”
She turned, walking backward now, skirts swishing, wind tugging at her raven curls. “If I grow ill from happiness, I’ll be sure to let you know first,Your Grace.”
He laughed and caught up to her, threading his fingers through hers as they crested the rise toward the cottage. The subject drifted away like mist in the sun, and Charlotte let it go with it.
It wasn’t worth troubling him over. Not yet.
Charlotte leaned into him, warm beneath her cloak. They were alone on the pasture edge now, the nearest cottage hidden by aswell of hill, and the world smelled of dew and earth and new beginnings.
“I like it here,” she said softly. “I like our little cottage and our silly sheep and our nosy neighbor who always asks if I’m ‘keeping a good man at home’ and winks.”
Seth pulled back slightly to meet her gaze. “I like it here too.”
His voice was lower now, serious beneath the teasing. “I never thought peace would suit me. I thought I’d be a dull thing without the clubs and the scandal sheets, and the constant, looming threat of Monkton.”
Charlotte laughed. “Poor Monkton. He must be positively despondent without you.”
“I like to think he cries himself to sleep every night holding a rolled deed after Tewkesbury could offer him nothing,” Seth sighed in contentment.
“And all because you lost your Dukedom marrying an imposter,” she gave him a sidelong glance.
“I married precisely the woman I wanted to,” he corrected. “She just happened to be dressed as her twin.”
They walked on in comfortable silence for a moment, Charlotte’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm, boots soft against the worn track that curved toward home.
Just beyond the hills and a good ride’s journey into Scotland, Amelia and Luke had taken up residence in a modest estate once belonging to one of Luke’s more forgiving relations. It wasn’t grand, not by the standards Amelia and Charlotte had once dreamed of as little girls, but it was elegant in its simplicity—white stone, soft gardens, and enough space to host the occasional guest or house a rescue spaniel that had adopted them sometime in March.
Once they were within looking distance, Seth threw his arms about Charlotte and carried her up the slope toward the cottage, boots crunching frost, her laughter spilling into the air like music. The stone house came into view, chimney puffing merrily, ivy curling round the window sills.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around them like a blanket. Seth kicked the door closed with his boot, still holding her against him. She’d unpinned her hair this morning and the curls spilled down her back like wild brambles.
He kissed her before she could protest, and she melted into him, heat coiling low in her belly. He tasted like wind and salt and home. His hands skimmed her sides, her ribs, her hips—familiar and reverent.
When they parted, she was breathless.
“That was not a kiss of a man who’s planning to tend sheep all day,” she giggled.
“If only you knew,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers.
They kissed again, laughter still on their lips, and it was blissfully easy to believe the world had shrunk to this little cottage, this muddy lane, this stolen life.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Charlotte froze against him. Seth groaned.
“Tell them we’re busy,” he said.
