As everyone drank to the future, Leath’s throat closed on a lump of emotion. He reached for his wife’s hand. Eleanor glanced at him with perfect understanding and moved nearer to whisper, “I love you.”
Sedgemoor smiled with an open joy that devastated his public reputation as a coldhearted automaton. “Thank you, my friends. I couldn’t ask for a better way to celebrate my son’s birth than to have you all here for our first Christmas as a married couple.”
That boulder in his throat meant that Leath’s voice emerged without its usual resonance. “On behalf of my dearest Eleanor and myself, I’d like to thank you. Words fail me when I try and say how delighted I am that she consented to become my wife.”
He was a man famous for his eloquence, but that was as much as he could manage. When he looked around the room and met the warm gazes focused on him, he realized that these people knew the way love could transform a life, the way love had transformed him. The smiles said it all.
“Thank you, my darling,” Eleanor said beside him. Then, to his astonishment, she rose on her toes and kissed him. He hadn’t expected her to feel comfortable in this glittering milieu, but the welcome had smoothed her passage from maid to marchioness. He caught a quick taste of champagne from her lips, along with the delicious flavor of Eleanor.
Sedgemoor tapped Leath’s shoulder as he released his wife. “Before you get settled here, old man, bring your bride to see Pen.”
Eleanor was close enough to hear. “We don’t want to intrude.”
Sedgemoor smiled at her. “She’d love you to visit. She’s not up to a room full of people yet, but if she finds out you’ve just been married and she didn’t have a chance to wish you well in person, she’ll curse my name.” Pride lit his face. “And I’d love to show off my son.”
Upstairs in the duchess’s luxurious apartments, everything was quiet order. The room was elegant, made exceptional by the magnificent paintings on the walls. Leath had barely a moment to note a Titian and a Rembrandt and a Claude—and dear Lord, was that a Goya of the duchess en dishabille?
Dressed in a pale blue peignoir, Her Grace sat in an elabo
rate bed. Her head bent over the velvet-wrapped bundle in her arms. When Leath and Eleanor followed Sedgemoor into the room, she glanced up. Her eyes rested on her husband with such love that Leath felt he and Eleanor interrupted a private moment.
Before he could make his excuses, her smile encompassed them. Her shining black hair was caught in a loose knot and she looked tired but triumphant. “Lord Leath, what a pleasure. And Miss Trim, how lovely to see you, and with a stylish new coiffure. I’m piqued to miss out on the party.”
Sedgemoor settled on the edge of the bed and unselfconsciously wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “You’ve had quite enough partying today, my love.”
“Yes, Christmas came early this year.” She stared down at her sleeping, dark-haired son.
“We’re so happy for you, Your Grace,” Eleanor said. “Congratulations to both of you.”
The duchess smiled. “Thank you. And given you’re the first of our friends to see the Rothermere heir, you ought to call me Penelope, Miss Trim.”
“Miss Trim no longer,” the duke said with a soft laugh. “I know the doctor said no visitors until tomorrow, but when Leath told me that he and this lady married yesterday, I knew you’d want to wish them happy.”
The duchess’s smile widened. “How wonderful. We all hoped, of course.”
Leath held Eleanor’s hand and he felt her start. “You did?” she asked.
“Of course. We could see that you were head over heels in love and that once you’d sorted out your difficulties, you’d be perfect for each other.”
“Th-thank you,” Eleanor said, and Leath saw the moment when she accepted that these exceptional people had never considered her an unsuitable marchioness.
She stood with new confidence. He didn’t make the mistake of thinking that everyone in society would welcome his humbly born wife, but then, these days, he was perfectly happy to enjoy the approval of those who mattered and ignore the rest. Since renouncing his political ambitions, he felt ten years younger. Ten years younger and virile as a randy adolescent.
“Come and meet my son,” Sedgemoor said softly.
As Leath and Eleanor approached, the duchess held out the baby, who briefly opened his eyes on a soft complaint before closing them again. “Let me introduce Richard Peter Thorne Rothermere, Marquess of Pembridge.”
“He’s beautiful,” Eleanor said softly. “Just beautiful.”
“Yes, he is.” Leath looked into the baby’s face and couldn’t help anticipating the day when he and Eleanor had their first child. Eleanor would wear that same proud, loving, awestruck expression as the duchess. Pray God, she also regarded her husband with the same adoration as Her Grace regarded Sedgemoor.
How he looked forward to life with this beloved woman. Every moment beckoned ahead like steps on a golden path. He couldn’t wait. As if to mark the moment’s significance, Christmas bells started to ring out across the fields from the village church.
Eleanor touched the sleeping baby’s cheek with a tenderness he felt on his own skin, then she smiled at Leath, amber eyes aglow. “He’s a gift of love,” she whispered.
Leath’s heart was too crammed with poignant gratitude for him to summon a smile in return. Instead he touched his wife’s soft cheek with the same tenderness as she’d touched the baby. Forgetting his audience, he stared deep into her beautiful eyes and murmured, “You’re my gift of love, Eleanor.”
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