Page 146 of The Lyon Returns
“I know darling. I know. It’s all right now.”
He was battered, blood spattered, and undoubtedly covering his wife with grime, but he could not make himself care. He would hold her forever if she’d allow it.
“Tell me you love me again, sweetheart. Tell me,” he all-but sobbed into her hair.
“I love you, Gideon, with all my heart.”
“And I love you, Gwen, more than life. More than I ever knew was possible. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I was such a fool—”
“Shh,” she said. “I know.” She rose up on tiptoes to move her lips near to his ear. “Don’t be angry, but I read your last journal entry.”
A beat passed. Then, unbelievably, Gideon found himself chuckling. Then laughing. His wife. His clever, beautiful, bluestocking wife.
Epilogue
Two months later, number 22 Portman Square, London
Gideon sprawled onthe sturdy sofa he’d had installed in Gwen’satelierfor just such an eventuality—one whereby he had an afternoon free and his wife did not. He studied her, seated at the desk he’d bought her, immersed in a manuscript, the sun pouring in from the open window to bathe her in its golden light. He never tired of watching her work. He never tired of watching her, period.
His wife. His beautiful, bluestocking, fae-channeling, English-rose wife.
Without looking up from the book she perused she said, “You’re staring.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Can I help you with something?”
He could think of many ways she could help him, presently, one of which involved her on her desk, but he chose to keep those thoughts to himself. If he managed to distract her from her precious work every time he entered her lair, he suspected it would not be long before she barred him from the chamber.
He unfolded from the couch and started toward the massive bookshelf he’d had installed for her, in part to store the myriad books and atlases, newspapers and journals she kept on hand. Sources, she calledthem, useful for verifying facts and figures and such.
Out of the corner of her eye, he saw her rise. “I didn’t mean I wanted you to leave.”
“If you’re certain?” He bit back a smile and made for the shelf on which she’d placed copies of the books she’d edited over the years. It was an impressive array. He picked one of these up now.
“Quite certain,” she sounded slightly breathless.
He recognized that particular quality in her voice. Evidently, his wife was considering taking a small break from her endeavors.
He heard her skirts swish as she crossed the room toward him. “What have you got there?”
He read the spine aloud. “An Intimate Affair, by GT Arlington.”
She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and rising up on her toes to read over his shoulder. Her sweet, feminine scent wafted up at him. “The author’s second book.”
He turned to face her, wrapping his free arm around her slender waist. “Oh?”
Her arms twined around his neck and she gazed up at him with her incredible sky-blue eyes.
“Have I told you today how much I love you, madam wife?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps it bears repeating.”
“Hm.” He flicked a gaze over her mouth, and her cupid’s-bow lips parted. She might be the editor in this relationship, but he could read her like a book. She wanted him to kiss her.
He was happy to oblige—in good time. “I love you, Gwendolyn Devereux.”
She sent him a brilliant smile. “Does that mean you’ll agree to allow me to publish the compilation of your works I suggested?”
No.“And here I thought you married me for my looks.”
She snorted.
