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“I would never have imagined,” Edmund said, a hand over hers on his elbow.
“Oliver proposed a marriage of appearances when you brought me to London,” she disclosed.
“You were very courageous to decline in those circumstances,” her husband praised.
“I did not want to live a lie.” The confession came easy.
“Good for me, I must say.” That mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.
In retrospect, she concluded she did the right thing to stick to her principles. These years of happiness were witnesses to it. She was fortunate, exceedingly so, she had ample awareness of it. Had it been another nobleman, there would not have been marriage in her future. She held it as a precious gift she and Edmund were building together. The coming of their son crowned it with the purest love. She would forever strive to keep the harmony within
her family. Edmund would do the same, she knew.
“In the end, I did the right thing. Oliver and his extended family are happy, too.” A secret smile came to her lips. She invited them for tea intending to introduce them to the Earl. Her husband seemed to have taken it in his stride. A decent man he proved to be.
“Indeed. And our children will get along well, I have no doubt.”
As they entered the nursery, the nurse took the opportunity to have her dinner.
The brown-haired boy slept peacefully in his crib, Coal at his feet. The feline had grown to be agile though very fat and fluffy. They placed a kiss on the boy’s silky cheek, under the kitten’s watchful eyes.
Edmund and Otilia turned to each other with a loving expression on their faces. “Have I ever told you why I named him Coal, husband?”
“Do tell, wife.”
“Because of your hair.” She hugged him by his waist, resting her head on his strong chest.
“Is that so?” He smiled down at her. “I will be even more inflated now that you told me.”
“Oh, I am creating a monster,” she jested.
His fingers lifted her chin to him. “I love you, my brave, passionate Lady Thornton.”
Otilia wrapped her hand around his square, bristled jaw. “I love you, my arrogant, handsome Lord Thornton.”
The End
Continue reading on to a preview of
Her Wicked Libertine (Imperious Lords 2)
PREVIEW OF HER WICKED LIBERTINE
He straightened on the chair, powerful shoulders filling her view. “And how do you suggest paying what is owed to me?” Quizzically, his brows lifted. The movement caused a wavy lock of ebony to fall forward. Her eyes traced the loose lock as it undulated from his scalp to his forehead as if it were an ocean wave rolling in the night. The waves in his glossy hair twisted and turned like a sea in a storm.
Practical, dull Edwina had never waxed poetic in her entire life, and she decided she wouldn’t start at that moment. Nor with that man. Briskly, she ceased these fancy, useless thoughts.
“I make lace,” she said, pride ringing in her voice. “And sell it to seamstresses. The income is enough to pay you in small amounts, say, monthly.”
The piece of information made him unfurl from the chair, an adamant expression on his rugged features. “Do you take me for a fool?”
This man was huge. Her neck cricked back to look at him as he darted arrows from the top of his six-feet-four frame of pure fierceness. Her mouth fell open as she gawked at him in undisguised amazement. Something swirled low in her abdomen, and it left her gasping for more air and scraping for her scattered wits.
“If I did, I wouldn’t be in this place.” Haughtiness entered her tone, but she did not care. She was doing her best to find a solution for her predicament. Nobody could blame her for that.
“Good, because I’m not about to accept the scraps you offer for decades on end until they complete the amount owed.” Thick arms crossed while he perched on the edge of the desk.
It did nothing to make him less monumental, the view playing havoc with her concentration. Still fixed to the wooden boards, her eyes wandered like a lost pilgrim. From that stray lock of hair, her gaze roamed the blade of his nose, the sculpture of his jaw, the hardness of his neck. The pilgrimage would have gone further had she not shaken herself inwardly. The man before her was an abject reprobate. Why, just last week, she heard of one of those decadent functions taking place in his seemingly luxurious mansion in Mayfair. Whispers had him gathering the finest whores from the finest brothel in London, Madame Lafond’s, and his acquaintances in what had been dubbed the most debauched soiree in the history of England. Food, drink and carnal pleasures flowed through the night.
