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“Yes!” she said breathlessly, pressing kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes, I will marry you! Can we do it now? Today? Oh, I have been so miserable without you. I want to come home. Say I can come home, please?”

Pip didn’t speak. He couldn’t, too overwhelmed by the feel of her in his arms, and by the answer she gave him with such ease.

There were no words to express his joy at having her back, knowing she would stay and never leave him again, and so he kissed her.

She seemed to find no fault with this answer, and kissed him back, her lips sweet and cold and so perfect he knew nothing else would ever compare.

“Harry! Harry!”

His daughter’s piercing voice carried on the still air, breaking the snow-hushed scene where only their breath and the pounding of his heart had been audible to him.

Slowly, he came to his senses, realising he was lying in the snow with his former governess sprawled on top of him, kissing her senseless in full view of his parents, his daughter, and the staff.

Oh, there would be a scandal all right, he thought ruefully.

Harry, for he could still not quite think of her as Genevieve or Miss Hamilton, pushed herself off him. “Oh, good heavens. I didn’t think,” she said, looking so appalled he laughed.

“How dreadfully you behave, love, now you are no longer a governess,” he observed, knowing he must look like a besotted fool and not giving a damn.

She stuck out her tongue, making him laugh as he got to his feet and helped her up, just as Tilly flung herself at Harry, making her fall back down in the snow with a flurry of skirts and petticoats. Tilly didn’t care, she clung to her dearest Harry, arms coiled tight about her neck.

“You came! You came home!” she said, laughing and crying all at once.

Harry hugged her back. “I did! I did, for I could never leave you my adorable girl, and I am really quite fond of your papa too,” she said through her own tears, sending Pip a look that made him think that quite fond might not be an adequate description, thank heavens.

“Come, my darlings. You cannot sit in the snow all day,” he said, reaching for them.

“Is Mrs Harris, I mean, is Miss Hamilton your darling too?” Tilly asked at once, never slow on the uptake.

“She is,” Pip replied, looking at Harry as she spoke. “She is that and much, much more.”

“Oh!” Tilly said, her eyes wide, suddenly breathless as she jittered on the spot. “Are you going to marry her?”

“If she’ll have me,” he said, looking between the two of them as Tilly squealed and clutched at Harry, almost shaking her in her excitement.

“You will, won’t you? Oh, say you will! You can be my mama, and we can be a proper family, and I’ll be good, I promise, and—”

“Ottilie Barrington, you cannot be good for more than an hour at a time,” Harry said, laughing now. “But yes, I will marry your papa, and I would be so very happy to be your mama, even if you are very naughty indeed.”

Tilly, shrieking with delight, hugged her tightly, then did the same to her father, and then ran off, slipping and sliding in satin slippers that were quite wet through.

“Pops! Pops! Grandmama!”

“Good heavens, but she’s a hoyden,” Harry said with a sigh.

“I blame her governess,” Pip replied, smirking at her as he gathered the reins to lead her horse back to the house.

“You would, when it is entirely your fault,” she replied, sliding her arm through his. “And she will need a hot bath after running about in this snow with no coat or boots. What were you thinking?” she scolded.

“I wasn’t thinking, and neither was she. We just wanted to get to the person we both love most in the world with no delay, and coats and boots were too much of a bother.”

She smiled then, gazing up at him in a way that made his heart expand and excitement for the future fill his entire being. “Do you mean it?”

Pip nodded. “I do. I didn’t realise how much until I began writing that letter because your pigheaded uncle wouldn’t let me see you. But as I wrote the words, it seemed to make everything clear, and I knew I had been a fool not to have seen it before.”

“No more than I was,” she said, shaking her head. “But I do, you see. I love you, and Tilly, like she was my own daughter.”

He nodded. “Yes,” he said simply. “Yes.”

Pip felt a sudden thrill of tension sing through her as her hand tightened on his arm, and he looked up to see his parents waiting for them. He smiled, knowing she had no reason for anxiety. “Mother, Father, might I introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Genevieve Hamilton.”

Harry dipped a curtsey. “My Lady, Lord Montagu. I am honoured, and I just wish to apologise—”

“No,” Montagu said firmly, shaking his head. “No apologies. I admire you, child. We both do, and we think you are the best thing that could have happened to our son. He has long needed someone to stand up to him and tell him when he’s being a pompous arse.”

