Page 163 of A Modest Independence

Even so, she hadn’t anticipated that she and Tom’s wedding night would commence in the middle of the day. And she hadn’t expected to repeat the activity quite so many times, nor with such exciting variation.

Not that she had any complaints.

Tom Finchley was a tender, considerate, and very thorough lover. Even in those moments when he gave himself up to his passions and shuddered in her arms, he always ensured that she was shuddering right along with him.

Jenny hadn’t imagined she could feel so close to someone. At once so powerful and so very vulnerable. But she loved him. Trusted him with her whole heart. There was never an instant when she was tempted to hold herself back from expressing it. Nor an instant when she didn’t welcome Tom expressing the same.

“Distracted. Deranged. Delirious.” His chest rumbled on a husky laugh of his own. “However you choose to describe it.”

“I’ll have to think of a better word.”

“Do that.” Tom slowly disentangled himself from her arms. She made a soft sound of protest. “Shall I bring you back a cup of tea?” he asked as he rose from the bed and pulled on his trousers.

“What about my gift?”

“It’s still packed away in my luggage.” He bent his head and kissed her warmly on the mouth. “I’ll be back momentarily Don’t move a muscle.”

Tom was true to his word. No sooner had she put on her nightgown and sat up in bed, her back propped against a pile of fluffy pillows, than he returned with the tea tray. He set it down on a nearby table.

“What would you like first? Tea or your wedding gift?”

She gave him a look.

Tom grinned. He climbed back in bed to sit next to her. “It’s two gifts, really.” He put a wrapped package in her lap. “This is the first one.”

With all the excitement of a child at Christmas, she swiftly removed the paper and twine. Inside the wrappings was a small lacquer box. She glanced up at Tom in question.

He was watching her intently. “Open it, love.”

Something in his gaze put Jenny on her guard. This, she realized, was a gift he’d put a great deal of thought into. Resolving to be thrilled by it no matter what it might be, she lifted the lid and peered inside.

And there, laying atop a bed of velvet, was her mother’s emerald medallion.

Her eyes flew to his. “How in the world…?”

“Surprised?”

Tears threatened as memories flooded her mind. But she wasn’t going to weep. Not now. This was a moment of joy. “I should say so.” She lifted it out of the box. After all these years, the weight of it still felt familiar in her hand. “Good gracious, Tom. How on earth did you find it?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

“It was Treadway, the inquiry agent Thornhill hired to find Giles. He plainly had no interest in traveling to India, so I had Thornhill send him to Chipping St. Mary instead.”

“What?” She blinked up at him. “When?”

“Sometime in April.”

“But…we were still abroad in April.”

“I know we were. I mentioned the medallion to Thornhill in the letter I posted to him the day we arrived in Calcutta. After you told me about your father selling it, I knew I had to get it back for you. And since we were already in India to find Giles and since Treadway was doing nothing except making a nuisance of himself, it seemed only logical—”

“Oh, Tom.” She embraced him fiercely.

His arms closed around her. “You’re pleased, I take it?”

And tears did spring to her eyes then. Not because she was grieved about her mother or her father or the history of the medallion. But because she was grateful. So wonderfully, heart-clenchingly grateful to have married Tom Finchley. To love and be loved by him.