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“I don’t want this to be the way they find out about us.”

He rolled them to the side, propping his head on his hand, watching her, drinking her in. “How do you want them to find out?”

She blushed prettily, lying there tangled in his sheets, her hair tousled on his pillow. “I don’t know.”

“Then why don’t you let me figure it out?” he murmured. At her raised eyebrow, he added, “Trust me.”

“I do trust you.” She brushed a lock of hair away from his face, and he took that opportunity to kiss her palm.

She chuckled. A beautiful sound.

“You are not working here anymore,” he said softly. “You’re fired. So you can enjoy your rest.”

She laughed again, stretching in his bed. God, she was beautiful.

“Truly?” she asked, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Truly.” He pressed a kiss to her eyelids. “Sleep.”

Her breathing deepened as she surrendered to the pull of sleep. Jacob swung his legs off the bed.

He needed to make sure her rest would not be disturbed. Needed to tell Mrs. Clarke that no servants were to enter his room. That Honoria wouldn’t be reporting for work—not today, not ever again. She was released from her role.

“Jacob?” Honoria asked, her eyes still closed.

“Yes?”

“Did something change last night?”

He turned his head to look at her, brows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him from beneath her long lashes. “How you feel about me. How you think about our future because of what I said. Because of the secrets I kept.”

Yes. It only deepened the admiration he felt for her, the respect, the love… “No. I never planned to marry anyone until I met you. So if we have to live in sin, I don’t care. You’re here. That’s all I want.”

She stared at him, and then she smiled, a brilliant smile that made something stir within him.

“Now sleep,” he repeated and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

* * *

The next few weeks rushed by in a blur of stolen glances, secret smiles, and nights that left Honoria breathless with happiness.

In order to avoid gossip as much as they could, Honoria pretended to remain under Jacob’s employ. She was no longer called a housekeeper, but the manager of the household—a title they had come up with together.

She had relinquished all her former duties except those that a mistress of the house might handle: overseeing menus, directing the servants, and seeing to the children’s needs.

Of course, nobody needed to know the true nature of her role, or even the title of her position, and the servants of the house seemed loyal enough not to spread gossip far and wide.

Jacob had moved her into the chamber adjoining his, the one traditionally occupied by the countess. The room had been aired and cleaned, fresh linens placed on the bed, flowers arranged on the mantel—all done in a way that spoke of the servants’ tacit approval.

Thus, by every measure that counted, she was the mistress of the house. Except on paper.

And in front of the guests.

Or Lady Somerville.

Right—she was not considered the mistress of the house by anyone outside of their little world.