Page 17 of The Spinster's Seduction(The Lover's Arch #4)
Crisp snow crunched under Charles’s boots as Evelyn led him through a little-visited section of Hyde Park. The Serpentine, frozen over, had been adorned with white, and the bare trees seemed to him like bony fingers. The cold sneaked everywhere, slipping past his hat and scarf and smart gloves to find skin. His nose felt numb, and his boots, while eminently fashionable, had not been fashioned with ice in mind.
“Evie,” he said. “Do you think—”
“No, Charles, I do not think we should return to that teashop you saw.”
“But it looked decidedly warm.”
She glanced back at him, the tip of her nose red and her eyes dancing. An expression that captivated him enough that he gave up all attempts at protest then and there. “You may go and thaw there after we have done,” she said.
“And what is it you would have us do?”
“Just a little further.”
His memory sparked as she led him down a narrow path, frozen twigs scraping at his trousers. They had been along here once before, he thought, before he’d come to his senses and married her, when she had brought him out for a walk and his bad temper had almost prevented her from approaching him .
And there, as they turned the corner, was the archway itself. It rose, glistening with ice, the leaves and branches on either side coated in frost. It looked like something out of a fairytale—something that Charles would once have derided himself for thinking, but with his newfound bride, and the discovery that one could indeed marry for love, he found himself somewhat more liberal-minded.
This was a scene from a chilly fairytale, and Evelyn was its princess, turning to him with a satisfied smile. “There,” she said. “I found it.”
“What, precisely, is it?”
“An arch.”
“I see that.”
“Lady Durham told me about it,” she explained, her steps slowing as she approached. She wore a deep green dress today, the flared skirts catching against the undergrowth. With one hand, she removed her leather gloves, revealing slim fingers and chapped knuckles. This cold spell was worse than the ones he could remember as a boy, the world gripped in the relentless claws of winter.
“About the arch?” he asked, trying to understand and not be distracted by the way she ran a finger along the slick stone. There was something so effortlessly erotic about her, and it never failed to captivate him.
“Yes. Apparently, there’s a myth around it. The Lovers’ Arch, it’s called.”
Charles looked at the arch. By his guess, it was a relic from the Roman occupation of London, but he saw nothing particularly prepossessing about it. It looked like every other crumbling bit of stone he had seen in the city, largely overgrown and forgotten.
But Evelyn had brought him here, looking at it with wonder in her eyes, so he said, “And what does it do?”
“According to Lady Durham, you must say your lover’s name under the arch, and they will be sure to fall in love with you.” The mirth fell away from Evelyn’s eyes as she looked up at him. He stepped closer, tucking her shawl more firmly about her shoulders. “You refused to seduce me, and so as a last ditch effort, I suppose, I brought you here.”
“Oh?” He cocked a brow, sliding a hand around her waist. “Evidently I was far too distracted to notice.”
“I fell,” she admitted.
“That will explain it.” He grinned down at her. “So, you wanted me badly enough to appeal to the arch’s supposed power?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He kissed the tip of her frozen nose, his memory of that meeting returning—although he had paid no attention to their surroundings then. “If I recall correctly, you did more than merely say my name, though. You asked me to kiss you.”
“And you listened,” she said, the corners of her mouth curling. “I think that’s when I knew the arch’s power had been evoked.”
“Shame on you, believing in magic.”
“More on the influence of happy souls gone before.” She reached past him and tapped the underside of the arch at head height. Following the path of her fingers, he realised that words had been carved in the stone, so old that they had almost been entirely obscured. “What does this say?”
“You realise I haven’t read any Latin since I was a boy?” he asked, amused. “I was never like you, studious and good at everything you turned your hand to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. Had you learnt Latin, you would have been a prodigy, I have no doubt. I was not.” Still, to please her, he squinted at the inscription, trying to make what he could from it. “ Sub arcu, amor fulget, sussurri dulces, cor evolat ,” he read slowly, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. It had been a long time since he had needed to think in this dead language—and although it underpinned so much of English, it still felt alien to him. “ Sub arcu ,” he repeated. “That means under the arch , I think.”
“And amor is love,” she interjected. “It’s amour in French.”
“Indeed it is,” he agreed. “So, the first is, under the arch, love . . . fulget .” He clicked his tongue as he thought. “ Love shines bright . ”
“What about sussuri dulces ?” She tipped her head back, reading the words as they arched over her, carved into the ancient blocks. “ Dulces is sweet, yes?”
He cupped a hand under her elbow, pulling her closer to him so they could share body heat. “Let me guess. Italian?”
“Any good lady ought to have a good grasp of at least two languages other than their own.” Although her voice was prim, her eyes were filled with laughter. “You learnt just one, and yet you still struggle.”
“Brat. If I loved you any less, I’d say I should never have married you.” He couldn’t help his grin, and finally his boyhood training clicked into place. “ Under the arch ,” he murmured, “ love shines bright . Sweet whispers, the heart takes flight .”
“Beautiful.”
“Do you know the story behind it?”
She shook her head. “Just that a stonemason built it for his love before they ran away together. Their story has been lost to time.”
“And yet the arch endures.”
“If that symbolism doesn’t prove to you the existence of some kind of magic, then I don’t know what will.”
“I cannot believe in spells and enchantments,” he said, taking her hand and holding it against his heart. “But if enduring love is magic, then I will bow to its power, and claim it for my own.” He kissed her, their mouths warm against the chill in the air. “I vowed this on our wedding day, but let me do so now under the words of a man long dead. I love you, Evelyn Hardinge, and I will continue to love you until my body is dust and my soul elsewhere. If the only thing I am known for, like this stonemason, is loving you, then I will accept that with readiness. My life will be complete.” He glanced at the Latin, then back down into her face. “Let the arch know that. And if it has any power at all, I pray our story will be told.”
Her face was beautifully sombre, her fingers folding around his as she looked up at him. “I don’t think the magic of the arch will fail us now. Not after it brought us together. ”
“No,” he said, that unbearable fondness rising in him again. “I will believe in the Lovers’ Arch as much as you like, and I will even believe in its magic if it pleases you, but you were the one to bring us together. You were the one to ask me to kiss you—to ask me to seduce you in the first place. You captured my heart when you were a girl, even if I was a boy unused to the sensation of love and scared of what it could mean. You revived that affection when I thought I had conquered it, and you made me so mad for you that I threw away the future I had intended to give myself all my sorry, good-for-nothing life.” He tipped her chin up to him. “And I will spend the rest of my days thanking you for it.”
It began to snow again, just like it had that first time they came, the heavens reminding them that something—whether it was a god they had long forgotten about, or the arch, or perhaps the strength of their will—had brought them together. A full circle.
And Evelyn, his wife and the woman he adored more than anything in this world or the next, looked up at him with a smile, a snowflake landing on her upturned nose. “Kiss me,” she said.
So he did.
THE END