When they parted, Damien saw the love shining in April’s eyes. He understood how deeply hurt she had been by his betrayal of her trust, just as he saw now with a rush of pure joy that she had forgiven him. There was only complete devotion and a genuine desire to build a life together reflected in her beautiful green eyes now.
“I love you, Lady Cross,” he said softly, before his lips moved against hers again. A second later an explosive cry came from the bassinet, and April laughingly broke off their passionate kiss. “Your daughter is still hungry, Lord Cross.”
“Nonsense. She’s merely jealous.” Nevertheless Damien moved quickly back to the cradle, and grinned down at the wide-eyed baby who fell abruptly silent and looked hopefully up at him. “I have something I think you’ll like, Misty.”
From his coat pocket Damien withdrew a long golden chain with a familiar gem dangling from the center.
April gasped and moved up beside him. “My diamond.”
“Our daughter’s now, if I don’t miss my guess,” Damien chuckled, watching the baby’s chubby hands waving wildly to catch the sparkling prisms of light. “I think she’s safely entertained for the next hour or two.” He looped it securely to the hood of the bassinet, letting it dangle enticingly just out of Misty’s reach.
“Now,” Damien murmured, turning to take April in his arms, “I think I should see about entertaining her mother, don’t you?”
“Oh, most definitely, my lord.”
April sealed the suggestion by raining kisses down Damien’s neck, and next she knew, she was high in the air, being swiftly carried to the bed.
Epilogue
THE DOWAGER COUNTESS DISEMBARKED from the shiny coach bearing the Cross coat of arms and promptly let out a small screech. Flying toward her on a great black horse came a young girl, black ringlets bouncing, a sparkle of mischief in her green eyes.
“Grandmere!”
The girl gathered up her steed, bringing it to a sliding stop within inches of the countess on the lush summer lawn. Her young voice was filled with the joy of life and love for the feisty little Frenchwoman glaring up at her.
“Mistelle, where are your manners? Get off that creature at once. What are your parents thinking, to let you ride such a wild beast?”
In deliberate defiance, the young girl leaned down to stroke the glistening neck of her horse. “Azize is not a wild beast, Grandmere. He is my pet, my baby. Isn’t that so, Azize?”
The colt sired by Prince Adar snorted softly as if in agreement, and Marcelle threw up her hands in a dramatic display as she glanced toward the mansion. “Where are your parents?”
Misty’s mischievous grin quickly turned to a pout. “It’s Jamie’s third birthday today, Grandmere. Such fuss simply because he is a boy.”
“He is the fifth earl of Devonshire,” her grandmother reminded her, and then she smiled in sympathy up at the pretty little girl still astride her horse. “Can you keep a secret, Mistelle?”
The eight-year-old bounced in the saddle with delight. “Oh, you know I can, Grandmere.”
“Bien. I am here to ask your father if you may return to France with me. It is high time you learned how to be a young lady.”
Misty let out a soft squeal, slid down from her horse and flung herself into the older woman’s arms. “Oui, I want to go.”
“Then we shall ask your father.” Fondly Marcelle patted the black curls so like her own, and hand-in-hand they went into Mistgrove.
They found Lady Cross and several servants decorating the great ballroom for the children’s party to be held later that afternoon. April looked lovely in a soft rose-colored gown, her golden hair twisted into a gleaming chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a single strand of pearls around her throat, and had matured into an elegant beauty. Exactly as an earl’s wife should look, Marcelle thought approvingly, opening her arms to return April’s loving embrace.
“Maman!” The endearment warmed the dowager countess’s heart. “When did you arrive?”
“Five minutes ago, to be exact,” Marcelle laughed. “Just in time to watch ma petite-fille thundering across the moors.”
April looked down and noticed her daughter’s wind-kissed cheeks and the missing hair ribbons. There was also a conspicuous mud stain on her frilly white party frock, but Mistelle endured her mother’s inspection with an innocent expression.
“Is Damien here?” the countess asked.
