Page 81 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
She gasped, arched against him.
“I should play the part of the proper gentleman,” he groaned. “Speak with your father first.”
“I did not fall in love with a proper gentleman,” she breathed. “I fell in love with you, so you’d better ravish me right here and now, Lysander.”
He stilled then slammed her backward into the bed, stopping his body from falling on hers with taut arms, the tip of his nose almost brushing the tip of hers. “Say it again,” he growled. “If it is true, say it again.”
“Ravish me.”
“Not that.”
“Lysander.”
“Not. That.”
She tapped her nose against his and closed her eyes. “I love you.”
He nudged her legs apart and thrust into her in one smooth move, making her gasp, making her clutch at his shoulder, his back. She wrapped her fingers around steel-hard arms, which made her want more though he gave her everything. Her hips rolled against him, as a welcome tide of pleasure rolled through her, and she dove her fingers into the hair at his nape and pulled him down for a kiss that shook her like a roll of thunder across the sky.
He thrust into her over and over again and laid his voice close to her ear, heating her, driving her higher. “Marry me. Marry me. I can give you nothing but myself, love, but dear God, marry me.”
“Yes,” she cried before her body shattered around him.
He came seconds later, pumping harder and faster and collapsing beside her. He rolled, clasping his arms tight around her and taking her with him so they could end the interlude, the consummation, as they had begun it—her resting atop his chest, his arms pulling her close, his lips resting in her hair.
When her heart slowed, and she could think once more, she slipped curious fingers inside his pocket, found the twined wire there and held it up for him to see, twirling it between her forefinger and thumb so it sparked in the dim light.
He took it and bent it, coiled the ends around each other and slipped the little ring onto her finger. “There. I cannot afford much better, but—”
“There is no better.” She kissed the ring and kissed his chest and knew without a doubt— because who better than a forger to know these things—that the ring he looped about her heart was real and more valuable than anything she could hope to forge from diamonds and gold.
Epilogue
Zander read the letter once more before tossing it to the desk and standing. He strode across his bedroom and looked out onto the garden below. Briarcliff had always been beautiful in late summer, and this year proved no different. He’d have to leave in a few days, though, to meet with a Mr. Harding, who had been approached by a buyer to sell a family heirloom. An icon of Russian origin. Zander smelled rubbish in the man’s description of the icon, doubted it was as old as the man claimed. He scratched his chin and tapped the glass. But it might not be as old as the buyer claimed. Why else would the buyer want it? Unless it was valuable.
Matilda, his sister-in-law, strolled outside—bounced, really, backward—calling to someone, her bonnet falling to hang at her back.
Fiona appeared, laughing, running, her bonnet a tangled, forgotten mess as well. Zander’s heart knocked about his ribs, and he flattened a palm against the glass. He loved his wife. Married but a fortnight, and he hated letting her go for a moment. But he’d had correspondence to go through, and she’d needed sport beyond their bedroom. She’d needed sunshine, so he’d sent her out to play with the women of the house.
A knock on his door took him across the room in a few steps, and he opened it. “Mother. Good afternoon.” He looked over his shoulder at the window, the garden beyond. “I thought you were romping with Matilda and Fee. What brings you to the top of the house?”
She beamed up at him, her hands folded behind her back, a position he still found terribly suspicious. He took a wary step back and eyed her. “Lysander, oh my dear son.”
“Ye-es?” He took another step back.
She bounced up and down, her arms still behind her. “You’ve won your inheritance! Though I would have given it to you before now, if you’d asked.”
His slow retreat stopped, and his feet took root in the rug as he tried to order his thoughts. “I know you would have but… Father’s final wish.” He shook his head. “I’m confused. Is this a joke? I’ve not painted a thing.”
“I just spoke with Fiona.”
“What’s she to do with it?”
“I already knew, of course, all about your harrowing adventure with that dreadful baron, how you bested him, and how they found you both covered in paint.” She unfolded her arms from behind her back and held out a roll of something or other to him. No. Not something. A canvas. “Take it.”
He did, unrolling it, not recognizing the beaten canvas spread haphazardly with green paint. “What is this?”
“It’s the canvas, taken off its frame, that you propped on the stairs to stop the baron in his tracks. After, of course, you exploded a paint bladder all over him.”
