by Syrie James
They were both breathing hard and fast. She matched his tempo, reveling in the pure joy of this union that was so much more than she ever could have imagined. Then she crashed over the edge again. Seconds later, she heard his own deep moan of pleasure, felt the rapid pulse of his manhood inside her, and she knew that he’d found his own release.
Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms, holding each other close, foreheads touching.
“I thought I had a pretty good imagination,” she said softly, gazing into his brown eyes, “but I never knew that this . . . could be like that.”
His eyes were filled with affection as he tenderly stroked her cheek. “Neither did I,” he admitted roughly. “Neither did I.”
“Do you think . . . we could do it again?”
He chuckled deep in his throat. “As my lady commands.” Then his mouth took possession of hers once more.
Epilogue
Cornwall, England
November 1888
Alexandra lay on the sofa in the private sitting room off the master bedroom, clad in a diaphanous peach-colored Grecian gown that revealed more than it hid. A fire burned in the hearth, warming the room, a complement to the glow of happiness she felt as the wife of Thomas Carlyle, the Earl of Longford.
Ten weeks had passed since their marriage. She and Thomas had honeymooned for a month in Italy, an unforgettable trip generously paid for by her father. They had then returned home to resume their wedded bliss at Polperran House, where Lillie and Julia now enjoyed the attentions of a wonderful new governess.
Alexandra had so adored her own time teaching the girls, however, that she spent part of each day working with them herself. She was also working directly with the headmaster of the local school in the village to add more varied subjects to the curriculum. She volunteered there, two afternoons a week, teaching geography and literature, and Thomas offered his time giving art lessons to the children.
She kept in touch with her sisters via weekly correspondence, letters that she read and reread with great pleasure, while looking forward to visits from them in the future. Kathryn and Madeleine were both back at Vassar, although Madeleine had promised their mother another London Season next year, after she graduated.
With some coaxing, Alexandra had finally persuaded her new husband to accept help in the way of her fortune, to revitalize Polperran House—if not for himself, she insisted, then to preserve it for future generations. He seemed pleased with the improvements so far. In the past two months alone, the roof had been repaired and dozens of windows had been replaced. Improvements were underway to update the plumbing and install gas lighting. They’d ordered new furnishings, and more than two dozen new carpets had been installed. To Alexandra’s delight, six new gardeners had been employed, and work had begun to restore the gardens to their former glory.
The residents of Longford village were excited about changes under way, including roof repairs and other structural improvements to their cottages. Alexandra and her husband had also purchased new farm machinery for their tenants and brought in experts to discuss the possibility of growing crops other than wheat, which might bring in more income.
Thomas, his interest in painting already revived, had been further inspired by the works of art in the great museums of Florence and Rome. Although he no longer had to paint portraits for hire, he’d admitted that there was one portrait he’d been dreaming of painting for some time now, the one which was currently in progress: a portrait of Alexandra as the goddess Aphrodite.
“I have been wondering,” Thomas remarked, dabbing at the palette with his brush, “since I no longer worry about being recognized in town, What would you think if I shave off my mustache?”
“I hope you won’t. I fell in love with you wearing that mustache. And I love the way it feels when you kiss me.”
“When I kiss you where?” His eyes glittered.
“Everywhere,” she answered, and they both laughed.
“It just occurred to me,” he mused, returning to work on the canvas, “you never told me what happened to that painting I gave you all those months ago, the day that I . . .” He paused, a guilty look crossing his face.
“The day you threw me out of the house?” Alexandra asked calmly. At the time, it was the most bitter and painful moment of her life. Now that they were happily married, and he’d spent months expressing his love for her and his regret over what happened, she could look back on it with equanimity.
He dared a glance at her. “Have you forgiven me?”
“With all my heart.”
He sighed with relief. “Well, then. What about the painting—that Italian landscape? As I remember, you were quite fond of it.”
“I was. I still consider it one of your best works.” It was interesting timing, she thought, that he was asking about that painting today, of all days.
“What did you do with it? Did you sell it?”
“Sell it? Of course not.” The idea had never even occurred to her.
“Well, then?”
“What did you hope I’d do with it?” she teased. “You never said why you gave it to me.” She’d always wondered why, but considering what she’d done with the painting, she’d thought it best not to bring up the subject.
“I gave it to you because you said you loved it. I suppose, deep down, even in the throes of my anger that day, I knew it was wrong to make you leave, and thought the painting could somehow make up for it.”
“I thought it might be something else. That you couldn’t bear to look at it anymore because you’d added me to the scene.”
“What? No! Not at all. I just wanted you to have it. I hoped it would make you happy.”
She smiled, gratified by this discovery. “Well, I hope, when you learn of its fate, it will make you happy.”
“Its fate?” He paused, brush in hand. “That sounds ominous.”
She got up from the sofa. “I have something to show you. A letter arrived for you today. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad news, so I was waiting to give it to you at dinner. But this seems as good a time as any.” She moved into the adjoining room, retrieved the envelope from her bureau drawer, then returned and offered it to him.
He put down his paintbrush and studied the envelope. “It’s from the Academy of British Artists.” He glanced at her in confusion. “Why are they writing to me?”
“Open it and find out.”
He removed the letter from the envelope and read it aloud.
The Academy of British Artists
Suffolk St., Pall Mall East, London
Attn: Mr. T. Carlyle
c/o Polperran House, Longford, Cornwall
Dear Mr. Carlyle:
Thank you for submitting your painting, Italian Rhapsody, for our consideration. It is our great pleasure to inform you that Italian Rhapsody has been accepted into our winter exhibition as a work of merit, to hang in the main gallery.
