Page 121

He pulled her into his arms. He was so overcome with love and gratitude and relief that he went so far as to pick her up and spin her around. He was sure he had never done something so silly, so carefree, in his life.

She started kissing him while they were still spinning, but her aim was off, and her lips landed on his temple. Soon, they were laughing. But then they were kissing again.

“My lord,” she said, affecting a tone of scandal as she broke the kiss. “Our guests are waiting for us!”

“Yes, yes. They can wait a while longer.” He set her down. “I wanted to give you this.”

He produced the small statue.

“An obelisk!” she exclaimed.

“It is a reproduction of the Obelisk of Montecitorio I had commissioned.”

She rotated it, examining all its sides.

“I am not certain the artisan properly copied the hieroglyphs,” Simon said. “Short of traveling to Rome and doing a comparison, I would have no way of knowing if I’ve been swindled. Perhaps it’s his wife’s recipe for eel pies.” He ought to have thought this through better. “I suppose it’s not very romantic. I meant it to signify that your secrets are safe with me. As is your heart. As are you, all of you.” He paused. “Perhaps I should have plucked something from among the family jewels. We can still do that.”

“No, no. This is the most romantic thing I can imagine receiving.” She smiled, a little shyly. “I have something for you, too. Will you come inside with me so I may give it to you?”

“Of course.” He would go anywhere with her.

They approached the house, where she had been staying in a guest room. “I shouldn’t like to encounter anyone yet, though,” she whispered.

“We shan’t.” He took her on an elaborate route through the lesser-known nooks and crannies of the house, which set them both to laughing again. Eventually, they made it to her bedchamber. Everything was packed up, as tonight they would both be occupying a new room. Not his mother’s old one, merely a pretty, south-facing one she had helped him select.

She rummaged through a satchel and produced a book. Sense and Sensibility. “Do you remember when I lent you this book? It was before your 1822 Earls Trip, I believe.”

“Yes.” He had read it in Brighton and thought of Diantha—whose name he hadn’t yet known was Diantha. How much had changed.

“I thought you might like to reread it.”

“Am I meant to reread the book or am I meant to note this overlarge piece of paper inside it?”

She shrugged. “Whatever you like, my lord.”

“Will you stop my-lord–ing me!”

“Whatever you like, Simon.”

He shivered. That did something to him, every time. He wondered if the sound of his Christian name on her lips would ever cease to thrill. He rather hoped not.

He slid the paper from the pages. It was a painting, that of an amateur, judging by the way two hues in the watercolor borders had run together in a way that did not look intentional.

Oh, no, it was a note. There was lettering in the center of the page. It was a fancier version of one of Diantha’s markers.

My heart is, and always will be, yours.

They kissed for a long time. They kissed so long that eventually someone knocked on the door.

Laughing, they pulled apart and made themselves as presentable as possible before answering.

It was Olive Morgan.

“For Heaven’s sake, you two. Everyone is waiting.” She rolled her eyes and turned, apparently trusting they would follow.

They did.

Their friends broke out into cheering when they appeared. Someone handed Simon a glass.