Page 170 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

One kiss led to another and another, each dissolving into the next, punctuated by murmured words of praise and affection.

“Come home with me,” Jasper said.

She stilled. “Right this minute?”

He smiled against her mouth. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“Actually, yes.” She pulled back from him to fumble for her reticule. “I never finished telling you what happened at my parents’ house. My father has written a letter to the bank, you see, and—”

He kissed her again.

She laughed. “Don’t you even care about the money?”

“I care about you. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

“I’m rather proud of myself,” she admitted. “I was frightened to go back there, but I did it anyway. Now we can repair the Hall, and hire a governess for Daisy, and a tutor for the boys. Servants to do the cooking and cleaning—and the washing. You shall have more time to write.”

“Ah. As to that.” Reluctantly releasing her, he reached for his Gladstone bag. He opened it and withdrew his manuscript. “I’ve finished my book.”

“Did you?” She gave him an uncertain look. “And . . . ?”

“I incorporated some of your suggestions,” he said. “I also made a few changes of my own devising.”

“Such as what?”

He smiled dryly. “Colonel Dryden is now presumed dead for the last quarter of the story, Eloise is the natural daughter of a duke, and there’s a fortune in jewels sewn into the coat of the soldier Eloise nurses when she’s at the convent in Brussels.”

“She’s in a convent? But why?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, goodness! She’s not a nun, is she?”

“Do you want me to spoil it?”

“No, no,” Julia said hastily. She took the manuscript from him. “I shall read it myself.”

He regarded her with sudden solemnity. “It’s not a poem, I realize. But it’s for you, nonetheless. I trust it’s romantic enough as gestures go.”

Her eyes glistened. “It’s romantic enough.”

He gathered her back into his arms. She came willingly, eagerly, melting into his embrace.

“I do love you,” she said. “So very much.”

“And I love you,” he whispered in return, capturing her mouth with his.

Daisy had asked him what happened after the happily-ever-after. He hadn’t known then. Not for certain. But now he did.

It was this.

And more of this.

Epilogue

Yorkshire, England

October 1862

Julia leapt up from the drawing room sofa. “Is that the post?”

The silver salver in Mr. Beecham’s hand held a small stack of letters, along with what looked to be a literary journal. “It is, ma’am. Plimstock’s just returned with it from the village.”