Page 85 of To Steal a Bride

“A mere cottage,” Oliver said as the horse drew up outside the front door.

In Emily’s opinion, this was more than a cottage—it was a modest house, to be sure, and nothing approaching the enormous mansion that Henry and Louisa lived in.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it. While she would have done her best with a large property, this felt far moremanageable, and better suited to what would be a relatively modest lifestyle. Yet there was quite a bit of land attached to the house, and it was that which Henry would be teaching Oliver to run. Their lessons had begun, and Emily had made notes as Henry spoke, referencing books and demonstrating his meaning through samples of his own accounts.

After their brief sojourn, they would be back to London to continue this education, but Oliver had been keen to show her the land—their land—and in truth she was just as keen.

When they lived there properly, there would be servants—at least a butler, a valet, a lady’s maid, a housemaid, a cook and a kitchen maid, as well as a groom and stable boy, but for now they had come alone, just a coachman to care for the horses and the stables, and a local woman who would come in to help with the cooking.

Emily had insisted. A last tribute to the life she had lived, and a chance for the kind of privacy they would never have again. She wanted to explore the land with him, hand in hand, windswept and quite possibly rained upon. She wanted to make love in every room of the house without fear of being walked in on.

They entered the small hallway. From it, there was a living room, a parlour, a dining room, and a room she thought could be a music room. Isabella had always been the more musically inclined—when she came to live there, she could have some say as to how the rooms were decorated and laid out. But the space was well laid out, and when she looked around, Emily felt at home.

The way she had when she’d been a child.

“There’s space for a vegetable patch in the garden,” Oliver said, leading her to the fireplace in the drawing room. There were logs to one side, and he knelt, placing them into the fireplace. As she watched, he added kindling with the confidence of a man who had done this before.

“Did you . . . practise lighting fires?” she asked in disbelief.

He grinned at her. “I asked a kitchen maid to show me. That way, this isn’t your responsibility all the time. And, what’s more, I even asked her how to boil a kettle, so I can be at least some help with breakfast.”

“Oliver.” Her throat felt full; her eyes certainly were. She felt the hot tears streak down her face. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No,” he said, blowing on the sparks to ease them into flame. “You didn’t. But you see, darling, I wanted to.” He glanced up, and when he saw her tears, he clicked his tongue. “All this because I wanted you to be happy? For shame.” With some difficulty, he levered himself to his feet and wrapped his slightly sooty good hand around her waist, drawing her against him. “I love you,” he murmured against her hair. “Dance with me?”

There was no music, but that didn’t matter. This was a scene from her childhood, replaying in her head as she swayed a waltz with Oliver across their drawing room, the curtains pulled tight to fend off the night.

For years, she had viewed these memories as tainted—it was hard to view them as romantic when she had seen how utterly such a love had destroyed them. But now she understood, at least a little.

Love had not destroyed her father; his own weakness had. He had not had the will to keep going, and thus he had allowed himself to fade away, choosing oblivion over his family. That was not the fault of his love but of his poor character.

“If I die,” she began, and Oliver sighed gustily.

“On the day we married, Em? Really?”

“If I die, Oliver,” she repeated, leaning back so she could see his eyes. Behind them, the fire popped as it grew in strength. “I want you to promise you will keep on living.”

“All right.” He said the words easily, and she scowled.

“Youareallowed to grieve me, though.”

“Darling, if you die I will be inconsolable, for a while.” He nuzzled the underside of her nose, then bit her lobe lightly. Heat flooded her. “I shall miss you every day of my life. And some part of me will always love you. But,” he added before she could protest, “I will not fade away into obscurity. I have a purpose now, you know. Aside from making you happy. That will sustain me, I’m sure.”

“Is this the life you wanted?”

“With you?” He smiled down at her. “Always.”

“Even quiet and in the country?”

“You have quite reconciled me to the country, so long as there is an absence of pigs. Made even better by a certain someone in my arms.”

“Arm,” she said, and smiled. “Oliver?”

“If you are about to talk about your imminent demise one more time—”

“I love you.”

“Oh.” He spun her slowly, that one hand making its way to the very lowest dip of her spine. Positively scandalous in public, and positively teasing in private. There was a wicked light in his eyes. “I love you, too. Now what say you to defiling this rug right here?”

“I think,” she said, biting his lip with enough fervour that he moaned, “that is an excellent start to the rest of our life.”

He drew her down to the ground, raising her skirts to her hips. “I could not agree more.”

THE END