Page 71 of The Companion’s Secret

“In other words,” he said, coming forward to cover her hands with his, “you imagine a resolution in which the arrogant, dissolute Englishman is reformed by the love of an independent-minded Irishwoman?”

Her eyes remained focused on their joined hands for a moment before rising to his face. “I do.”

He dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers. “An inspired revision, my love.”

“Well,” she said, freeing her hands to step more fully into his embrace, “I’ve recently been reminded that happy endings need not be limited to the pages of fiction.” Her cheek rested against his chest and her arms came around his waist. “You’ve made Felicity and Mr. Fox very happy.”

“They make one another happy,” he said, laying his cheek against the top of her head. “I had only to get out of their way.”

“‘Get out of their way’?” When her head tipped back, he looked down into her incredulous eyes. “Is that what you call it? Enabling them to marry by presenting Mr. Fox with a very lucrative living on a certain estate in Shropshire?”

That piece of raillery earned her another kiss, more thorough than the last. “Your readers may be disappointed, you know,” he said, when he was at leisure to speak. “I believe the current fashion is for villains to suffer a grisly end.”

The wicked gleam in her eyes was matched by the sly upturn of her lips. “Fear not. Granville’s uncle will get his just deserts for trying to tarnish the reputation of our hero.”

His bark of laughter made Elf pause in her noisy labors. “Well, it seems you’ve tied up all the loose ends,” he said when the sound of chewing filled the room again. “You have only to put your name to the tale and you shall be the toast of the town.”

“Ah,” she said, reaching up to trace his jaw with her fingertip. “But a lady must be ever mindful of the impropriety of setting herself before the public. So which name shall I use?”

A little flutter of panic rose in his chest, born on the wings of his long-standing conviction that what he had to offer, no sensible woman should want. Holding her in his arms left very little room for fear, however. “How would you feel about signing your work ‘Lady Ashborough’?”

She tipped her head, considering. “Society would be scandalized. Poor Mr. Dawkins would have to print more copies to keep up with demand.”

“Camellia…” Another time, she might tease him to distraction. But just now, he could not bear it.

With a trembling smile, she relented. “Yes, my dear.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Bending, he lifted her into his arms—oh, she really was too thin—and carried her to his favorite chair. He’d always thought it comfortable, but the addition of her slight curves made it perfectly snug. As he pressed his lips to her forehead, he wished it were possible for them to stay ensconced in that spot forever.

Which, of course, it was not.

Some part of his thoughts must have been visible on his face. Worry flitted across her eyes, the shadow of a cloud on a grassy knoll. “Gabriel?”

“I was recalling a long-ago conversation with Fox,” he said. “I will miss this place, but bachelor rooms are not suitable for a bride.”

Camellia lifted her head to look around the sun-dappled, book-filled space. “I like it. It’s cozy. And I am used to small houses, as you know. Though it must be a trial for poor Elf.”

At the sound of her name, the dog scrambled once more to her feet and came to join them, wedging her head into the already overstuffed chair. Camellia shifted slightly to make room for her but did not recoil.

“When did you cease to be afraid of dogs?” he asked.

“Who says I’m not?”

“Elf.” As if to lend support to his case, the dog, who would have sensed fear if there had been any, instead gave a blissful sigh.

Camellia reached out tentatively to touch one velvety ear. “I’m not over my fear, exactly. But when I told you the story of the dog in the park, I realized what I feared most was a memory. Not even my memory. One that had been created for me, built up over years and years, until I mistook it for my own.”

Gabriel weighed her words. Hadn’t he done the same? He had been hiding from his birthright, from his future, from love because he’d heard the story of his villainy so often, he’d come to believe it was true.

“I wonder what you would think of living at Stoke after we are married?” he asked after some time had passed.

Her hand reached up to cup his cheek. “I know now what that place is to you. Are you certain you want to do that?”

He met her steady, searching gaze, the eyes of the woman he loved. With Camellia at his side, he could take back his name, his life, his home. He recognized at last his father’s determination to protect his son’s inheritance. He understood at last the value of that gift.

But this decision was not only about him.

“It would be closer to your family,” he pointed out. “And if one is willing to side with Henry VIII, it’s where the Marquess—and Marchioness—of Ashborough belong. But most important, I can give you something there that I cannot give you here: a room of your own in which to write.”