Anthony trudged through the snow, striving to keep his footing even in the darkness, aiming for the grand house in the distance and the lights dancing in the windows. The journey had been a significantly easier one down the massive hill and in the remaining light of dusk than it was now.
Most especially because he had not had to carry Charity in his arms for it. But she was presently none too steady on her feet, and her pelisse had become lost in the tavern at some point, and he hadn’t wanted to risk a tumble in the snow.
Ah, well. He had had an hour or so of conversation with Thomas and Mercy’s Father, Augustus, before Charity and Mercy had come traipsing into the tavern in want of a little fun. And to their credit, the women had entertained themselves separately for the space of perhaps twenty minutes—through their first pints of bitter ale—before the fa?ade had come crumbling down and what had been meant to be a gentleman’s evening had turned into something quite different indeed.
Perhaps Charity had once had the sort of tolerance for alcohol that her familiarity with wild parties and Cyprians’ balls would suggest, but it had swiftly become clear that she did not any longer. She had, in fact, outdone him at her own insistence—but only because he had thought the wisest course of action would be to let her win.
At least one of them had to be in peak condition for their wedding on the morrow. And as it turned out, it was going to be him.
“I love you,” Charity said, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder like a drowsy kitten.
Anthony swallowed a chuckle.
“I know,” he said.
“You’ve said it at least three times in the last five minutes.”
“Have I?” She sounded baffled.
“Are you certain of that?”
“Quite.”
“Oh. Well, it is true, and I might as well say it.”
“Generous of you,” he grunted as she flung her arms about his neck.
“Careful. I’m not at my steadiest in the dark. I might drop you.”
“You won’t. I trust you with my life,” she said rather dramatically, pressing her lips to the side of his neck.
“How long until we reach the house?”
“I’m not certain. It’s dark, and I’m no longer quite so proficient at estimating distances as once I was. Losing an eye does tend to wreak havoc on one’s perception of depth. Have you got your gown picked out for tomorrow?”
“Yes. It’s red. Your mother is going to be appalled, I’m afraid.” She tangled her fingers in her hair, scratched his scalp with her nails. A shiver slipped down his back which had nothing to do with the cold.
“I rather think mother has come to terms with you,” he said.
“At most, she will be mildly exasperated.” Although if Charity arrived to her wedding looking as green about the gills as he expected she might, then that exasperation might run a bit deeper than the red gown alone would elicit.
“Besides,” he added.
“I like you in red.”
“She means to teach me how to be a proper duchess,” Charity said.
“I suppose it is really quite generous of her.”
“I don’t know. I think I’d prefer an improper one.” At last, the top of the damned hill. His boots crunched upon the gravel of the drive hidden beneath the thick layer of snow.
“I don’t want you reformed. I want you exactly as you are.”
“Good,” Charity said.
“Because I don’t intend to be anything else, despite your mother’s objections.”
The door opened to admit him before he reached it, and he swept past the footman who had been left to watch the entrance for their return, heading for the stairs.
“Don’t move too much,” he warned.
“Stairs are damned tricky beasts.” But the light was good, and he went slow and steady, navigating them one at a time.
Charity hiccoughed.
“I suppose I drank too much,” she said, blinking in the light as if it had seared her eyes.
“You most certainly did,” he said.
“But I won.”
“Because I let you.” He laughed at the little moue of consternation that settled on her lips as he at last nudged open the door of their shared room. A servant had been by at some point while they’d been out. A fire glowed in the hearth, painting the room in rosy golden tones. The counterpane had been turned down, the bed curtains drawn back.
“You are going to have a wretched morning,” he said.
“I don’t care,” she said passionately as he dropped her on the bed.
“I had a lovely evening, so it will have been worth it.”
“Tell me that when you’re casting up your accounts in a scarlet gown in front of a man of God.” He rolled her to her stomach to get at her laces, working the knot free and loosening her gown. Actions he’d grown significantly more proficient with just lately. Even limp as she was, divesting her of her clothes took only a few minutes.
“I love you,” Charity said again as at last he shed his own clothing and slid into bed beside her. She wiggled closer.
“I love that you let me win when I want to. I love that you have never tried to make me ashamed. I love that you hold me through my nightmares. I love that you love your nieces, and that you came after me so quickly. I love that you have learned so well how to please me.” Her leg shifted, sliding between his. Her palm cupped his cheek.
“I love your beautiful face.”
Anthony snorted.
“It’s not beautiful.”
“It is to me. It is yours, and so it is beautiful to me,” she said as she gazed up at him. And as she did, he realized that there was nothing of patronization in her voice. Only raw candor. Her dark eyes took in every scar, every line, every flaw and imperfection, and still saw only beauty in him. She had never known him when he had been classically handsome, had only ever known him as he was now, and those scars he had once despaired of—they had made no difference at all to her. Still she had fallen in love with him. Just him. Exactly as he was.
“This face,” she said, “is the one I wish to wake to every morning. To have beside mine every evening. Because it belongs to you.” A little pat to his scarred cheek. A kiss, soft and light, upon his chin.
“I hope I have not ruined your evening,” she said on a yawn as she settled in to sleep.
“No,” he said roughly, slipping his arm around her and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“You made it better. You make everything better.”