“Tired of me?”
His gaze softened. “Sybil, I could never tire of you. I imagine you’ll still excite me when I’m in my dotage.” And there it was, that warm, sensual tone that said he needed her. The words that spoke of a long and happy future.
It gave her the courage to be bold.
“When you’re old and frail will you still pull me into your lap? Will you still examine my stockings? Will you still make love to me with such passion, such skill?”
“Trust me. I shall pleasure you until I draw my last breath.”
“Might you have the strength to examine my stockings now?” She studied his labourer’s clothes, the dark stubble covering his strong jaw, and found the rugged Lucius Daventry just as appealing. “Might you reassure me all is well?”
He reached out to her.
Her heart lurched upon noting the rope burns circling his wrist. But she slipped her hand into his and came to sit astride him.
This time, their kiss spoke of a different hunger. A need to feed the soul-deep ache. A need to nourish the beautiful dream. He made love to her mouth in the slow, tender way that had her holding him tight, never wanting to let go.
“Marry me,” she said, breaking contact. “I don’t want to return to Half Moon Street. I want to stay with you at Bronygarth.” She swallowed down her nerves. “I want to be your wife, bear your children. I want to love you for the rest of my life.”
Water welled in his eyes, and he swallowed so many times she lost count. He clasped her face in his hands. “You’re the love of my life. The only woman I have ever wanted. I’d planned to ask you the same question, but you beat me to it, impatient minx.”
“Does that mean you accept my proposal?”
“Love, I’d marry you right here, right now, were it possible.” His open-mouthed kiss curled her toes. Indeed, she needed to feel him filling her body, needed to feel locked in his primal embrace. “I can apply at the registry for a common license unless you wish to wait and marry in St George’s.”
“Whatever is quickest. I don’t care about pomp and ceremony.”
He kissed her again, so deeply his earthy essence infused her being. “God, I’m so in love with you. Though when Atticus asked me to take care of you, I’m not sure this was what he had in mind.”
Sybil suspected things had developed exactly as her father had planned. “My father was obsessed with the truth. Perhaps he always knew we would suit.”
“Perhaps he hoped for something better for his daughter,” he said, yet his sinful smirk said he was teasing. “After all, who wants to fight for the truth and chase villains across town? Who wants to marry a scandalous rogue and make passionate love in a haunted castle?”
Sybil smiled. “Who indeed?”
Epilogue
Bronygarth - Twelve Months Later
Lucius held his son close to his bare chest and rocked him gently as it seemed to bring them both comfort. “You’re like your father,” he whispered. “You like being held, like the warm feeling that comes with knowing you’re loved.” He kissed the babe’s head, crossed the room to glance into the other crib. “Come, see how peacefully your brother sleeps.”
Love filled his heart as he stared at his son, Atticus, sleeping with the calm spirit of his namesake. A man could ask for nothing more than one healthy child. Sybil had given him the gift of twins.
“Mrs Timms thinks you should leave Lucius to cry in his crib.” Sybil’s soft voice drifted through the darkness.
He glanced up and saw his wife standing at the adjoining door, dressed in nothing but his shirt, her copper curls cascading over her shoulders. Lovelust flared. That was his name for the overpowering mix of emotions that took command of him whenever their gazes locked.
“Mrs Timms thinks our sons should sleep in the east wing, too.” He placed his namesake gently into the crib. “I have a mind to tell the nursemaid to dunk her head in the horse trough. The woman thinks love is an affliction.”
“Not everyone thinks as we do,” she said as he closed the gap between them. “But you should get some rest. We need to leave for Bideford Park at eight. We said we would be there when the first boys arrive.”
The Duke of Melverley had died within days of Julia Dunwoody. The same day the steward was found mysteriously dead in a cell in Newgate. The entailed estate in Surrey and the townhouse in Grosvenor Square went to the duke’s coxcomb cousin. Lucius inherited everything else, numerous properties, jewels, paintings, a stable of Arabian stallions and the dreaded Bideford Park.
“You’ve spent months hiring the right tutors, the right housemasters,” she continued, “forward-thinking men who will embrace the illegitimate sons of the aristocracy, not belittle them. It’s only right we show our support tomorrow.”
And they would.
He’d been ready to raze the house to the ground. But Sybil said that the measure of a person was how they dealt with difficult situations. Turn the nightmare into a dream, she had urged. And he had. He had opened another school, too, one for lost and lonely boys left to wander the streets. He’d used his father’s money to support men who wished to train as doctors and solicitors. And there was still so much more to do if he hoped to make his sons proud. Make his wife proud. To leave a positive mark on the world.