Page 31 of Must Love Dukes
EPILOGUE
Pandemonium.
That was an apt description of the chorus of shocked gasps and one dramatic wail of despair, likely from Lady Lavinia, that reached Muriel’s ears after she and Buxton were found rolling about in the Savorton greenhouse. There were some who could hardly merit that the Duke of Buxton, theton’smost eligible duke, had compromised Lord Allred’s eccentric, odd, painter of a daughter in such a public and unapologetic manner.
Throughout it all, Buxton had never once let go of Muriel’s hand.
He had murmured assurances in her ear, lips grazing her neck, refusing to release her. Not even while declaring his intentions to Father with Lord Savorton standing as witness, just as he did a week later at their wedding.
“Stop moving about, Buxton.” Muriel glanced up at the slice of light fading across the balcony. “I have to finish your nose before the sun completely slips away.”
“You can’t ever get it correct,” he said, sipping at the wine in his glass. “Radishes are a bit more oval, not so round.” He was inhis shirtsleeves, no cravat, the deeply tanned triangle of skin at the base of his throat visible. Muriel adored pressing her lips to that spot.
“Are you going to seduce me, Muriel? I’m merely curious.” The green of his eyes flashed at her.
“Possibly, Your Grace. If you stop moving, I will consider seduction.”
“Well, Your Grace,” he returned with a wicked smile, “youareregarding me in the exact manner as those small rolls Maria brings us for breakfast every morning. Like you could eat me up in one bite.” He winked at her. “I’m hopeful.”
“Which is how I find myself in this current situation, Your Grace. Taking small bites of you.”
The sounds of Florence floated up to the balcony. Someone was playing the lute. Singing. She had no idea what the song was about. Even after six months, Muriel still was only passable in Italian. Buxton, of course, spoke the language fluently.
“I do love those rolls.” She set down her brush and patted the mound of her stomach. “And you. “Nearly as much as Arcimboldo,” Muriel teased.
“I grow weary of competing for your affections with an obscure artist of the Renaissance.” He stood, still sipping his wine as a breeze blew across the balcony, ruffling his hair. So magnificent, so bloody handsome, Muriel still had trouble believing Buxton was her husband.
“No one,” she said as he pressed a kiss to her cheek, “holds my affections but you, Your Grace.”
He bent and pressed a kiss to the mound of her stomach. “You don’t sound certain.” Buxton laced his fingers with hers. “Put down you paints and allow me to prove my devotion. I don’t mind in the least.”
Muriel laughed, swatting at him as he lifted her into his arms and carried her inside. She took one last glimpse of Florence as night descended. Marriage, at least to Buxton, wasn’t half bad.
**