“Sir!” Pip said, shocked by the remark.

“Oh, don’t look so affronted,” Montagu said, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “It’s no more than your mother does for me. Now, come along inside before we all freeze to death.”

Having no quarrel with this, everyone piled inside, aware of the staff scurrying away from the windows and pretending they had not been watching in astonishment.

“I hope you heard that,” Harry said in an undertone. “I have permission from Montagu himself to tell you when you are being a pompous—”

“Yes, thank you,” Pip interrupted, his expression wry. “As if you ever needed permission before,” he added, gazing at her fondly as he led his intended bride back indoors.

Though Genevieve had not been joking about wanting to marry that very day, she was not so foolish as to understand why it was not possible.

Happily, Pip’s parents being in residence made her staying at the house unexceptionable—if not the previous years when she had been there working as a governess.

Montagu had simply shrugged, agreed there would be the very devil of a scandal, and advised them simply to ignore it.

After all, such tactics had always worked for him.

Added to that, the public's hearts had been so overwhelmingly touched by Georgette’s character in His Grace and Disfavour, and the revelation that it was based upon a true story, that the romantic ending would likely overshadow any impropriety, no matter how egregious.

Finding this a sound plan, they did just that and carried on regardless, and the moment the snow thawed enough to get easily into the village and then to Monmouth, preparations began.

Not that they needed much. Neither Genevieve nor Pip wished to wait, and a quiet affair was a far better idea than a grand wedding that would cause a furore, with avid readers of her novel pushing to get a glimpse of their heroine.

Still, Matilda—as his mother insisted Genevieve call her—was firm in her belief that a wedding was not a wedding without a bride cake and flowers and most certainly a vicar, and whilst the cake and the flowers could be handled at Goshen Court, the vicar must be sent for and a common licence provided.

So, they decided to marry on Christmas Eve, and endured the days that followed in a state of happy, if impatient, anticipation.

Two days before their ordeal was over, Pip was finding the confines of the house and his parents and Tilly a little frustrating, and so suggested a walk in the gardens.

Genevieve, quite in sympathy with the idea, grabbed her coat and gloves and they scurried outside like naughty children evading their tutor.

It was a bright day, the sun glinting on the remnants of melting snow, and Genevieve turned her face up, enjoying the slight warmth as it shone against her chilled skin.

“Darling Tilly is a menace,” Pip said with a sigh. “How does she know? That’s what I don’t understand. The minute I get close enough to kiss you, she appears like some avenging chaperone. I swear my father puts her up to it.”

Genevieve laughed. “She’s happy, and she wants to share in our happiness. We must be careful not to let her think we don’t want her around.”

“Of course I want her around, just not all the time ,” he said pointedly.

Genevieve stopped and looked around her, checking they were out of sight of the house or prying eyes. “She’s not here now,” she said, quirking an eyebrow.

Pip smiled and pulled her into his arms, taking a moment to tuck the lovely rose-pink cashmere shawl he had finally given her tighter about her throat.

“No. That’s very true,” he murmured, and took full advantage of the fact.

His mouth covered hers, hot and urgent, and Genevieve melted against him, wondering if continued exposure to such overwhelming sensations could actually damage her faculties.

As his hands explored and squeezed and caressed, she thought it must be true, for she could not think of anything remotely sensible, only more , and yes , and please don’t stop .

After a prolonged and heated interlude which left Genevieve breathless and entirely witless, Pip regretfully told her they must go back inside before she froze to death.

Feeling anything but cold, she protested.

“No. I must be sensible, as you’ve clearly given up doing so,” he said gruffly, apparently no happier about it than she was. “For I will not have you catching cold and spending our wedding night with a red nose and reeking of camphor.”

“Do you mean to say you would not love me if I had a red nose and smelled of camphor oil?” she said in tragic accents.

“No, I do not mean that,” he replied darkly. “But I’d do it from a distance.”

Genevieve laughed and then ran from him, scooping up a handful of snow. She balled it up and threw it at him. It was not a terribly fine shot, but it hit him in the arm.

“Oh, you did not just do that,” he said, his eyes glittering with the light of battle.

Genevieve screamed and ran off into the gardens, with Pip in pursuit.