Page 90 of The Lady Knows Best

“This is from an essay, soon to be published in Mrs. Goode’s Magazine for Misses,” she explained, and then began to read.

“‘Marriage, young ladies are told, is a sacred duty and an honor, by which it is unfortunately too often meant that she has a duty to align her family’s interests with another’s, for which she is to be rewarded with the honor of being addressed as ‘mistress’ or ‘my lady,’ and little more. Even in this modern day and age, young ladies are still married against their wishes. Not—or perhaps, not only—because their fathers or brothers are tyrants, but because the young ladies themselves do not know their own minds, or have been taught not to trust their own hearts. They have been instructed time and again to disavow rakish charm in favor of good character, and it was, at first, the intention of this author to advise as much again. But may a young lady not have both?’”

Here, she turned to glance at Miles, her cheeks pink. “‘She must be given the freedom to learn both human nature and her own nature, to study the workings of society, as well as her own soul, for only then will she know what she truly desires. In the matter of her own happiness, she must be at liberty to choose for herself.’”

Carefully, she folded the paper once more and tucked it away with fingers that had begun to tremble.

For a long moment, silence hung over the small congregation. Then his grandmother rapped her cane on the stone floor. “Hear, hear,” she said, then turning to Miss Palmer added, “I liked that girl from the start.”

Mr. Yearsley cleared his throat disapprovingly. “May we proceed?”

Daphne nodded.

And when they reached the point at which she looked up into Miles’s eyes and said, “I do,” he understood the full meaning of her little speech. Maybe she had written it for him, after all.

She was marrying him today not to help him win a wager. Not because reformed rakes really made the best husbands. But because she loved him, flaws and all.

She had looked beneath that mask of rakish charm, as she’d called it, and seen him—just as he had seen her. And now she was choosing him freely, with her clever mind and her generous heart and her lush body. He would never let her regret that choice.

They walked out, arm in arm, to face their family and friends beneath the bright summer sky. But he had eyes only for his wife.

Starting today, he had a lifetime to prove the truth of another old saying: the lady knows best.

EPILOGUE

One year later

Though the door of the little stone cottage stood open to admit the warm summer breeze, Miles tapped with one knuckle against the wooden frame to ask admittance. He never disturbed Daphne here without an invitation, but today’s post had brought several items she would want to see right away.

“Come in,” she called softly, without turning her head, which was bent over her work, revealing that spot at the back of her neck he so loved to kiss.

The interior of the cottage looked much as it had on the day he’d first shown it to her, barring the addition of a bassinet in the corner, by her desk. From it, he heard the occasional coo and gurgle from his son.

Taken together, it was a sight he could hardly believe—more than he imagined he would ever be fortunate enough to see, certainly, and better than he deserved.

“You know, love,” he said, approaching them, “there’s no shame in leaving little Geoffrey Alistair in the nursery. This is supposed to be your retreat.”

“It still is,” Daphne insisted, putting the point to something before she turned and beamed up at Miles over her shoulder. “He’s no trouble. The fresh air is good for us both, and this way when he’s hungry, I’m nearby.” She shifted the other way to lean toward the bassinet and bent to scoop the baby up.

Unable to resist, Miles swooped in to kiss and nip the soft skin at her nape, peeking from beneath her loosely arranged hair. “And when I’m hungry?” he teased.

“It seems you know where to find me,” she retorted with what she had perhaps intended as a sidelong scold but was in fact a glance rich with longing.

His pulse began to thud. “Daph?” The weeks since the baby’s birth had been some of the longest of his life. He wanted his wife, and her newly softened, plush curves, with a desire so strong it alarmed him. He would wait as long as she needed, of course. But he could not keep himself from asking, “Does that mean . . . ?”

Her answering smile was tinged with wickedness. “It might.”

“Minx!” He watched as she gathered her papers into a neat stack, somewhat hampered by the baby on one arm. “Here,” he insisted, holding out the post and reaching for the baby. “You’ve got me forgetting why I came here in the first place.”

“What’s this?” She motioned for him to deposit the small stack of papers on the desk, and once his hands were free, handed him his son, bundled in the purple blanket his grandmother had been crocheting the day Miles had brought Daphne home—though it hadn’t been a baby blanket then. At least, he didn’t think that had been Grandmama’s plan. One never knew.

Geoffrey Alistair looked up at him, his round face topped by a bit of golden brown fuzz, and regarded him with solemn blue-gray eyes. That trust, the sacredness of that bond, made Miles’s heart squeeze every time.

“Miles?” Daphne prompted him softly, even as she reached to pull the edge of the blanket back to join in his admiration of their child.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. The post. Well, you can see there’s the latest issue of the Magazine for Misses, containing Miss Busy B.’s usual words of wisdom.”

“Did you read it?” she asked, as she picked up the magazine and began to thumb through the pages.