"Other things?"
She was not going to spell it out for him, so she shrugged. "To each his own. Some think power is the most important thing in life, some think wealth, some might say happiness, some might say—well, as I said, to each his own."
"You were going to mention love, weren't you?" he asked casually. "Isn't that what you feel is most important in one's life?"
She stared at him hard. He could be mocking her, but she didn't think so.
"No, love by itself is not enough. You can love and be miserable." Something she had been sure she was going to find out firsthand, but she refrained from saying so, merely added, "Love and happiness is what is most important. If they go hand in hand, there is no need to ask for more. But to get both, love must be given and returned."
"I agree."
Those two simple words started her heart slamming again. Yet she was reading too much into it. He might have claimed her in front of those men downstairs, might have given the impression that he was her husband, but of course, it was merely an impression. He hadn't told them that he was her husband, merely mentioned a "husband's rights." Cleverly done, and easy enough to back out of— unless he really had intended to make the claim in such a public manner . . .
She knew she was leaving herself wide open for devastation, yet couldn't seem to help it, wanting, needing, clarification. "What—do you agree with?"
"That love must be returned if given, for happiness to occur."
"But this is not what you, personally, consider most important, is it?"
"When my life was empty, or 'something was seriously lacking' in it, as you so aptly put it, I had no idea what that something could be any more than you did."
"I knew," she said softly.
"Did you? Yes, I suppose you did, and simply telling me what it was would have been met with skepticism at that point, as you probably realized."
"At that point?"
He smiled. "If a foolish man is lucky, he remains the fool for only so long, Anna, before he sees how to redeem himself and does so—if it isn't too late. I thought it might be too late, which is why I'm so grateful to Sir William."
"Grateful? For making me acceptable in your social circles?"
"No, for making it possible for me to find you again. I have tried, you know. I still have men out searching for your caravan."
"Why?" she asked breathlessly.
He came closer, stopped in front of her, lifted her chin. "For the same reason I have no intention of divorcing you. I want you in my life, Anna, any way I can have you. I know that now. It just took me a few days to realize that marriage, with its permanence, is indeed preferable. The scandal is so very insignificant in comparison."
She wrapped her arms around his neck. What she felt was in her eyes, which drew his lips to hers. There was no passion in his kiss, just a wealth of love and tenderness that sealed their fate more thoroughly than any words could.
Christopher took Anastasia straightaway to his London town house, but they didn't stay there long. Within the week he ordered his servants to pack up all of his personal belongings to be moved to Haverston. Much as he might prefer city life, he quickly realized that his wife didn't, and he was much more concerned with making up for what a complete ass he'd been, about the matter of their man than he was with his preferences at the moment.
He would have taken her to Ryding instead. At least it was a much more cheerful house. But she had expressed a desire to be near her grandmother, and so to Haverston they went. He had, of course, remarked on the doumess of the place, to which she'd laughed and told him that could be easily corrected.
"I will hire an army of laborers," he promised her.
"It won't take much time a'tall to make that mausoleum habitable, I suppose."
"You'll do no such thing," she told him. "We will effect the improvements ourselves, so that when it's finished, it will be our home."
Wield a paintbrush himself? Hold a hammer? Christopher was beginning to realize already just how much his Gypsy was going to change his life. And he was looking forward to every bit of it.
IT WAS THEIR FIRST CHRISTMAS AT HAVERSTON. CHRISTOPHER had always spent the holidays in London—after all, it was a prime social season. He had no desire to this year. Actually, he had no desire to return to London for any reason. Everything he wanted, everything he loved, was at Haverston.
The house was coming along splendidly, though it was far from finished, since they'd had to slow down their remodeling when Anastasia became pregnant. The main rooms were done, however, and now hold a cheerful warmth that had nothing to do with the season, though it was nicely decorated for the season as well.
For Anastasia, it was her first English Christmas as well, and so a new, wonderful experience for her. For her people,
Christmas had always been a time to visit as many towns as possible, as quickly as possible because it was a time people spent money on gifts, rather than just themselves, and the Gypsies had many gifts to offer. But that meant they were never in a place long enough to give it a festive look, to decorate a tree, or hang a wreath. That was a Gajo thing to do. But not for Anastasia—not anymore.
