Page 214 of Dukes for Dessert

“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” he murmured, reaching out to trace the curve of her breasts with a finger. He reveled in the feel of her supple flesh beneath his greedy hands. “I would like to discuss a renegotiation…”

“Renegotiation?”

“Yes, dear.”

Maggie grinned. “I stand firm on the matter of gambling,” she revealed.

“Not a problem.” After all these years, he couldn’t believe she was truly his—at last—with her glorious hair all mussed from their play. He reached out to thread his fingers through the shining mass and sucked in an awe-filled breath.

“No separate quarters,” he whispered as he kissed her mouth. She closed her eyes, but her desire was more than apparent on her face, and Gabriel rejoiced in it. He wanted to please her for the rest of his days. He wanted to shower her with affection, make up for lost time…

And more than anything else in the world, he wanted to make her laugh.

“If you insist.”

He did insist—indeed, he did.

Everything he now had, he wanted to give his sweet lady—and this moment, he wanted to give her his body and his soul. He rolled, atop her, looking down into her face, and whispered, “Margaret... do you understand what it is we are about to do, my love?”

It took her a long moment to respond, and then she said, “I rather think I do… we are consummating our marriage,” she said with a whisper, and Gabriel grinned.

“Yes, we are,” he said. “Indeed, we are.”

And there, at the foot of their favorite hill, they did precisely that.

10

June 15, 1868

“Papa George! What’s dis one?”

Arm in arm, Gabriel and Maggie watched their children cavort with Grandpa George. At four and eleven months, respectively, Victoria and Scott Thomas were sweet little cherubs, every parent's dream. While Scott Thomas sat atop his Papa’s lap, trying to wrest a white rose from his grasp, precocious little Victoria listened to his tales, much as Maggie had once done, even after Gabe was gone.

“This one…” He studied it a moment. “It is Rosa Alba,” he declared. “Made famous by the War of Roses.”

“What?” shrieked Victoria. “Roses can go to war?” I don’t believe it!” she said with a sing-song voice, a trilling laugh, and an exaggerated flutter of her hand.

“No, dear. It was the sigil of the House of York. And see that red rose over there—see it? That was the sigil of the House of Lancaster. Eventually, both families lost to a Tudor, and therefore, we now have Queen Victoria.” He pointed an old finger at her. “Your namesake.”

She grinned broadly. “Me?” And she pranced about the garden, lifting her skirt, sashaying across the lawn, her red-gold curls bouncing as she flounced. “I am queen!” she crooned, laughing. “I am queen!”

“Yes!” Papa George was saying to Victoria. “You are a queen!” And he nodded enthusiastically as their child paraded by lush, blooming roses of every color.

“Papa!” Scott Thomas squealed again, snatching at the white rose that swept too close, and clutching the captured petals in an iron grip, then pulling out a handful, fascinated as a few escaped and fluttered to the ground. Even before the last one fell to the lawn, he was shoving his hard-won handful into his mouth. The nanny rushed over to help, brushing the fine-scented detritus from their son’s mouth.

They had been married now for more than six years. Gabriel hardly believed his good fortune. He’d never seen his father so content as he was with two tots at his heels. It certainly made it easier to slip away. Tugging his sweet Maggie by the hand, he lured her away from the arbor, craving a little solitude.

“Da,” he said. “You good with the wee ones?”

The old man raised a hand, scarcely listening. “Where’s your crown?” he asked Victoria. She slapped at her head and shrieked with laughter. “Make me another one,” she demanded, and Maggie laughed as she turned away.

“She reminds me of you,” said Gabriel with a lopsided grin.

Maggie gave him an exaggerated, wide-eyed glance. “Me?” She pressed a hand to her breast, precisely as their four-year-old daughter had done.

Gabriel laughed.

It was a fine, fine summer day, with the scent of fresh blooms wafting in the air. The gardens had never appeared lovelier, despite that George was no longer tending them. He oversaw their care, but managed several attendants, each with particular skills. At the end of the day, he could look upon his accomplishments with glee—not the least of which was his matchmaking attempts. Anyone who doubted for one moment that there was genuine affection, between the lord and lady of Blackwood, would be hard-pressed to defend their position, especially when Maggie’s belly was once again as round as a ball. Five months into her pregnancy, she was as fresh and beautiful as she’d been the day he first spied her. And if she was sassy as well, it wasn’t a slip of her mood.