“Another inkwell from my mother, I am afraid,” she said. Much had changed for her since she had become Duncan’s wife, but some things would never alter, and her family was one of the latter. Her mother still spent most of her days engrossed in shopping, her father remained a disapproving jackanape who insisted she could have avoided a mésalliance with Duncan, and Benedict sided with Father, though he had warmed to Duncan in gradually increasing increments.
“It is a miracle there are any inkwells left to be had in the city.” Duncan raised a golden brow. “She sent you five only yesterday.”
Yes, she had, in addition to the three dozen or so she had already gifted upon Frederica. Tall inkwells, short ones, porcelain, glass, sterling silver… Mother had found, purchased, and given them all to Frederica. She rather fancied it was her mother’s way of apologizing for her lack of tender emotion toward her. But perhaps it was simply that Mother was running out of space for her acquisitions at Westlake House and needed a new location of storage. Frederica could not be sure.
“This one is quite lovely, adorned with roses and mother-of-pearl,” she said blandly. “And you must admit, the inkwells are, if nothing else, a far more appropriate gift than the fans.”
“Naturally,” he agreed, grinning down at her. “But who needs a hundred of the damned things all at once?”
She smiled back and shook her head ruefully. “No one.”
He framed her face then, gazing at her in that way of his, seemingly as if he could never tire of committing her face to memory. As if he could look a thousand times and it would still never be enough. “I have a gift of my own for you, my love.”
“You do?” She could not resist drawing him to her for another kiss.
She teased the seam of his lips, and with a growl, he opened for her, his tongue sliding against hers in a decadent caress. She could kiss this man forever and never grow weary of it. But she had news to share, and that news would not be contained. It rose within her, buoyant and miraculous, like an ascension balloon.
She broke the kiss, gazing up at him with her heart in her eyes. “I have a gift for you as well.”
“Do tell, Mrs. Kirkwood.” His gaze darkened with wicked intent. “I hope it involves you, naked, seated at your writing desk and me on my knees before you.”
Heat shot straight to her core at his words. “I should like nothing better, but that is not the gift I had in mind.”
“My gift to you first, because I am selfish and I cannot wait another moment for you to have it.” He reached into his coat and extracted a handsome leather-bound volume, holding it out to her. “An even exchange. Give me the bloody inkwell.”
Her book, in print, at last.
Awed, Frederica handed off the inkwell and acceptedThe Silent Duke, running her fingers over the cover, tracing the embossed gilt of her name. “Oh, Duncan. It’s beautiful! I love it so.”
“It is the first copy, and I wanted you to have it.”
“Thank you.” She hugged it to her. “Thank you, my love.”
“The hard work was all yours.” He drew her to him for another kiss.
When she was breathless, she tore her lips away once more, heart bursting with love and happiness. “Now for your gift.” She took his hand—the one that wasn’t holding the inkwell—and brought it to her stomach.
His eyes widened, and he stilled, an expression of adorable befuddlement on his face. “Frederica?”
“A babe,” she whispered, smiling as tears welled in her eyes.
“Are you certain?” His tone was hushed, reverent.
She nodded. “Do you like your gift, my love?”
He caught her to him in a crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair. “It is the best gift I have ever received aside from you, angel.”
*
Sometime just beforethe sun began its daily sojourn into the sky, Duncan sat in his study and turned the final page ofThe Silent Duke. Tears burned his eyes as he stared at the cover of the leather-bound volume.F. Kirkwood, it read. She had chosen to use her own name rather than a pseudonym as most ladies in her position would have done.
He was glad now, pride in her burning through him, for the novel he had just read was a masterpiece. It was all Frederica—imaginative, vibrant, bold, and determined. Her sentences flowed, her characters drew him in as he read, until he had desperately awaited the next paragraph, the next page, and he had read all night long, replacing his candles thrice until the story reached its completion.
His heart pounding, he extinguished the lights and found his way to his wife, holding her book clutched in his fingers all the way. They had sold all the initial copies they had run, some one thousand of them, and he expected they would do another run within the month.
He was happy for her.
Grateful for her.
