“He will,” John agreed, “and he will be right.” He looked at her then—not smiling, not solemn, simply seeing her in a way that made something warm unfurl at the base of her throat. “But he will do it. Bell meant him to.”
“It is a great deal to arrange.”
“It is,” he said.
Her fingers brushed his, hesitant only for a moment, and when he closed his hand around hers, it felt like a decision made not just in law or necessity, but in quiet, steady devotion.
They stood that way for a time — the fire crackling, snow feathering softly against the window, Harley Street hushed beneath the last of the Christmas bells.
“John,” she began carefully, “you will need a place to stay tonight. It must be very late now.” She glanced at his satchel near the door. “You checked out of your lodgings.”
“I did,” he said. “Foolishly. I had not expected…” He stopped, voice gentling. “I will find something. Some boarding house will have a room.”
“On Christmas night? When London is full and most houses closed?” She hesitated. “Let me speak with Captain Lennox. He might arrange suitable accommodations—”
“No.” He shook his head, quiet but firm. “I will not ask anything of him.”
She lifted her gaze, searching his. “Then where will you go?”
“It hardly matters.” A small, rueful smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Whatever bed I find, I doubt I will sleep.” He looked at her directly, a softness in his eyes that made her breath come unsteadily. “But Iwillbe dreaming.”
Heat rose along her throat. “John…”
He stepped closer. Not with urgency, not with triumph, but with the reverence of a man still uncertain he had the right to reach for her.
She met him halfway.
He kissed her — deeply this time, with slow, certain warmth. She felt his hands lift to frame her face, caressing her, grounding her, drawing her into the peace of Christmas night.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against hers. “I should go before it grows any later, but I will come back early. We will go to Harcourt together in the morning,” he murmured. “And after that, whatever comes, we will meet it as one.”
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
Then, something flickered at the edge of her consideration. “John… your mother.”
His breath stirred against her cheek. He drew back just enough to see her, amusement glinting through tenderness. “What about her?”
“Well, she hardly liked me before. What will she say now?”
He caressed her cheek. “You mean now that you have saved the mill, and done so by agreeing with her?”
“I don’t…” She narrowed her eyes. “Agreeing with her?”
“Indeed. She always fancied I was something of a catch, though I never saw it.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as a laugh rumbled in his chest. “You can hardly claim an argument with her on that point now.”
She raised a brow. “Certainly not. In that, she and I are of one mind.”
“And my mother,” he chuckled as his finger strayed over her cheek, “will count a new daughter as the finest Christmas present she ever received.”
A helpless, delighted laugh broke from her — the kind she had not felt since childhood, full of wonder and relief. He kissed her once more, gentler than before.
The sound of distant bells lingered in the quiet house. John’s kiss still warmed her mouth, her palms, her breath. She stood close enough to feel the rise of his chest, the steady strength of him, the faint scent of winter air on his coat.
She touched his cheek once more, unable not to.
John caught her hand and brushed a final kiss to the center of her palm— reverent, quiet—and she felt her breath tremble in a way she did not try to hide.
He smiled then, small and real, and whispered, “Tomorrow, then.”
