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“I'll need your names, please,” he began, peering inside the window. “Then you'll have to wait to be announced... oh forgive me, Lady Breanna. I didn't know you'd gone out.” He bowed, backed away from the carriage, and waved them on. “Drive right through.”
“But I'm not...”
Damen stopped Anastasia with a gentle squeeze of her arm. “Thank you,” he called to the guard, gesturing for their driver to continue on his way.
“Why did you silence me?” Anastasia demanded, turning to her husband. “He thought I was Breanna.”
“I know,” Damen responded. “I wanted it that way. It got us inside faster, without further explanation. The sooner we reach the manor, the sooner we find out what the hell's going on here.”
Anastasia opened her mouth to reply, then gasped, her attention captured by another, far more enticing sight. She pointed out the window as the carriage rolled down the drive toward the house. “Damen, look.” Her eyes widened, and she stared at the graceful structure to their left, workmen swarming all around it. “That's our house—and it's already standing. Why, it's practically completed.”
“I'll be damned.” Damen shook his head in amazement, as stunned by the progress that had been made during their absence as was his wife. “Breanna must have had these people working day and night.”
“Breanna must be working day and night,” Anastasia amended. “If I know her, she's overseen all this construction herself. In fact...” She scrutinized the area carefully, searching until she saw the bright spot of burnished color that was her cousin's hair. “There she is!” She whipped around. “Dixon, stop,” she instructed the driver.
The bewildered driver brought the carriage to a screeching halt.
“Take our bags to the house,” Damen advised him, stifling a grin. “We'll follow on foot.”
“Yes, m'lord.” Dixon alighted, intending to properly assist his passengers, only to have Anastasia fling open her door, knocking him flat on his back as she leapt down from the carriage herself.
“Oh, Dixon, forgive me. Are you all right?” she asked anxiously, relief flooding her face as the driver squirmed to a sitting position.
“Fine, m'lady,” he assured her, brushing dirt off his uniform.
“Thank goodness.” She gathered up her skirts, looking like a thoroughbred at the starting gate. “Then if you'll excuse me ...”
She didn't wait for a reply.
She took off at a run, shouting, “Breanna!” and waving her arm.
Damen swung down from the carriage, offering a hand to the half-crouched, half-sitting driver. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Dixon,” he consoled, his lips twitching as he helped the still-dazed driver to his feet. “Keeping up with my wife is next to impossible.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Dragging his sleeve across his brow, Dixon stared after Anastasia's rapidly moving figure. Then, with a hard shake of his head, he jumped back into his seat and drove on.
Chuckling, Damen watched Stacie rush toward her cousin, shouting over the din and waving frantically.
Breanna glanced up, spotted her, and broke into at immediate run.
“Stacie!”
The cousins embraced, laughing as they broke apart, saw all the workmen gaping at them, and realized what a spectacle they were making.
“You're home. I can't believe it!” Breanna grasped Stacie's hands, surveying her from head to toe. “You look wonderful. Positively radiant. Marriage agree; with you.” She glanced beyond Stacie and smiled as Damen approached them. “And here's the man responsible for your radiance. Welcome home, Damen.”
“Breanna.” He kissed her hand, then gave her a warm hug. “It's so good to see you.”
“Home, indeed,” Stacie piped up, moving excitedly about as she assessed the manor that was fast taking shape. “I can't believe what you've accomplished. My God, have you slept since September?”
A hopeful look lit Breanna's eyes—eyes that seemed unusually puffy, lined, with heavy dark circles beneath them.
For reasons of her own, she disregarded Stacie's question in lieu of her own. “Do you like it? I was half afraid you'd object to the artistic liberties I took. But you were so preoccupied before the wedding, and couldn't get you to sit still and look at the sketches. And with winter nearly upon us, we had to lay the foundation right away. Either that or we'd have to wait until spring, which would mean your home wouldn't be ready until next fall. I couldn't bear having you in London until then. So I got things started. You'll do all the decorating yourself, of course.”
“Of course not,” Stacie corrected. “I have no talent at decorating, and you know it. I need your help— with every last piece of furniture.” She gazed at the half-finished manor again, her eyes growing damp. “You did all this for us... Breanna, what would I ever do without you?” She gulped back a sob.
Breanna blinked in surprise. “Stacie, you're crying. Why?”
“Because I'm touched. Because I'm so glad to be home. Because I missed you. Because I can't believe how much you took on while we were away. Because—”
