He was silent, and so still that she wondered if she had offended him.
“Ian? Do you not want to know?” He nodded, and then she saw that he was in the grip of some strong emotion, and could not speak. So she smiled up at him, and said softly, “I love you,Ian Lambert Farramont. I love you so much it hurts, and I never, ever want you to go away and leave me.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment, but when he opened them again, he was smiling. “It is more usually you who goes away and leaves me,” he whispered.
“Then let us agree that neither of us will leave the other.”
He hugged her tight, and then said in his normal voice, “I hope you realise, Lady Farramont, that we are still on our honeymoon. What shall we do tomorrow? What would you most like to do?”
“I should like you to take me rowing on the lake,” she said.
“Excellent idea. Just us, or shall we take the girls, too? They are old enough to sit still.”
“A family outing! And a picnic on the island! That would be perfect!”
“Then it shall be so. And now, my lady wife…”
In one fluid movement he swept her into his arms, and carried her to the bed.
Epilogue
STONYWELL: 10 MONTHS LATER
Izzy stretched out on a chaise longue in the deep shade under a large cypress tree. The cradle sat at her feet, but the baby was in her arms, deep asleep, little hands clenched into fists. In the distance, the sound of hammers suggested that work on the new ballroom was continuing apace. On the lawn, Ian and Henry were playing a game of cricket with the children, Henry’s five and their own two, all rushing about in the sun. So much energy! Izzy could only admire the exuberance of youth. She smiled as she stroked the silky, soft hair on the baby’s head.
Mary came out just then with jugs of lemonade, and while the cricket players flopped onto the grass to rest in the shade of a tree on the other side of the lawn, Ian brought a glass of lemonade to Izzy.
“You do know that he is fast asleep?” he said with a smile, gently touching his son’s cheek.
“I know.”
“You could put him down in his cradle to sleep.”
“I know that too, but I like to hold him. He is the sweetest baby — look how his mouth is moving as he sleeps. Do you think he is dreaming? What can an infant have to dream about, after only two months in the world?”
“I cannot imagine, but he will dream it just as well in his cradle.” With infinite care, Ian lifted the babe from Izzy’s arms and settled him in the cradle, tucking the blanket around him. “There you are, little Charles. Sleep well. Drink your lemonade, wife.”
“Very well, you tyrannical man.” She smiled fondly at him, then obediently took a sip.
“Still no wet nurse?” Ian said with studied casualness.
Izzy sighed. “Soon. It must be soon. I should like to go up to town with you when Parliament reopens in the autumn, so I shall start making enquiries.”
“Ah. But if you prefer to stay here…” He tailed off, his face anxious.
“I prefer to be with you. I have not changed so much that I have transformed into Josie overnight. She may be pleased to sit at home with her children about her and leave her husband to go off to town on his own, but I am not. You suspect I am more attentive to this child because he is the son and heir, but I assure you, it is not for that reason. For the first time in my life, I am… content,” she finished, with a tone of surprise. “Who would ever have thought I would be happy to sit about under trees with a babe in my arms, but I am, because for the first time in my life, I have love and to spare. You fill me with love, husband, so that I am overflowing with it. I am very blessed.”
“Ah,” he said again, reaching for her free hand and raising it to his lips. “We are both blessed, it seems to me. I shall be very glad to have you with me in town, for no one brings a dullpolitical dinner to life like you, my sweet. But here is Eastwood with the salver — we have a caller, it seems.”
The butler bowed low and proffered the salver to Ian, who read the card with raised eyebrows. “Bring him out here, Eastwood, and some Madeira and cakes. He will not want to drink lemonade, I fancy.”
“Who is it?” Izzy said. “Not a business call, I collect?”
“Mr Willerton-Forbes. You must remember him — the lawyer who was part of the investigation into Nicholson’s murder. He has been undertaking some research for me these past few months. He wrote to inform me that his enquiries are now complete. It is not exactly a business call, but nor is it a social call, either.”
“How very mysterious, husband,” Izzy said, shaking her head at him. The baby whimpered in his cradle, and she set it rocking with her foot.
She did not remember Mr Willerton-Forbes until the moment she saw his fashionable form following Eastwood across the lawn. Behind him, a little procession of footmen carried a chair, a small table, a tray bearing a decanter and glasses and another tray with dishes of sweetmeats. It took some little time to arrange all these items to Eastwood’s satisfaction and to see Mr Willerton-Forbes settled upon the chair and amply provided with refreshments. Then there were the usual enquiries as to health and the state of the roads to be undertaken, and some discussion on the progress being made on constructing Izzy’s ballroom.
