Page 56

Elizabeth’s house

Eaton Square, London

Tuesday

He shook his head. “Why would I smirk? The U.S. has houses with names too, like Mount Vernon, Monticello, and the White House.”

She stopped, smiled up at him. “When we go back, I’d like to see those places.”

He said carefully, “You’re considering coming back with me to the United States?”

She looked at him, but didn’t answer. Rome wanted to grab her, make her tell him, but he let it drop. For the moment.

“Nope, that’s not how it works in England. It’s called primogeniture. The eldest son or male relative usually gets everything and any child unfortunate enough to be female gets only what he allows her. Don’t scoff, there’s a pretty good reason for it. It’s meant to keep property in one family until there are no more sons or male relatives. If my father doesn’t reinstate Tommy, he’ll still inherit all the entailed property—Darlington Hall and Palmer House—but unless my father changes his mind, he won’t get my father’s bank or his investments. It would probably come to me. I could, however, sign over a lot of it to Tommy, but I’d have to break my father’s will to do it.”

“But Tommy would still be the new earl and live in luxury at Darlington Hall?”

Rome said matter-of-factly, “If he isn’t lying, he’s one of the precious few.”

Elizabeth drew herself up. “That’s what I have to believe—he’s one of the precious few.”

She took him upstairs, passed by three closed doors, and stopped in front of the last, slowly opening the door. “My workroom.”

Rome walked into a large square room and felt the instant warmth of the bright sunlight that poured in through its floor-to-ceiling windows. It felt like a peaceful sanctuary, a place to feel nourished and safe and creative. A dozen paintings leaned against the pale yellow walls, covered with white cloths. Elizabeth stood silently in the center of the room, watching him. He nodded toward one. “Show me?”

She said nothing, removed the cloth, stepped back.

She drew a deep breath and pulled the soft cloth from the painting on her easel.

Elizabeth said quickly, “It’s not quite finished; the background needs more work.” She paused, added, “I’m going to give it to my father on his birthday so perhaps he’ll remember all the feelings he had for my mother then, and stop—” Her voice fell off a cliff.

“His philandering?”

“This is where you were attacked?”

“What?”

He cupped her face in his hands, leaned down, not very far at all, and kissed her, only a light touch of his mouth. He straightened, sifted his fingers through her hair. “You’ve made me see how very fine my life could be with you in it.”

“I was careless, Rome, shallow, selfish.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I’m not valiant. Rome, I’m not special at all.”

He cocked his head at her. “Well, okay, if you insist, but I have to tell you, I think you’re an excellent artist.”

She sputtered and punched her fist into his belly. “That’s all you have to say after I spilled my innards to you?”

Time slowed. He looked down at her face. “I mean the person I want to be with for the rest of my life.”

She licked her lips, gave him a mad grin. “Well, then. That’s better.”