“Itisawfully sunny, isn’t it?” Indeed, she was beginning to feel quite warm.
If anyone had told her when she first arrived in Oxfordshire all those weeks ago that the sun could shine with such unrelenting cheerfulness over Steeple Cross, she wouldn’t have believed a word of it.
But her fears had proved to be unfounded, as there’d been nary a cloud for weeks now. If the delightful weather would only hold for Emmeline and Lord Melrose’s visit next week, she’d have nothing else to wish for.
Rain or shine, she had very little to wish for, either way.
All those silly, romantic dreams she’d cherished for so long, well… they were only silly until the moment they came true, weren’t they? Somehow or other, the universe had contrived to land her precisely where she was meant to be—in Oxfordshire, at Steeple Cross, with this man, and no other.
It was strange, really, that a man who’d known so little of love himself should have been the means of restoring her own faith in it, but the universe was clever that way, and seemed to know just how to fit two mismatched puzzle pieces together to create a perfect whole.
Now she and Emmeline had only to see to it their three remaining sisters found their own missing pieces, and their own happiness. Euphemia, in particular. Tilly would have a season, and likely set London on its ear when she did, while Helena… well, Helena didn’t care a whit for either the season or a husband, but was content to remain as she was.
But Euphemia, well… Juliet sighed. Euphemia was going to be a difficult case, indeed, but she had promised that she and Tilly would come to Steeple Cross for Christmas, so that was something.
“Such a forlorn sigh.” Miles tipped her chin up and studied her expression. “Are you thinking of Euphemia again?”
How well he knew her already. “Yes. You must speak to her over Christmas.” Surprisingly enough, a rather lively friendship had sprung up between Miles and Euphemia, as if they had an innate understanding of each other. “We must find her as lovely a gentleman as you and Lord Melrose.”
“Lovely, am I, my lady?”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “So very lovely, Lord Cross.”
“Then take me to our bedchamber, so I may show you how much I love you.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, his dark eyes tender as he gazed down at her.
“I can hardly refuse, when you look so exceptionally handsome today, my lord.” She ran her hands down the front of his chest, over the royal-blue silk waistcoat embroidered with a subtle pattern of intertwining vines done in silver thread. “Has Lord Barnaby given up on the scarlet and gold, then?”
He chuckled. “Barnaby never gives up. No doubt some canary-yellow silk monstrosity bedecked with black embroidered kittens—or worse—is on its way from London even now.”
“No, yellow won’t do. I don’t fancy yellow for you. This shade of blue, however…” she teased her fingers over the tracing of silver vines. “It flatters you, my lord. You quite steal my breath in it. Indeed, it’s the perfect blue for you.”
“Of course, it’s the perfect blue for me, my lady.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “It’s the same color as your eyes.”
