Page 93 of A Rogue to Resist
“Are you happy?” he asked, watching her closely.
Drake Halston, Earl of Greythorne, leaned against the trunk of an ancient apple tree, observing his wife as she gazed out over the western fields that stretched before them.
Four months had passed since their wedding—a quiet affair at Greythorne’s small chapel, attended only by family and a few close friends. Four months of discovery, of building a life together, of transforming Greythorne Manor into the home it had never truly been under Edmund’s stewardship.
The late summer sun cast dappled shadows through the leaves above them, painting patterns across Katherine’s upturned face. She had abandoned her bonnet earlier in their walk, claiming the day was too glorious to hide behind its brim, and now the sunlight caught the auburn highlights in her dark hair, creating the illusion of a subtle halo around her head.
Katherine turned toward him, amusement glinting in her blue eyes. “You ask me that at least twice a week, Drake. My answer hasn’t changed since the last time.”
“Humour me,” he insisted, reaching up to pluck a perfectly ripe apple from a low-hanging branch. “I like hearing it.”
“Very well.” She moved closer, her skirts rustling against the tall grass. “Yes, husband. I am happy. Deliriously, improperly, scandalously happy.”
Katherine’s laugh—that rare, unguarded sound that had once been so elusive—bubbled up as she spoke, filling the summer air with its joyful music. Drake felt an answering smile spread across his own face, the contentment in his chest expanding at the evidence of her genuine happiness.
“Scandalously?” he teased, polishing the apple against his sleeve before offering it to her. “How so?”
“Well,” Katherine said, accepting the fruit with a graceful inclination of her head, “according to Lady Swansea, it’s most irregular for a countess to be so actively involved in estate management. And Lady Westmore apparently finds it shocking that we argue so publicly over crop rotation and drainage systems.”
Drake chuckled, recalling their most recent visit to London, where their spirited discussion of agricultural innovations at Lord Carrington’s dinner party had indeed raised several aristocratic eyebrows.
“And yet,” he pointed out, “Lord Carrington himself has since implemented our suggestion regarding the three-field system on his own estates. Sometimes a little scandal produces worthwhile results.”
“A philosophy you’ve embraced wholeheartedly,” Katherine observed, her expression softening as she regarded him. “From breaking your engagement to Lady Eleanor to marrying Edmund’s widow barely three months later—you’ve given the gossips ample material this year.”
Drake reached for her free hand, entwining their fingers with the casual intimacy that still sent a thrill through him even after months of marriage.
“Any regrets?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Not one,” Katherine replied without hesitation. She took a bite of the apple, its crisp sweetness a perfect complement to the warm summer day. “Though I do occasionally feel a twinge of sympathy for Lady Eleanor. To be jilted so publicly must have been difficult.”
“She recovered with remarkable speed,” Drake reminded her. “Her engagement to Viscount Harrington was announced barely six weeks after our wedding.”
Katherine nodded, a hint of mischief in her expression. “A much more suitable match, I think. The viscount is considerably more amenable to being managed than you’ve ever been.”
“Is that so?” Drake tugged gently on their joined hands, pulling her closer until she stood within the circle of his arms, her back against his chest as they both looked out over the ripening fields. “And would you have preferred a more biddable husband, my love?”
“Certainly not,” Katherine replied, her voice warm with affection as she leaned into his embrace. “Where would be the challenge in that? I much prefer a man who argues with me over drainage systems to one who merely nods and agrees.”
Drake pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the faint lavender scent of her hair. He had never imagined that marriage could be like this—a true partnership of equals, where disagreement was as valued as accord, where each challenge only strengthened the bond between them.
The scandal of their hasty marriage had indeed been considerable, though somewhat mitigated by the Duke of Wexford’s evident approval and Lady Eleanor’s surprisingly gracious response to the broken engagement. Society had buzzed with speculation for weeks, predicting everything fromimminent disaster to calculating conceptions based on the wedding’s timing.
But here at Greythorne, away from London’s prying eyes and malicious whispers, Drake and Katherine had discovered a harmony neither had expected—not the absence of conflict, but its transformation into something constructive, even joyful.
“Do you know what day it is?” Drake asked, his arms tightening slightly around her waist.
Katherine tilted her head thoughtfully. “Tuesday, I believe.”
“The twenty-fourth of August,” he clarified. “Exactly one year since we first met in your brother’s drawing room, when you informed me in no uncertain terms that the western fields belonged to Willow Park.”
She laughed again, the sound vibrating against his chest. “Was it really only a year ago? It feels as though I’ve known you much longer.”
“In some ways, perhaps you have,” Drake mused. “You certainly knew Greythorne more intimately than I did when I first arrived.”
“The estate, yes,” Katherine agreed. “But the man? He was a complete mystery—and an infuriating one at that.”
“As was the woman,” Drake countered, smiling against her hair. “I expected Edmund’s widow to be a meek, retiring creature, easily dismissed from Greythorne’s affairs. Instead, I found myself confronted with the most formidable opponent I’d ever encountered.”
