Page 32 of Submitting to the Widow

She took a quick look around the sitting room, fearing someone was listening. Everyone apparently had left them to their own devices after El and her crew had galloped away from Trevellyn House, with El in a heavily guarded carriage to carry her “prisoners” toward their dark destinies.

After reassuring herself they were alone, Jane flung herself into his arms and cried out her heart.

“I have a question, Jane.”

“What?” She sobbed some more and hiccuped.

“Why is it when I make love to you, you shed copious tears?”

She reflected for a moment. “I’ve never known happiness like this before, and I think I’m crying because I’m afraid it cannot last.”

He stooped down to her level and gazed into her eyes. “Jane Trevellyn, you will never be quit of me. You cannot drive me away. I won’t go. I’ll keep bouncing back no matter what you say or do. You’re stuck with me until we’re both so old we can’t afford to hide our spectacles from each other.”

She dried her eyes and pulled her own spectacles from one of her dress pockets. She settled them firmly on the bridge of her nose before standing on tip-toe to pull his face down to her level. “I want to see you properly for once when we kiss.”

Stephen followed suit, and they both retired to the settee to pull off a proper kiss.

- The End -

EPILOGUE

* * *

October 1, 1833

Trevellyn House, Combe Down

Jane walked into her beloved conservatory and nearly dropped her cup of tea. Her desk piled high with brittle manuscripts, endless scraps of paper, and various other bits of detritus had been taken over by an interloper.

She crept silently up behind the intruder and ordered, “Stephen Ian Forsythe—aren’t you supposed to be helping Cook, Grandma, and Auntie Raj with the apple-peeling in the kitchen this morning?”

The boy whipped his head around, guilt lining every beloved feature on his face. “But I…I was looking for facts I can share with my history tutor this afternoon, and…” He paused to push a pair of spectacles back up his nose. She suppressed an indulgent smile. Even as a six-year-old imp, he was already attempting to copy his father’s stentorian voice.

“Do you suppose your mother cares that you consider yourself a barrister in training?” She tousled his dark hair which looked as though he’d sneaked out of bed in a hurry to get to the desk before she did. He was trying to charm her out of her pique by turning his intense green-eyed stare on her. She wasn’t falling for the same trick his father used on a regular basis.

“Away from my desk, Imp.” She pointed in the direction of the kitchen.

He made as if to pretend he hadn’t heard and turned back to scrawling pictures and new words he was learning on the paper he’d taken from her desk.

“Out,” she repeated. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have one of the footmen remove the kittens from your bed and return them to the stable.”

His head whipped around again, and he tipped over his chair in his rush to get away from her desk. She was righting the chair and re-organizing the mess her son had made within her own desk mess when her arms were imprisoned from behind.

“What did you do to our heir to cause him to race out of here like the hounds of hell were after him?”

“I threatened his stash of kittens.”

“Oh…then I’m afraid I’m going to have to punish you on his behalf.”

She hitched up her chin and glanced back over her shoulder to give her gaoler better access to her neck and ear, which he used to his advantage with alacrity. He gave the lobe of her ear a delicate kiss and nip.

“Ummm, that’s nice. What else do you have for me this morning?”

Whilst he was working up a sufficiently erotic answer, she whirled and captured his wrist with one of the silk scarves she always carried in the serviceable pockets she’d had her dressmaker put in all of her skirts and dresses. Before he could react, she’d expertly wrapped the other end of the scarf around a conservatory support pillar and finished with a knot she’d tied dozens of times before.

“Help, please stop,” he cried in a weak voice, the sound of which he had no intention of allowing to carry to the kitchen where her mother-in-law and aunt by unspoken agreement would keep their precocious son occupied for at least the next hour or two.

“Hmmm, your schoolmaster tells me you’ve been a bad boy again.”