He knew her so well.
And he was right, this was the best of all.
She clutched the key in her fist. "This is the most perfect gift I've ever received. Thank you. And now is the moment where I confess that I've only one gift for you, and it's nowhere near so wonderful."
"Charlotte." He reached for her, cupping her cheek in his hand. "Mere hours ago, you vowed before God to be my wife. I love you so completely, you've already filled every hidden chamber of my heart and every dark, secret cupboard of my being. You need never trouble with presents. I consider myself full up on gifts for the rest of my days."
Oh, this man. How could she have ever believed him to be cold and unromantic?
She smiled and blinked away a silly tear. "Well, then. Perhaps my gift is appropriate after all."
She hopped down from the bed, rummaged through the baggage the footmen had carried up until she found the right hatbox, and hurried back with her small present.
"Here." Before she could lose her nerve, she thrust it into his hand. "It's just a portrait. Of me."
Excellent, Charlotte. As if he couldn't see that for himself?
"Delia painted it before she left with her family," she explained.
"She captured you well."
"Do you think so?"
In answer, he set aside the portrait and took her mouth in a passionate kiss. "I adore it," he whispered against her lips. "I adore you."
He bent his head to kiss her neck and her ear, cupping her breast in his hand and gently stroking his thumb around her nipple.
"Delia wrote that she's painting us a landscape now." Charlotte sucked in her breath when his hand dipped between her thighs. "A view of the rolling hills and groves. She says the Italian countryside is almost as inspiring as the frescoes."
"Glad to hear it."
She tangled her hand in his hair as he rolled her onto her back. "Did I thank you for using your influence to change Sir Vernon's appointment?"
"Mm-hm," he murmured, flicking his tongue over her nipple.
"And for promising we'll visit the Parkhursts this summer, stopping over in Paris and Vienna on the way?"
"Only few dozen times."
"It just means so much to-- Oh."
He drew her nipple into his mouth, teasing the sensitive peak with his tongue and teeth. By the time he released it, she'd lost the thought entirely.
In a flash, he'd moved atop her, pushing her thighs apart and hooking her knees over his shoulders. Then he grasped her hips and yanked her toward him with a flex of his arms, spreading her most intimate places for his kiss.
The move was brusque, commanding.
Anything but proper.
And the way he set about using his tongue was devilish indeed.
"Piers." Several breathless, writhing moments later, she tugged on his hair until she caught his gaze. "You didn't really resign, did you?"
"The truth?"
"Always."
He gave her a slow, wicked smile. "Spies never truly retire, darling. They just go under very deep cover."
With that, he drew the quilt up to her waist and disappeared beneath it.
The next morning, Charlotte slept like a stone.
Acknowledgments
Like Charlotte Highwood, I've always been intrigued by mysteries.
Thanks to my mother, for passing on all her old Nancy Drew books. Thanks to my friends and my family, close and extended, for their support and understanding when I don't have a clue. Much gratitude to my husband, who agrees our love is one mystery that doesn't need to be solved. It just is.
Another persistent mystery in my life is why my editor, Tessa Woodward, continues to put up with me--but I am so grateful that she does. My thanks to everyone else who makes up the crack Avon team. And all my appreciation to my agent, Steve Axelrod, and Lori and Elsie, who have all the answers.
Lastly, my thanks (and apologies) to Jane Austen and Stephen King for providing two iconic opening lines in fiction, both of which I shamelessly twisted for my own uses since it was not a particularly dark or stormy night.