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EPILOGUE
Two months later…
It had been decided that the winter of 1817 had been the worst in recent memory. After the downpours in early February had come snow in March. It was with great excitement that the year turned into spring, though the English weather seemed hesitant to welcome the transition.
Charlotte looked from the window of her study in their Mayfair house. It was raining outside, as usual, though she supposed she should be thankful the windows were not frosted over for the first time in weeks. It was her favorite time of day, just before dusk, when the sun set early over the parks. She could watch gentlemen stroll home after their days of work; ladies chatting amongst themselves as they ducked into their carriages. She did so with surprising leisure, with happiness. In fact, as of her wedding, she had donemostthings in a state of ease.
To her surprise, her husband seemed to suffer their early marriage in much the same way—with a smile, occasional cooing, and with a great deal of labor and joy. She would spend her late afternoons working on her poetry, not wanting to disappoint her new, eager fans. Voracious, they were, and she loved every letter of admiration, every suspicious, disdaining look. A woman writer—who would have thought?
Hespent his afternoons toiling too, and much of his evenings trying to wrap his head around what his new life all meant. After all, it was no easy task to become a Marquess overnight, but Benjamin Pembroke seemed to manage all right.
Her evening turned into night as she brought a new poem to completion. Her work had taken on a new dimension since her wedding—one of true love. Shedidlove Benjamin more than she thought possible, and it had wholly transformed her.
There was more she needed to attend to that night: the Marchioness’ burden, correspondence. It was not such a daunting task, however, as she had only one important letter to pen to Eleanor, congratulating her on her recent engagement to Pollock, pleading with heragainto talk sense into Matthew and stop him from pursuing Ernestine since her return to England.
She set down her quill once her tasks had been seen to, feeling a sudden wish to see her husband. She could only be away from him for so long before needing to spy on him again. A look through the keyhole would suffice.
Charlotte trailed down the upper corridors of their home, her deep yellow gown sweeping the parquet behind her. She would have Josie tend to its hem in time, not having wanted to overwork the poor girl since their move.
She heard the scratching of a quill before she arrived at her husband’s study. The door was open. Leaning against the frame, fingers curling around it, she allowed herself a moment to regard him. He had done away with his jacket, wearing only a white vest and shirt despite the frigid temperature outdoors. Thankfully, a fire was crackling in the hearth. Something about Benjamin seemed lighter since their marriage, easier. She had noticed it even at the altar, dripping with rain as they were.
Dreamily, she continued to admire him until he said, not looking up, “Your husband was a soldier, Char. His senses are unmatched.”
Flashing red, she revealed herself. He had kicked off his shoes. “Not your sense of fashion, I see. May I come in?”
He stopped his scribbling long enough to smile. “Of course, my darling.”
She fought a smile, picking up a stray knick-knack—a misshapen cube of some sort, perhaps a game. Arthur must have seen fit to purchase it for décor when he had acquired and gifted them the house. “You are not too busy?” she asked, kicking the door closed behind them.
“Never for you.” He relaxed back into his chair, looking up at the beams overhead. The room was not so dissimilar as the one he had occupied in Five Fields, its walls stretching to a point above them.
Charlotte settled at the edge of his desk. “What were you working on this eve?”
“The same as yestereve,” he replied, placing a hand on her thigh. It sent shivers up her leg. “My plan for the Veterans Hall. Our fathers have done all they can with funding, but the planning seems endless. Doubly so with Lamb breathing down my neck every moment, making suggestions. He’s been utterly restless since his release. A silly venture, I know—“
“It’s not silly,” she argued, setting the cube down. “I don’t think a thing you do is silly.” She slid his hand down to her knee, not wanting to drive herself mad. “Is there aught I can do to help?”
He looked up at her, his eyes twinkling amber. “Exist,” he breathed, drawing her face down to kiss her.
It was a slow, chaste kiss, like all the others they had shared. Benjamin always touched her with hesitation, as if he was afraid she might break in his arms. Two months they had been married, and yet they had still not shared a bed. When first they had wed, Benjamin had made clear that he would allow her time to trust him again, and he had held up on his promise. A littletoowell to her liking. There had been moments, of course, after parting at dinner, on long carriage rides to social affairs. However, Benjamin had drawn back every time, mumbling aboutrespectandgiving things their due time.
As with all other nights, her husband pulled himself away, his eyes fluttering open as if he cursed himself inwardly. Something ticked in her chest. Another thing ticked beneath her skirts. Shewantedhim. She had wanted him for weeks.
His mouth hovered near hers as he said, “It is getting harder and harder to resist you, Char.” And he brushed a curl of hair from her cheek. His fingertips trailed a path of fire on her skin.
“Resist…” she echoed through a smile. “I don’t remember there being this much resistance before we were wed.”
“We were different then,” he whispered, and every word grew the ache at the junction of her thighs. “I don’t want to make a mess of things this time.”
“By keeping me virginal?” she lilted. “It is too late to save my soul from sin.”
Benjamin laughed against her mouth. “There is nothing sinful about you.” He bit his lip, and she could sense him growing lustful with each breath they shared. “You are the counterweight to all sin.”
“You make me sound so boring.”
“You are anything but.”
“What am I, then?”