In recognition of your achievement, and as a gesture of our regard for your exceptional work, we would like to extend to you an invitation to become a member of the Academy of British Artists. Another letter will be forthcoming explaining the means by which you may be instated as a member. It will also contain further details about the winter exhibition, which is due to run January 10–March 14.
In the meantime, thank you again for your submission and your interest in our organization. We look forward to a future association which we hope will benefit all concerned.
With all best wishes,
G. Somerset, Supervising Director
The Academy of British Artists
Alexandra exclaimed with delight and clasped her hands, waiting eagerly for his response.
Thomas stared at the missive. “My submission? Lexie, what have you done? You gave them my painting?”
“I didn’t give it. I submitted it.”
“When?”
“The day after you fired me, when I returned to London.”
He winced at her words, then glanced a
t her, dumbfounded. “How? Do you know someone on the board?”
“Not a soul. But I managed to find the person in charge. I told him I’d been engaged to submit a work of art for a friend. The summer exhibition was already in full swing, but once he saw the painting, he said I could enter it in the competition for the winter exhibition. I used the name T. Carlyle, knowing you preferred to be incognito. And your address only suggests that you live here, with no hint that you’re an earl. The man said it’d be months before they announced their decisions. I didn’t want to say anything, in case they didn’t accept it.”
Thomas shook his head, amazed. “I do not know what to say.”
“Are you pleased?” she asked carefully, gazing up at him.
“Of course I am.”
She let out a relieved breath. “I’m so glad. When I dropped off the painting, I never expected to see it, or you, ever again. But I hoped . . . I dreamed of making your dream come true, Thomas.”
“Even though,” he said ruefully, “the day before, I’d behaved in the most cruel and insensitive manner.”
“You’re a wonderful painter, Thomas. Your work has a right to be seen. I predict there will be many more paintings as marvelous as Italian Rhapsody. But for now, it’ll hang in a place of honor at the academy, just as you wished. And they’ve invited you to be a member.”
“A great honor. But how can I possibly accept?”
“How can you not? You don’t have to paint for a living now. There’s no reason for you to keep your ability a secret. Stir things up, Thomas! Be known by your own name for the talent that you are. What can it hurt when they find out you’re an earl?”
“They could refuse to accept the painting. They could rescind their offer to join the academy.”
“Maybe. But I doubt it. Just because a member of the nobility has never applied, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t accept him if he did. There must be other peers who are dying to have their work recognized. You could pave the way for the rest. It’s always hardest to be the first to challenge old ideas, to break new ground. But it’s the American way.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And you are quite the American girl, aren’t you?” he said, echoing a statement he’d made months ago. Only this time, he said it with admiration and love.
“And proud of it,” she replied with a smile.
Still gripping the letter, he drew her into his arms. “I do not deserve you, Lady Longford.”
She threaded her fingers up through his silky blond hair. “There are just as many times when I think I do not deserve you.”
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“Not in the last five minutes.”
“Well, it is a sentiment that bears repeating.” His eyes glowed with affection as he gazed down at her. “I love you, Alexandra Carlyle, my Countess of Longford.”
“And I love you, Thomas Carlyle, my earl.”
They kissed each other then, a long and lovely kiss filled with all the promise of the future, and all the love in their hearts.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my agent Tamar Rydzinski for her encouragement to write historical romance, her many thoughtful readings of the book in progress, and for finding it a home at Avon. Huge thanks to my beta readers Claudine Pepe, Meredith Esparza, and Bill James.
I am indebted to Gail MacColl and Carol McD. Wallace for their detailed work To Marry An English Lord, and to Sally Mitchell for her Daily Life in Victorian England, which served as resources for this novel.
Thanks to my editor, Carolyn Coons, for shepherding this book through the publication and design process. A big thanks to Guido Caroti for the awesome cover, copy editor extraordinaire Ellen Leach, and the entire team at Avon. I wish to especially thank Lucia Macro for her support of my work through decades and countless books. I loved writing this novel, and am having such fun with the series!
Biggest thanks of all to my darling husband Bill for being so loving and supportive of my need to tell stories, even though it requires so many long hours and weeks and months at the computer away from you. Thank you for enthusiastically accompanying me on all the research trips to England, boldly driving on the “wrong” side of the road, and sharing my delight as we scouted ancient great houses and wandered through endless fields of bluebells. You are my rock and my strength, and I adore and appreciate you.
About the Author
SYRIE JAMES is a bestselling author whose critically acclaimed novels have been translated into eighteen languages. Syrie loves writing books set in nineteenth century England, where she believes she must have lived in another life. Her books have been Library Journal Editor’s Picks and won numerous awards including the Audiobook Association Audie for Romance, Women’s National Book Association Great Group Read, B&N Romantic Read of the Week, Best Snowbound Romance (Bookbub), Best of the Year (Suspense Magazine and Romance Reviews), and Best First Novel (Library Journal). Syrie lives in Los Angeles and is a member of the Writers Guild of America. She has addressed audiences as a keynote speaker across America and England, and has written, directed, and performed in numerous theatrical productions for the Jane Austen Society of North America.
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Also by Syrie James
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Jane Austen’s First Love
The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen
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Songbird
Nocturne
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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.
runaway heiress. Copyright © 2018 by Syrie James. 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 JUNE 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-284966-3
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-284967-0
Cover photos: © Mary Chronis, VJ Dunraven Productions & PeriodImages.com (couple); © Akabei//iStock/Getty Images (garden); © Boonyachoat/ iStock/Getty Images (sky)
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