There was a shadow of doubt in her gaze, a hint of pain, and he knew the horrified rejection of his family had severely wounded her kind, gentle heart. He knew how much she wanted a family of her own—for their longs talks she’d often reminisce of the happy moments with her parents when they’d lived, her loneliness at not having a sibling, and the happiness she found with her Aunt Agatha and cousin Jane.
He’d seen the need, and he’d vowed to give her all she desired. Only now there was an uncomfortable anxiety in the pit of his stomach. What if he was unable to provide for her with his own fortunes? His father had the power to make life difficult for him, and Gabriel knew his father would believe with his heart he was saving his son from a reckless folly. The inheritance from his grandmother was not due to him for another three years, and in that time, he would be on his own without his family support to help provide for her. The money he had from selling his commission would only last for a few months, and then it would only be his half pay. “It will be hard at first,” he murmured. “But I’ll not stop working for you,” he said as they reached the conservatory.
The boiler there was lit, the air redolent with the many blossoms. A wrought iron bench was pushed against a corner, and he guided her there, lowered himself, and tugged her into his lap. She came happily, slipping her gloved hands around his neck. Her eyes searched his, and whatever she saw reassured her, for the tension eased from her delicate shoulders.
“We’ll rent a cottage. At least three rooms. I’ll hire someone from the village to do the cooking and the clean—”
“I can do that,” she said with a light laugh.
Surprise flared through him. Though she had no wealth and little connections, he knew she'd never lived such a life where she'd been required to cook for herself and clean her own household. "Do you know how to?" he asked, curious about a facet of her life he'd not yet explored.
Her cheeks dimpled in a smile. "No. But I am quite sure I can learn." She held up her fingers. "I've learned Latin, French, and Italian. I've studied the great philosophers, the law, and literature. I am even quite excellent at needlework. How hard can it be to learn to cook and tidy after ourselves?"
Her chin wobbled slightly, and it was then he saw how brave she was trying to be. And her beautiful eyes fired with a determination to walk beside him as they made their way in life. Some of the tension in his gut released, and he expelled a shaky breath. “I’ll help too,” he promised gruffly.
“With what?”
He kissed her temple tenderly. “The cooking.”
She spluttered. “Cooking!”
“Yes.” He pushed back a few tendrils behind her ears. “And the cleaning too.”
She laughed, the warm sound filling the cold bleakness that had tried to worm its way into his heart. She had one of those expressive faces where every thought and feeling was written across it. And he saw no doubt or even fear now. Just trust and love. How her faith humbled him, soothed the pain tearing through his heart from parting from his family.
“I do believe I would enjoy seeing such a spectacle!”
Unable to suppress the need, he pushed her to her feet, took her into his arms in a silent and intimate version of the waltz. She flowed with him, elegantly and gracefully. “Someday you’ll have servants, a carriage of your own and endless dresses,” he vowed softly, for she deserved that and far more.
“I do not need any of that,” she whispered achingly, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her head against his pounding heart. “I only need you.”
And he wished to God he could believe their love would be enough. He ran a fingertip gently over her lower lip. I’ll take care of you, he vowed silently. He touched her cheek, amazed at her, just as he had been from the first moment he had seen her. “Merry Christmas, Primrose Markham.”
“And a jolly Christmas to you, Gabriel Northcote.”
Then he held her and danced, putting aside all thoughts to dream of being with her.
Primrose lived in contented bliss. They’d let a cottage of four rooms—two bedrooms, a small but tastefully furnished parlor, a private sitting room, a very large and surprisingly modern kitchen—surrounded by one of the most beautiful outdoor gardens. It was neat, tidy, well-furnished, and more than she’d ever dreamed of in a home. A soft breeze whispered through the trees, carrying through the open windows the scent of evergreen and pinecones.
The cottage was lit with several lamps—a frightful expense given the state of their economy—bathing the parlor in a warm, inviting glow. The fireplace crackled merrily, and Gabriel had procured an evergreen tree for their home, and they had laughingly decorated it with cones, twigs, and ribbons.
It had been five days since they departed Sancrest Manor with their belongings, and five days since they'd been living in glorious sin and happiness, while they waited to marry. The village folks hadn't yet realized they spent most of their time together, for Gabriel had rented a room above the local assembly room to keep up the proper appearances. But every day he slipped away to be with her and was always cautious in his coming and goings. Only one more day and all would be well. For they were to wed tomorrow morning by the local vicar, on the first day of the new year. Gabriel had just returned from London a few hours past, after using all his influence and a sizeable chunk of their money to procure a special license.
Gabriel had hired a widow to serve as a cook and housekeeper, managing the bare appearance of gentility for a gentleman of his station. The widow, Mrs. Wallwright, came in the day, tidied the cottage, prepared dinner, baked loaves of bread and cakes for the following day, and then left them for the night. Primrose insisted that she teach her everything as she cooked and she explained what needed to be done regularly to maintain their comfort. Several times Gabriel had promised Primrose a finer life as soon as he sold his novels, a horse where she could learn to ride, elegant dresses, hats, and all sorts of fripperies she’d never had. And each time she’d reassured him, he was all that she needed.
In the corner by the windows, a desk was set flush against the wall, and her husband to be was seated before the desk, his dark head bent, his shirt rolled to his elbows, and his fingertips smudged with ink as he lost himself in the world he'd created.
Drawn up before the fire, a sofa invited repose, but Primrose paced the floor of the cottage, devouring the riveting story unfolding on the sheaf of papers carefully clutched in her hands. Her love was the most amazing writer, and she believed in his vision. However, he had atrocious penmanship, and she helped him by carefully transcribing his jumbled scrawls into neat, clear, and elegant drafts.
Gabriel had fiercely opposed the idea of her working when she had suggested seeking a teaching post to assist with their living expenses. Primrose suspected she'd offended his pride. Their partnership worked out quite well, and he often remarked that her intelligent mind and gift for languages had elevated her to the status of his co-author. She quite liked the sound of it and loved working with him. Lowering the pages, she stared at him. “Mrs. Wallwright has left dinner for us. We should dine before our food grows cold."
He did not glance up from his furious scribbling. “One more—”
“Chapter,” she ended with a soft laugh. The very thing he’d said an hour ago. Primrose strolled over to him and pressed a kiss at his nape. Her lips curved, for immediately he lowered the quill and closed the inkwell. She would never tire of how he made her the center of his sole regard as if
she were the most important thing in his world.
Shifting in his chair, he smiled sheepishly and tugged her into his lap. With a laugh, she surrendered and tumbled into him, looping her hands around his neck. "And how is the rest of the book coming along?"