He made love to her, hungrily but gently, and in complete silence. Every time Eliza moaned, his mouth was on hers, quieting her when she would have cried out in passion. He made her shake and writhe and rock her hips against his in pleading until he was inside her, hard and just as desperate as she was.
Almost the instant they stopped moving, though, finding ecstasy tight in each other’s arms, the fretful sound came from the corner again. Within minutes it turned into a thin wail.
“He’s awake,” she said between gasps for breath.
“So am I.” Her husband moved above her one more time, his face fierce with satisfaction. “By God—I think I saw the heavenly host.”
She raised one brow and touched his dimple. “I didn’t realize you were left so unsatisfied these past two months.”
Hugh grinned. His hair stood up in rumpled curls around his face, giving him a wild, rakish look. “Unsatisfied? I never said that. But there are levels of satisfaction . . .” She laughed, and he kissed her again.
The thin wail became a steady cry.
Hugh got up from the bed and crossed the room, returning with their six-week-old son in his arms. Eliza sat up against the pillows and reached for the baby, her heart almost bursting with love for both of them. Willy jumped onto the bed and sat protectively beside her, as he always did when she fed Simon, and Eliza silently amended her thought. She adored all three of them.
Later, when the nurse had taken the baby and Willy was outside running in the expansive gardens with Angus, Eliza washed and dressed. She looked through her dressing table drawers for her favorite hair combs as Mary brushed out her hair and pinned it up, and in the process she found a paper, folded and forgotten inside her jewel case.
“You may go, Mary,” she told her maid, holding the paper close to her chest. Mary curtsied and left, and Eliza went to the door of the dressing room, where Hugh was finishing dressing. “Hugh,” she said. “Come here.”
“Whenever you want me, darling.” He pushed a pin through his cravat and came to her.
They had been married a year and a half now, and she still found it hard to believe at times. Not only was he even more handsome now, with his hair grown out a bit and some color in his skin from the Cornish sun, but the way he looked at her had only grown more heated and devoted. Even when she was so round with child she could barely waddle across the room, he told her she was beautiful. Once, in the middle of an inexplicable crying fit, she said he must be either blind or in love, and he had only laughed and said it was the latter—madly, deeply in love with his wife.
Eliza had thought she was happy on her wedding day, but this was something else entirely. Not just starry-eyed in love, but certain beyond all doubt that there was no other man in the world for her, and that she was everything he wanted, as well.
Without a word she held out the paper. Puzzled, he unfolded it, and then his startled gaze shot to hers.
“You told me to keep it,” she reminded him. “Until I was certain of you.” She clasped her hands behind her back to hide their sudden trembling. “I’ve been certain for a long time, you know.”
Slowly Hugh refolded the creased copy of their marriage lines he had given her so many months ago in Mrs. Upton’s parlor. “Then why now?”
She smiled, a little guiltily. “Because I know you’ve been repaying Papa behind my back all this time.”
His mouth quirked. She’d been opposed to that plan, saying her father owed it to both of them, and he had pretended to give in to her wishes. “Then you know I intend to repay every farthing of my father’s debts.”
“Yes. I’ve been writing to Papa.” She paused. It had taken months for her temper to cool enough to write to her father. The first few letters had been brief and spare; her father was a stubborn man, and she hadn’t expected him to admit fault readily.
But eventually, gradually, he had. He confessed that he had been wrong, and that he missed her. He told her he was no longer speaking to Robert Grenville and David Southbridge, whom he now realized were untrustworthy and shifty fellows. He acquired a dog, although he insisted it was only temporary. Eliza sensed her father’s heart had changed, and when she told him she was expecting a child, his joy had been palpable but humble. He never asked to come see her or the baby, although his hope was clear in every letter.
And he told her Hugh was sending him payments every quarter. At first he had complained of it, and then he simply noted that Hugh was a persistent fellow, and seemed to know his father’s debts down to the ha’penny. Eliza had told him to give the money to the Foundling Hospital if he didn’t want it, and he had grumbled about that as well, but a fortnight later Eliza received a grateful letter from the director of the Hospital. Her father had donated the money in her name.
Her husband looked at her for a long moment. “You’ve invited him to visit, haven’t you?”
“No,” she said. “I would never do that without speaking to you. But . . . I want to invite him. I want him to see Simon.”
He reached for her hand. “Good.”
Eliza jolted. “Good? You—you approve?”
“It means you’ve forgiven him.” His smile was rueful. “As I knew you would. Your heart is too kind not to. Of course you should invite him, when you are ready to see him.”
“Do you approve?” she asked hesitantly. “Papa was very unfair to you.”
Hugh kissed her hand, his lips lingering on her pulse. “Unfair! I got the better of him in the end, for I have you, and now our own little Simon. If he comes to visit I shall probably feel obliged to thank him for it. So it is not my decision to make, but yours. What sort of husband do you think I am?”
“The best,” she said. A lump formed in her throat as she smiled into his beloved face. “The only one for me.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” he said, pulling her to him. “For I’ll never let you go.”
Acknowledgments
Writing a book can seem like a lonely endeavor, an author hunched over her laptop typing away. In reality, it takes a whole crew of people to produce a book. My fervent thanks to Rebecca Smartis, who beta-read this manuscript and offered invaluable suggestions for improvement; to my incredible editor, Lyssa Keusch, who always makes my books better, and Priyanka Krishnan, her assistant editor; to Pam Jaffee and Caroline Perny, PR people extraordinaire (and my favorite brunch mates); to my friends Katharine Ashe and Maya Rodale and Eve Silver, for their insightful and trenchant comments on life and writing at very timely moments; and to my family—for walking the dog, ignoring the lax housekeeping, fetching the takeout, and being my bedrock of happiness and love when the book makes me want to tear out my hair.
About the Author
CAROLINE LINDEN knew from an early age she was a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard University and wrote computer code before turning to fiction. Her books have won the Daphne du Maurier Award, the NJRW Golden Leaf Award, and RWA’s RITA® Award, and have been translated into seventeen languages around the world. She lives in New England with her family. Find her online at www.CarolineLinden.com.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
an earl like you. Copyright © 2018 by P. F. Belsley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-267295-7
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-267294-0
Cover design by Guido Caroti
Cover illustration by Gregg Gulbronson
Cover photography by Michael Frost Photography
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