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She smiled. “It certainly looked it.”

“Are you glad you won now,” he asked, sitting up to better face her, “so you could witness that?”

“It was an utter treat for my eyes, I assure you. Although, in hindsight, I think I prefer the ending.”

“When I fell?”

Once again, she laughed. “No, our kiss.”

His eyes dropped to her lips. “Perhaps that’s what we do for our next challenge, then.”

“And what challenge will that be?” she asked.

He stood, helping her up, as well, before pulling on his jacket. “Perhaps you can try to best me with your lifelong list.”

“Oh, you’ve far succeeded in that regard. I don’t think there’s any catching up to you.”

He held his book in one hand, then grasped her fingers with his other. “All in good time, my love,” he said, then he placed a lingering kiss atop her brow and led her down the beach.

The wind whipped Lark’s skirts against her legs and pulled Henry’s hair across his brow in an unwieldy manner that made her want to kiss him senseless right there.

“I cannot wait until we are on our own excursions,” Henry mused. “I can only imagine the birds you’ll be able to spot.”

“The birds we’ll be able to spot together,” she corrected.

He smiled down at her, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it. “Just so.”

India – April 9, 1818

Ten Months Later

Sweat dripped down the center of Lark’s back, tickling her skin where the moisture pooled at the small of it. She dared not rub it away, though, for any movement might frighten away the Indian paradise flycatcher whistling just a few feet above them.

They’d been tracking the bird for days—Henry, herself, and their enthusiastic local guide—and now they were enjoying the fruits of their labors as the black-headed bird fluffed up its wings and preened as he sang.

The blue ring around his eyes and his cinnamon-colored wings glinted in the hot, Indian sun, but what stole attention more than anything was the foot-long feathers of the bird, producing a streamer-like tail dangling down from its short body.

“The long feathers are used to attract mates,” their guide whispered.

“Glad I didn’t need some of those to capture your attention,” Henry whispered into Lark’s ear. “Only a certain dance.”

She nudged him softly, if only to stop herself from laughing. Her husband was insufferable, charming, and the love of her life all at once.

Their trip to India together had been a perfect dream come true—as had the months leading up to it. But then, what else could be expected when she’d finally married the man who made her feel worth more than gold?

They continued to watch the bird in silence, writing down their observations and scribbling a few sketches before the bird eventually flapped away, his feathers streaming out behind him in a fluttering that seemed to wave goodbye.

Then, the three of them wandered through the hot, thick forest, in search of the next bird—whatever that would be. Lark had quickly come to realize that the most thrilling part of excursions was the unexpected occurring. They never knew what they were going to discover, and each new step, each new location, each new breath, brought another adventure—which was exactly how she preferred it.

“We must write to your mother tonight,” Henry said as they traipsed through the thick trees. “Tell her we’ve spotted another unique bird.”

“Oh, yes. But perhaps you can do most of the writing. I think she treasures your letters more than mine now.” She shared a knowing smile with him, having spoken the words out of delight rather than envy.

Mother—who still watched over Brackenmore Hall—had taken the foremost seat at their wedding, sobbing tears of joy. She’d also invited half of London to the ceremony, but Lark hadn’t minded. She was happy to share her joy with any and all who wished. And the way Mother loved Henry had filled any gap in Lark’s relationship with her.

“You are just exactly who my daughter needed,” she continually told Henry. “I am thrilled to see the two of you so happily settled. Now…I do not mean to pry…but when shall I have a grandchild?”

Lark smiled. “As soon as the stars align, Mother,” she’d always replied.