There, the countess paused. “It is my dearest hope for all my former charges that you find love that fills your heart and makes you whole just as I have with the earl.”
“I can assure you,” Clementine said softly, “my heart is filled.”
So is mine, my love. So is mine.
Dorset waited for the door to close, then counted to five before deeming it safe to emerge from his ignominious hiding place. He pulled himself from beneath the bed and stood, brushing the dust from his trousers. Clementine rushed to him.
Her brilliant, sky-blue eyes were wide. “Ambrose, Miss Julia suspects you were hiding under the bed. She has given us ten minutes before a chamber maid will arrive to clean thespiderfrom beneath it.”
He flashed her a wry grin, attempting to wipe the remnants of the very real cobweb from his face. “Then we shall have to use the next nine minutes most wisely, shall we not?”
“Lord Dorset,” she said, smiling back at him. “You are an utter rogue.”
“Your rogue now, to do with as you wish.”
“You are mine,” she agreed, her face softening. “And I am yours.”
He drew her into his arms, and then he took her lips with his. How good she felt in his arms, how right her mouth beneath his. Lady Fangfoss had been correct in her suggestion they would prefer hasty nuptials.
“I cannot bloody well wait to marry you,” he murmured into their kiss.
She hummed her approval and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back.
He intended to make the best of his nine minutes.
And from then on, the rest of their lives.
Epilogue
“Perhaps I ought to check your night rail for bees, Lady Dorset.”
The low timbre of Ambrose’s teasing voice sent heat to her core.
His wicked grin made her want to kiss him.
He was her husband now, standing on the threshold of the door joining their chambers.
Husband.
What a wondrous word.
“I have not been wandering in a garden recently,” she told him, playing the coquette. “However, I am not wearing drawers.”
His emerald gaze ran over her with hungry approval, and she felt it as surely as if he had run his long fingers over her bare skin. She was ever aware of her state, barefoot and freshly bathed, clad in nothing but a nightgown from her trousseau which had been commissioned with the explicit intent of tempting him. They had been waiting for this moment for what seemed a lifetime but had in truth been but a summer.
A summer of waiting, longing, yearning.
Of growing closer. Getting to know each other in every way they could. Kissing whenever they could chance it. And more. Ambrose had not entirely surrendered his rakish nature. Clementine could not say she minded.
“No drawers, you say?” He approached her with undisguised carnal intent.
“None,” she confirmed, no longer able to remain where she was, positioned before the very old looking glass in her apartments.
Instead, she moved toward him, meeting him halfway. No more pretense. She threw herself into his arms, and he caught her, spinning her in a circle as if she were as light as a doll when she knew the opposite to be true. She clung to his broad shoulders, head tipped back, laughter spilling from her lips, joy overflowing in her heart.
This was their very first night as husband and wife. They were not the only newlyweds. Ambrose’s valet and Clementine’s lady’s maid had recently found love and married as well. Their new household had journeyed, after their wedding—which had been attended by their families and dearest friends old and new, along with the Earl and Countess of Fangfoss, of course—to Tildon Court. Here, Clementine had discovered not a draughty pile of ruins but instead a home worthy of its fanciful name.
A home they would restore to its true, shining glory together.
