Page 59 of Til Death Duke Us Part
“You could help.”
“I don’t see another shovel.”
She chuckled, shoved her shovel into the dirt, and threw a clump of it up onto the ground above her.
Then he sighed loudly and elbowed her out of the way and took over.
She watched him dig, watched the ripple of muscle beneath his clothes, watched the smile stretch his lips, watched how he kept looking over at her as if she might disappear.
“I’ll have to marry you to keep you from a life of crime,” she mused, sitting on her bucket.
Abandoning the shovel, he knelt in front of her and pulled her between his legs, encircled her with his strength and humor, with the clean scent of him and with his wicked gaze. “Yes, darling,” he whispered against her lips, “you most certainly will.”
EPILOGUE: BOUND
8 months later, June 1837
At precisely four of the clock in the afternoon, the front door swung open. Persephone heard it open, heard it close, from her place in the parlor. But she’d known the man who’d done the opening was soon to be home before she’d acquired any audible evidence.
She’d felt it in her ring, felt the excitement, the need, the frustration at every delay. She’d only been wearing the ring for a few weeks. Victor had waited months to give her the band with gold and silver threads twisted together. Said he didn’t have a lifetime to impress himself upon the metal, so he’d take what time he could.
He appeared in the hallway, a tall dark figure, hair glinting, wicked smile at a cocky angle, jacket flapping behind him like some rogue. The dearest rogue.
He swept her into a kiss. No words. No prelude or warning. Just firm lips and eager tongue and his big hands holding her close.
That all it took to light her up, make her just as needy as him.
He pulled away with a gasp, rested his forehead against hers. His hands consumed her lower back, pressing her against him. “What in hell are you doing out of bed?”
She shivered. His voice was so deep and rich. Her favorite sound. “Breeding the guinea pigs.”
“You just gave birth not even seven days ago.” He scooped her up in his arms and made for the stairs. “I’m going to put you back where you belong.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Victor.”
He grunted, carrying her upward.
“The doctor says so.”
He scowled.
“You don’t have to—ah!”
He tossed her onto the bed.
“For a man worried about my health, you’re awfully indelicate in your treatment of me.”
Oh, that wonderfully wicked grin. He crossed his arms over his chest and peered into the empty cradle. “Where’s my baby?”
“She’s my baby, too.”
“You have a tub, Sephy. That baby is mine. Stay there.” He pointed at her, then stomped out of the room.
She heard him before she saw him, felt him before that. The awe and joy tempered by a bit of fear. Then his loud bootsteps. Then his prattling as he came closer down the corridor. “Just as lovely as your mother. You’ll be a spitfire, too. What have you been doing all day? You must make your mother stay in bed. She’ll never listen if you’re not firm, do you understand? I count on you when I’m gone to keep her well-behaved. You’ll never guess what she was doing when we met. Robbing graves.”
Victor appeared in the doorway, cradling a small bundle against his big chest. He joined Persephone on the bed, and she peered into the bundle at the little wrinkled, red face.
“Good afternoon, Circe. Did your father wake you?”
