Chapter Twenty-Five

She'd gone. She'd left him. A heavy premonition had laid over him when he'd woken, but he'd cast it off in favor of a new determination. Whatever his wife wanted, he would support her in it. He'd thought he wanted her to admit to being flawed, but no, he wanted her to be happy.

He'd hoped that would mean with him.

All morning he'd been in a shop on Angel Street, thinking that an expensive gift could express all the things he'd failed to explain last night. He'd spent hours poring over shiny things and meanwhile, she'd left him. The servants said Emily had left early and hadn't told anyone her intention. He'd sent footmen to everywhere he could think of, to no avail. She wasn't at her parents' house, her friend Mrs. Anderson, or any of the places he could think of.

He shoved his bowler hat onto his head and snatched up his walking stick.

"Jones!" he called, "send the footmen out to find me if Lady Markshall returns home." He couldn't sit inside, twitchy with anxiety. Without waiting for a reply, he took the stairs two at a time down to the hallway. When the front door opened he thought the footman was being efficient.

Emily strode into the hall, bringing with her the scent of fresh air.

He stopped.

She tossed her hat onto the sideboard with a thud and frowned at him. "Where are you going?"

"Where have you been?" He half growled, half roared the question, even as he couldn't take his eyes from her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her hair glinted in shades of gold and chestnut in the sunlight and her lips were the color of decadent red wine. Effortless authority emanated from her like a perfume.

"I visited Connie and disowned her because she's Lady X—. Then I went to the park and galloped until my mare was winded." Finger by finger she tugged her gloves off with staccato movements.

Oscar gaped. Off to the side, the footman who'd opened the door slunk away. Now she said she'd been riding he noticed there were splashes of mud near the hem of her dress. Her hair was falling from its style at the edges. She'd really been galloping.

"You can't go out." She took the walking stick from his hand and let it fall with a clatter to the floor. "Because we're going to bed." She turned a smile on him like the summer sun coming out from behind a cloud.

He blinked in confusion. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon."

"Better than two in the morning, no?" She turned on her heel and went to the stairs, skirts swaying. "I'll have plenty of light to see you."

He had no choice but to follow. He would follow wherever she led, for the rest of his life.

Upstairs, he closed her bedroom door firmly behind them. He'd not been into her rooms since their marriage. She'd come to his rooms in the dark, never inviting him into her space.

"You said I should admit who I am," she said from the middle of the room, leveling a stare at him. "Well. You were right. I'm quite wicked. I'm not a Perfect Lady and although I do like ferns, I like other things as well."

She approached Oscar slowly, examining him as she did.

Oscar smiled as he understood. She was owning herself and her actions. He'd asked her to embrace who she was, and this was it. Even this Medusa version of his wife was much too good for him, but he no longer cared.

When they were almost chest to chest, she ran a finger down his lapel while she licked her lips with unambiguously sexual intent. "I said I didn't want you, and that was a lie."

"So, what are you going to do?" He breathed the question like a prayer. Being a tigress suited her.

"Take off my clothes." Her eyes sparkled as she brought her hands to the buttons down the front of her bodice. "And tell you I love you."

Markshall's smile spread into a grin of pure delight. From her, who knew regret and guilt and accepted him and herself despite it all, he could accept and give love. "I don't deserve anything as good as you. I love you. I'll do anything for you. You just have to order it."

"Take off your clothes." She was watching him as greedily as he was her.

"As you wish." He shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the ground then reached for his tie.

"Then make love to me." Her voice was serious, maybe even threatening, but there was a little catch at the corner of her mouth. "I don't recommend you spurn me. I've some form on taking my dues."

***

Afterward, he gathered her up into his arms, so she lay half across his chest. He was warm, and Emily was drowsy with satiety and contentment.

"Do you care about me?" It was a silly question really, but it popped out of her mouth without any censorship. She wasn't going to guard every word anymore.

"No." He breathed the denial into her ear. He laughed softly and ran his hand over her bottom, lingering at the crease. "I love you."

"I'm glad." She hadn't realized she'd tensed, but she eased her limbs back into repose. "Because if you tried to leave, I'd shoot you."

He huffed with laughter. "I'd deserve it. Now, would you like to see your wedding present?"

"You bought a wedding present? But I have a present. You." She gave a saucy look down to his waist.

As she'd expected, his response was an approving groan. "Tempting though it is to continue to show you all the functions of that present, there are enormous boxes clogging up the drawing room."

He rolled them out of bed and Emily was upright, giggling helplessly before she knew what was happening. This was what she'd thought married life would be. Joy. Companionship. She hadn't realized going to bed in the middle of the day and threats of bodily harm would be part of it, but life was unexpected.

She insisted Oscar help her dress to the extent that she wouldn't scandalize the servants; old habits don't die. He threw on his usual lounge suit, now even more rumpled than it had been.

Oscar's smile was crooked, almost sly as he waved her into the drawing room. On the floor, as he'd said, were stacks of simple wooden boxes, marked Edward Barnard and Sons.

"Is it an enormous gold font?" she asked.

"It comes in several boxes for you to put it together yourself. I'm rich, but this wasn't quite as costly as the Queen's Lily font." He nodded, urging her forward.

She knelt, undid the clasp on the nearest box and lifted the lid. Nestled in wood shavings there was a glint of silver. It took both hands to remove the first item. A silver coffeepot covered with an engraved pattern of… what else? Ferns. Then a sugar bowl with tongs, cream jug, teapot, and a tray. All with a matching fern pattern. The beauty of it expanded in her heart and spread through her.

"Do you like it?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "I thought you could use them. You could use the set when you host events for fern collecting. Or meetings to arrange new pamphlets. As a political wife involved in Whig negotiations, if you so choose. Or it could be just for family dinners if that's what you'd prefer."

She fingered the sugar bowl. He'd said she didn't really like ferns but bought her an excess of fern-related items. These were just the sort of thing she'd have wanted, but never justified the exorbitant cost for solid sterling silver items from a premier silversmith.

"I want you to do whatever you wish. You can behave however you feel appropriate. I'm sorry I pushed you to be bad. You can be anything."

It wasn't a lot of silver receptacles. It was acceptance. They were freedom. He'd given her all the things she'd need, and the permission, to be herself, whatever that meant. And he'd chosen the most expensive way to say so.

"I want you to trust me," he added into the silence.

"I do trust you." She rose. "Thank you." She trusted him and herself not to be perfect but to be good. She trusted herself to lose her temper proportionally and not hurt anyone. He was saying that she could continue to be the Perfect Lady if she wanted to. And she knew now that she didn't need to.

"There's still more," he said as she approached him. "That contains a tureen and a wine ewer," he was pointing at one of the other boxes, "and that one has a fruit platter and three candelabras."

She grasped his hand and watched his dark blue eyes as she brought his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss into his palm. "Is there a cherry picker?"

"Always." He pulled her into his arms and she caught a glimpse of his demonic cherub grin. "Any hole you choose, I will be there with you."