Page 26

Three Years Later

Heveston Hall

Kent

S eagulls wheeled overhead, and Cassian held tight to his daughter’s hand as they walked along the seaside cliffs near Heveston. Little Portia had a passion for rocks, and by the time they took the path back home, she’d no doubt have one in hand and more in her pockets.

Daphne had begun collecting them and was determined to use them to create a little mosaic to put in the garden.

“We should wait for Mama,” he told his rambunctious child with hair the same gold shade as her mother’s.

Portia stopped and turned back immediately. “Leo!” she shouted into the wind.

Their infant son, cradled in his mother’s arms, knew his name well enough to giggle at his sister’s call.

When Daphne reached them, Cassian stroked a hand down her back and kissed her. He couldn’t seem to look at her without needing to touch her, kiss her, whisper in her ear of his love for her. That love had saved him, and now it deepened between them day by day, year by year.

He no longer questioned whether he deserved her or whether she deserved a better man. He was a better man because of her, and because of her, he’d become a man who deserved her, a family, and love.

Heveston was no longer just a rambling country house for summer visits, it was their home, and they’d filled it with books, children’s laughter, and plants.

So many plants. The first they’d bought together to bring some greenery inside was a palm, and somehow Daphne had teased him about that day at Kew Gardens, their first trip to the Palm House, and his eagerness to tell her the truth—though he’d never found the moment or the words.

They’d visited Kew since, when Portia was a babe, and had been able to appreciate it anew and explore it more thoroughly.

She didn’t bring up his past deception, and her capacity for forgiveness still astounded him.

“Shall we head back?” Daphne asked.

“Yes, because I have a surprise for you.”

She pushed at his chest playfully. “My birthday is two weeks away. You must wait.”

“Surprises are allowed any day of the year. Besides, why can I not give my wife a bit of pleasure whenever I like?”

Daphne’s eyes sparkled. “Indeed, Husband.”

“Can I have a surprise too?” Portia asked. Their daughter rarely missed a thing.

“See what you’ve done,” Daphne whispered and then chuckled. “Yes, love, you’ll have so many presents very soon because your birthday is just three days after Mama’s.”

Portia bounced on her toes and beamed at the prospect, then clasped her mother’s hand. Cassian reached out and Daphne settled their son in his arms, and then they wound along the path back to their home.

As they neared Heveston, Isla trotted toward them. The old Scottish deerhound he’d found near the hunting lodge had adapted well to the change from Highland forests to Kentish fields, and she was particularly smitten with Portia.

Their daughter rushed forward to greet her with a hug.

Narrowing one eye at him, Daphne asked, “So where’s this gift?”

“It’s a special sort of gift because you’ve seen it many times, but this time it will surprise you.”

A lovely pink blushed washed over her cheeks. “Are you trying to seduce me?” she whispered.

Cassian laughed. “That comes later tonight. Now come and see the surprise.”

“Give me a hint.”

“My impatient wife,” he teased.

Once they reached the house, Cassian tipped his head toward the back gardens. “This way.”

They had a small staff, but he’d needed the help of all of them to keep this secret for the past few months.

On his part, it had required patience, diligence, and hope for years longer—somehow, he seemed to have all of those qualities in abundance now, at least where a surprise that would please Daphne was concerned.

Digory, their footman, stood outside the entryway of the conservatory they’d commissioned a local builder to create in the months after their marriage and their move to Kent.

Once it was complete, Cassian had taken Daphne to Scotland, and they’d returned a few weeks later via coach rather than train, in order to transport his botanical specimens and Isla too.

On that trip back to England, in that carriage, she’d told him she was carrying his child.

And for one terrifying moment, the memories of his own father had nearly overwhelmed all the joy.

Daphne had been patient—despite her claim she wasn’t and how much he loved teasing her—and he’d reminded himself that he was not his father.

He remembered that he’d had paternal affection from Bartlett and his mother’s love and care.

Those were the examples he’d let guide him as a father.

“All’s ready, Captain,” the footman said as they reached the conservatory.

“Thank you, Digory.”

Elise, the children’s nanny, took Leo in her arms and led Portia to one of the white-painted, wrought-iron benches inside the soaring glass structure.

When Cassian nodded at their housekeeper, Mrs. Moore, she bustled off to a corner of the conservatory, where they’d constructed an inner wall to create a hothouse for the specimens that needed sultry conditions.

Cassian took Daphne’s hands in his and turned her so that her back was to the corner.

“Is it the new rose variety I told you about?”

He grinned. “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.”

“Well, it must be a plant of some sort.” She was all but vibrating with frustration.

This was something he’d learned quickly about his wife—she both loved and hated surprises.

She’d confided that too many of the surprises in her life had been terrible ones, like the loss of her brother, and the business with that skunk she’d kicked in the bollocks.

So whenever Cassian planned a surprise for her, he did so with care and made certain it was a good one.

A moment later, Mrs. Moore emerged, pushing a gilded cart with Daphne’s fragile surprise situated atop it.

Daphne tried to turn her head, and Cassian caught her chin, then leaned in for a kiss. Always an excellent means of distracting his wife.

When the cart was in place behind Daphne, he smiled at his wife, the woman who he loved fiercely and who’d given him so much.

“Now you can look, my love.”

Daphne turned and let out a gasp. “Oh, Cassian.”

She stepped closer and bent to examine the blooms, turning her head this way and that, then reached out to touch the plant’s glossy petals with the gentlest of strokes.

The camellia japonica had bloomed a rich red, its petals pointed, plentiful, and arranged in perfect symmetry.

Among botanical collectors, it was an almost mythical variety and extremely rare.

His cutting had come from a naturalist navy man who’d served on the HMS Lizard in New Zealand, and when he and Daphne brought it back from Scotland, it had been little more than a few leaves.

He hadn’t known for certain it would thrive.

It’d taken five years for these blooms to burst forth.

Two of those years he’d spent in isolation, telling himself it was enough.

The last three years had proved him wrong and had been the happiest of his life.

“Such a wonderful surprise,” she said, turning a look over her shoulder.

Cassian wrapped her in his arms, and she leaned back against his chest.

“It’s so beautiful,” she murmured.

“So are you, my love.”

“Do you know what it means?” she asked him. “In the language of flowers?”

“No, tell me.”

Daphne leaned slightly to look back at him. “Ardent love. The flame of your heart.”

“You are, Daphne. You brought my heart back to life.”

She smiled and turned to twine her arms around his neck.

“Thank you for my gift, Husband.”

“Thank you for mine.” There were so many—her love, her trust, her hope.

She wasn’t just the woman who’d changed him. She was his heart’s home.