“Oui, he’s upstairs battling with Jamie.” It was only natural to speak in French when Marcelle was here. A small smile teased at April’s lips. “Lately, your grandson no longer wishes to wear short pants. Or any pants, for that matter.”
Misty giggled and both women turned just in time to see a blond-haired, chubby toddler come tearing down the stairs with his sire in exasperated pursuit. James Edward Cross had not a single stitch of clothing on, but the fifth earl of Devonshire seemed happily oblivious to the fact as he came barreling into the ballroom to fling himself into April’s skirts.
“Up,” he demanded, and his chuckling mother complied as Damien came to a puffing halt before the small group.
“That little devil,” Damien accused with a wagging finger at his son, who peered back at his father with huge blue eyes from the safety of his mother’s arms, “is entirely Romany. He acts as if clothes are a penance.”
“Well, aren’t they?” Marcelle laughed, enjoying the joke since she had learned long ago the truth of April’s upbringing. “I daresay he would start a new trend in France. With the way the latest court fashions look, I might prefer such au naturel attire myself.”
Misty was ready to burst. She tugged on Damien’s coat sleeve. “Papa,” she announced excitedly, “Grandmere wants me to go to France with her.”
“What?” Her startled parents spoke in unison, and the dowager countess gave her granddaughter a playful wink.
“Pouf! So much for secrets, eh? But it is true. I think it is time Mistelle was introduced to another part of her heritage. After all, Damien was going back and forth across the channel when he was still in nappies.”
“Maman, I don’t know —” April began uneasily.
“Henriette Dupre has gone abroad,” Marcelle announced with satisfaction. “In fact, the entire Dupre family has immigrated to Mexico at the request of the Emperor himself. They will not return.” Her dark eyes glinted with mischief.
“What have you done, Maman?” Damien demanded.
Marcelle shrugged. “Moi? Nothing much. Simply mentioned to Louis that the Archduke Maximilian and his wife might like company on the journey. Can I help it if the Dupres were the obvious choice?”
Damien knelt to his daughter’s height. “Do you want to go, poppet?”
“Ever so much. I want to see the chateau and the vineyards and learn how to dance —”
He laughingly held up a hand to cease her chatter. “If it’s all right with your mother, you have my permission.”
April felt the weight of three pairs of eyes on her and relented with a sigh. “Very well. But you shan’t be able to take Azize along, you know.”
A moment of indecision flitted across Misty’s face. Then, turning to the dowager countess, she asked slyly, “Might you find me another horse in France, Grandmere?”
Marcelle grinned. “I think we might, ma doux. We shall stay the weekend, and then be off on a new adventure.” She looked gratefully at her son and his wife. Her grandchildren were her whole life now, and they understood.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, AFTER Lord and Lady Cross waved goodbye to Mistelle and her grandmother from the front steps of the mansion, April turned and buried her face in Damien’s lapels.
“I don’t think I can bear it,” she gasped tearfully.
Damien chuckled as he stroked her golden hair. “Little ones grow up, my love. But we still have Jamie.’“
“Not for long.” April sniffled and raised her head. Her green eyes were imploring as she gazed up at her handsome husband. “I want another baby, Damien.”
&
nbsp; A slow smile curved his sensuous mouth. “You know I can’t deny you anything, Lady Cross,” he said huskily before he captured her lips beneath his.
Out in the pasture, Prince Adar paused to stare a moment at the couple embracing in the mist. Then, with a shake of his mighty black head, he raced off to find his mares.
About the Author
Patricia McAllister is the author of five historical romance novels, a novella, and a chapter in a “how to write” nonfiction book. She also writes under the pen name Brit Darby with fellow author Fela Dawson Scott. Find more details on Brit Darby’s novels at www.britdarby.com.
You can visit at: www.britdarby.com
Or e-mail: [email protected]
Other books by Patricia McAllister:
Mountain Angel
Sea Raven
Fire Raven
Snow Raven
Absolute Angels (novella)
As Brit Darby:
Emerald Prince
Gypsy Jewel Page 28