“And yours,” he replied, turning to kiss the crown of her head.
She hummed in agreement and laid her cheek against his chest.For several minutes, they remained like that, listening to the creak of the old house warming to life, to the birds calling from the hedgerow just outside their window.
Eventually, Clara pushed up on her elbow.“We should get up.”
“We absolutely should not,” he said, reaching for her.
She laughed and rolled onto her side, propping her chin on her hand.Her hair spilled down one shoulder in a tumble of dark curls, and Crispin found himself utterly undone once more.
“What are we neglecting this morning?”she asked, tracing a finger along the edge of his jaw.“Estate reports?Tenant meetings?Did Lady Armitage send another letter expressing dismay over your unruly sheep?”
He groaned.“She did.Claims they are too spirited and ungovernable.I suspect she means me, as always.”
“You are rather spirited,” Clara said thoughtfully, pressing a kiss to his chin.“And occasionally ungovernable.”
“That is what you love about me.”
“One of many things.”
She sat up then, drawing the sheet around her bare body, and glanced toward the window.A gust of wind rustled the trees, sending a cascade of amber and russet leaves tumbling across the lawn below.
“I adore this time of year,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.“It feels like everything is shedding the unnecessary.”
He sat up beside her, resting his hand on the small of her back.“That sounds suspiciously like you are about to suggest cleaning out the attic.”
She tilted her head.“Not the attics.Just...us.What we’ve built.It is quieter than I imagined married life would be.”
“Disappointed?”
Clara turned to face him fully, her expression achingly sincere.“Never.I just did not know it would feel so safe.”
He kissed her, slow and reverently.“You make it safe, Clara.You made a home out of my chaos.”
“You were not chaos,” she said.“Just...unmoored.”
“And now?”
She brushed her thumb over his lips.“Now you are mine.”
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.“Never has a man been so content to surrender.”
“Indeed.”Clara laughed.
They dressed slowly, neither of them willing to let the morning slip through their fingers too quickly.Clara chose a soft wool gown the color of twilight and pinned her hair up in a loose knot.Crispin, ever reluctant to return to starched cravats and polished boots, dragged a comb through his hair and shrugged into his shirt, then stopped to watch her adjust the pearl-drop earring at her lobe.
“I love watching you prepare to rule the household,” he said.
Clara arched a brow.“Rule?”
“Command with grace,” he amended, stepping behind her to press a kiss just below her ear.“You make it look effortless.”
“That is because I learned from the very best,” she murmured, “and decided to do the opposite of everything my mother advised.Though I suspect she would be secretly pleased.”
They made their way downstairs, pausing at the landing window to admire the golden spill of morning light across the garden.Outside, the groundskeeper’s boy was chasing a runaway hen with more enthusiasm than effectiveness, and the old gardener waved cheerfully when he spotted them watching.
In the breakfast room, tea waited.So did freshly baked bread, honey from their hives, and a small stack of letters tied in twine—estate business, most likely.Clara poured the tea, Crispin buttered her bread, and neither of them spoke for several minutes.
Finally, Clara leaned back and surveyed him with a mischievous glint in her eye.
