“Will you marry me, Duchess?” Eamon asked softly. His gaze fell to the necklace Caro had determined to wear every day of her life. “My duchess in diamonds?”
Caro swallowed the lump in her throat that threatened to choke her.
Eamon was offering her everything she wanted—love, happiness, joy for her son, a life free of the petty worries that had dogged her since Leopold’s death.
Could it be real? This handsome, devilish, but generous and loving man offering to be in her life forever?
Caro pressed Eamon’s hands, trying to reassure herself that he was here in truth. That he’d asked her a question she hadn’t let herself yearn to hear.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Leo whooped. Caro had meant to extend her speech but knew she’d never be heard over Leo’s yells.
Eamon jerked once as though he wanted to leap in the air and shout as well, but instead he pulled Caro into a hard embrace, his body solid against hers. Despite their audience, Eamon kissed her.
Caro met his kiss with a hungry one of her own. Dimly she heard the dowager rustle past, leading a still-whooping Leo out of the room. Leo’s footsteps pounded in the outer hall, and his voice rose again.
“Singleton. Guess what’s happened?”
The door shut, leaving Eamon and Caro alone.
Caro clung to Eamon, her pillar of strength. The kiss turned deep, his mouth tender but arousing, sending fire through her blood.
She found herself being lifted to the table where she spent most of her mornings, Eamon skimming up her skirt and stepping between her thighs. He drew kisses down her throat, lingering at the diamonds on her bosom.
“Caro.” His breath burned her skin through her thin frock, then he raised his head. His eyes swam with desire, hope, and also fear. “My duchess. I love you. I love you so much I might perish of it.”
“Please don’t.” Caro touched his cheek. “I want you here, with me.”
“I am going nowhere. Never again.”
“Good.” Caro laced her arms around his neck and rubbed one slippered foot along his strong calf. “I love you, Eamon. My charming, handsome, picture man.”
Eamon drew back the slightest bit. “Is that what you call me?”
Caro’s heart thumped. “I will address you as anything you like. My beloved. My darling. My dearest one.”
“I’d like it if you just called me Eamon.” He ran his thumb across her lower lip. “You are the only one who does.”
“Eamon.” Caro loved the taste of his name. “I love you. Please kiss me now.”
“Now and always.” Eamon’s rakish smile returned as he came down to her. “Caro. My duchess.”
His kiss erased any other words Caro might have said, but she didn’t mind at all.
She laughed in pleasure as Eamon gathered her to him and began loving her with a passion that guaranteed they’d not be downstairs to celebrate with Leo, the dowager, and Singleton for many hours to come.
Epilogue
June 1816
The drawing in Eamon’s notebook blossomed as he sat in the garden at Mayfield Hall in Kent, the estate of the Dukes of Aylesmore. The weather was cool, summer slow in coming, but the air was fresh, the breeze gentle.
Eamon had carried his sketchbooks with him on this country sojourn on the off chance he’d have a few minutes for them, but upon arrival, he’d started drawing and couldn’t cease. Not copies, but more originals, springing forth from his pencil without hindrance.
He sketched the overgrown garden, a bit wild with only one gardener trying to keep it tame, Leo romping with the Countess of Heyford’s sons, or the spread of landscape that opened out below the manor.
Mostly, though, he drew Caro herself. His duchess in the garden laughing with her friends, smiling at him across the sunny drawing room, glowing and mussed after chasing Leo about the grounds. They were the best pictures he’d ever done.
