Page 65 of The New Earl’s Convenient Wife

He couldn’t imagine a lady more deserving of having a husband who loved her completely and totally.

The more he considered the matter, the more he realized what a complete dolt he’d been. Secretly burnishing this image of a failed Grand Passion, which he was now coming to realize had been more a young man’s romantic infatuation with an unattainable princess who, after a month of squiring her to dances and a few stolen kisses, he still barely knew. It hadn’t been a real love based on a thorough knowledge and appreciation of the character and qualities of the lady. Then he’d stubbornly held on to that mirage as the definition of love, instead of cherishing the passion he’d been gifted with.

Recalling now the slow, steady development of their relationship since their marriage, he realized he’d long since gone beyond mere affection for Juliana; he loved her with a deep, abiding passion far stronger and deeper than the adolescent fixation he’d had for Thalia.

He smiled, then threw back his head and laughed. What an idiot he’d been.

Time to rectify the matter.

But as he jumped up in a fever of enthusiasm, fired by the idea of rushing to Cornwall and pledging his long-held but only newly discovered love for Juliana, he hesitated.

She’d accepted his hand believing their marriage would be based on respect and friendship. Certainly that was what she had expected to share with Ian. Despite her deeply sensual nature, she was often a solitary, self-contained little thing. She might not be comfortable with expressions of great emotion.

He’d promised her as much time as she wanted to sketch and explore. She might not want him hanging about, feeling she must curtail her time in the woods and fields of Cornwall, as she’d felt it necessary to end her day at the Royal Academy exhibition, despite admitting later that she could have remained until closing.

He didn’t want to hem her in or put a damper on her creativity. That wasn’t the way to treat someone you liked, much less loved.

But then, he was a clever fellow. There was always the magic of passion, with which he knew he could easily distract her. He truly would be happy to accompany her on her forays up on the cliffs or into the woodland shadows. If she preferred to go alone, he could be content to remain at Mrs Earnshaw’s house, awaiting her return, eager to view her day’s work.

Still irresolute, he wandered into her sitting room and over to the desk, intent on finding Mrs Earnshaw’s invitation. He’d need directions to the estate in Cornwall if he did decide to set out.

Somehow, the love he’d so suddenly realized seemed to fill him to bursting—joyous, exuberant, hardly able to be contained. He wanted to see Juliana, be with her, even if he had to restrain himself from expressing his feelings.

The note wasn’t perched against the inkwell, where she’d kept it before. He opened a desk drawer, pleased to discover it—and surprised to also find one of her new sketchbooks.

Knowing how excited she was to capture as many images as possible—and how she’d crammed little sketches into every corner of her previous, inadequate book—he wondered why she hadn’t taken it with her. Perhaps she’d forgotten it in the drawer.

He could bring it to her. That should win him an appreciative smile when he arrived, he thought happily.

He’d thought the book empty, but as he lifted it out, he realized that she’d already made some drawings. He flipped it open to find a few pages of studies, smiling as he recognized them as Hart and Claire’s son, Andrew, and Claire’s niece, Arabella.

Affection for the children was evident in every stroke and shadow, he thought. No rats. I only draw what I love.

He turned to the next page and his breath stopped. On that page, the next and the next were more lovingly rendered drawings.

Portraits of him.

She’d captured him sitting in the library, reading, his eyes downcast, a faint smile on his face. In another, his face was outlined against a sunny, cloudless sky. In the last, he reclined against the pillows of their bed, shoulders bare, his face alight with happiness.

Swallowing hard, he closed the sketchbook.

She did indeed love what she sketched; the drawings made it all too apparent. A love she never expressed verbally, but which he now recognized was displayed in all her lovemaking, all the tender companionship and ardent support she’d offered for the burdens of the estate she willingly shared with him.

Would Juliana reject his all-too-late declared love, when she’d so obviously loved him silently, uncomplainingly, without asking for anything for herself? While he dithered on like an idiot about ‘friendship?’

He wasn’t sure. But he hoped that his lack of perception hadn’t worn the fabric of her love so thin that the essence of it had frayed, unable to be patched together again. He prayed that it wasn’t too late now to vow the complete love and devotion he should have given her on their wedding day.

Which he would offer, as soon as he saw her again.

The following afternoon, Rafe returned from his last consultations at the Lords. As Hart had noted, it wasn’t likely that any measures of importance would be brought forward for the rest of the session, and in any event, nothing that would generate a vote so close that his vote would be needed. He’d informed his friend of his imminent departure for Cornwall and been grateful that he’d been spared any further observations on his general obtuseness in the matter of love. He’d left orders with his valet to pack up everything except the one suit of clothes he’d need for tonight’s dinner. Though he didn’t much feel like going out, since he couldn’t set out until the morning anyway, he might as well keep the engagement and employ his restless energy in winning some blunt off some less-skilled player in the card room. He’d avoid the ballroom; he didn’t want to dance with anyone but Juliana.

He was consumed with impatience to see her, frustrated that he had a several days’ journey before he would reach Mrs Earnshaw’s home in Cornwall. He couldn’t wait to see the surprise and, he hoped, delight on her face when he turned up unannounced.

Or if he saw annoyance, at least he’d know where he stood. And begin that instant, he vowed, to woo her properly, as he should have from the beginning.

He might be a blockhead, but he was a persistent one. He’d start with ‘friendship’ and ‘respect’ and continue to expand it as far as it would go.

He’d hurried up the entry, handed off his hat and cane to the butler and was striding towards the stairs when a movement on the landing above caught his attention. He’d about dismissed it as a maid leaving the library when something about the motion of the figure arrested him.