Unraveled (Turner, #3)

Her heart thudded wildly in her chest.

“I was hoping I could avoid the bit in the proposal where I lay out all the advantages of the match to you. There aren’t nearly enough of them. The truth is simply this: you can find a better man than I. God knows you wouldn’t have to look very hard. But I don’t believe you can find one who loves you more.”

She sucked in her breath.

“Love will never magically make me whole. It won’t heal old wounds. But when I’m around you, I do not feel as if I must be alone. I smile when you’re in the room and I laugh when you’re happy. I feel as if I’ve come home to you.” He slid his fingers up her arm, around her back. “There isn’t one part of me that you’ve flinched from. I don’t know why you’d marry me, but I know why I’m desperate for you. Nobody else on earth would bring me to myself as you have.”

“Oh, don’t you know why I love you?”

He turned to her. His hands closed roughly about her wrists. “Say it again.”

“You anchor me without holding me down. You frighten me without threatening my future. You’re unflinchingly devoted. I love you.”

It had been days since he’d so much as kissed her. He made up for that now, with a hard, demanding possession. But his kiss was belied by the soft touch of his hands on her, stroking her arms, then her ribs. His fingers trailed up her sides as he kissed her, sliding up until he cupped her face.

“How will we live? What will we tell people?” she asked.

“I don’t know. As long as it’s with you…” He kissed her again. “If it matters, I can—”

“We,” she corrected. “When it matters, we will find a way.” She gave him a long, slow smile.

He echoed it back at her.

“And we’ll start right here. With this.” She leaned in and slowly, tenderly, kissed his shoulder, and then down his neck.

After a moment, his arms came around her. “Yes,” he murmured, pulling her close and slowly peeling back her wrapper. “This is an excellent place to start.”





Epilogue




ALMOST EVERYONE IN MIRANDA’S new family had gathered at Parford Manor on the day before Christmas—two weeks after their marriage. The thought of these people as family was still foreign to her. Like the ring Smite had put on her finger, she was still too aware of them—not uncomfortable, nor unwelcome, but still all too conscious of their newness.

Lady Turner’s sisters had arrived in the early morning. They sat before the fireplace with Margaret, and played with Lady Rosa, the duke’s daughter. Rosa had just learned to pull herself up on the furniture. She stood on chubby, wobbly legs and grinned at the adulation this garnered.

The room was hung with holly, and the scent of pine boughs was heavy in the air, mixing with the hint of smoke from the crackling fire. Snow was thick on the ground outside, but the sun was out, and light glinted off the surface, brightening everything.

On the long divan, Smite, Ash, and Richard Dalrymple were arguing companionably about some item in the newspaper. Every so often, Smite would glance up and meet her eyes.

The low, private smile he gave her curled her toes. He’d been hers for every night of their honeymoon.

They’d settled into her house in Bristol, with Mrs. Tiggard staying on as housekeeper. They’d hired a manservant—but only the one, and he didn’t live in. They’d started a quiet, private life. When the New Year came, Robbie would join them. Smite would return to his duties. And Miranda would announce that she was home to visitors. Everything would change, and they’d have to make everything work once more. But for this short space of time, he was all hers.

Through the window, she caught a flash of brown.

Smite stood, dropping the paper, and cutting off the friendly back-and-forth with two words. “Mark’s here,” he announced.

Before anyone could say anything else, he darted away, opening the front door in a flurry of bells. Miranda followed with the rest of the family—everyone came except Margaret, who stayed back, bundling Rosa into warmer things.

Smite reached the carriage first, just as Mark was stepping down.

“Mark.” His pause was perceptible to her eyes only; he caught his brother in a hug after only that one bare second of hesitation.

“Where’s Ash?” Mark said. “Not hanging back, I hope.”

“Oh no,” Smite said slyly. “He has other plans.”

Mark frowned. “Other plans?” He peered around dubiously. “I can’t bring myself to believe that, on Christmas Eve of all times. After all, I—”

He was cut off by a snowball thudding into his chest.

“Guess again,” Ash called out cheerfully. “I’m fortified.”