by Liz Carlyle
“My dear girl, you look ravishing!” he said, approaching her desk. “I adore that rosy glow in your cheeks.”
Xanthia smiled as he laid down his gloves and letters. “That glow is exasperation, I fear,” she said, catching his hands in hers. “What a lovely surprise, Stefan. How are you?”
“Well enough, I daresay—for a man who is a little short of sleep.” Nash bent to kiss the tip of her nose. “You left early this morning, my dear. I missed you.”
“You enjoyed last night’s dinner meeting with Tony and his political cronies, I hope?”
“Actually, I did,” Nash admitted, grinning. “It is a little shocking, really. I cannot say it is a cause to which I would willingly give my life, as Tony has—but I believe there is important government work to be done. And de Vendenheim was right, you know, about doing one’s part.”
“Was he?”
Nash nodded. “It all seems so very clear to me now.”
“Does it?” She looked at him curiously. “Why?”
“Because, Zee, we are to have a child,” he quietly confessed. “And it changes everything. Everything a man values. Everything he is willing to sacrifice for.”
Xanthia gave his hand a swift, hard squeeze. “I am so proud of you, Stefan,” she said fervently. “No matter what you do—or don’t do. You know that, I hope?”
“I do know it,” he said. “And it is just one of the reasons, Zee, why I love you so. But here, I’ve brought you this morning’s post from Park Lane. I thought you might find it of interest.”
“Shall I?” Xanthia drew back, and looked at the pile. “Have we something exciting there?”
Nash shuffled through the letters with his index finger. “There is a letter from Gareth,” he said, deftly sliding it from the pile.
“Ah!” said Xanthia. “Wonderful. What does he say?”
Nash winked. “I am not yet in the habit of opening your mail, my love,” he answered. “You must read it for yourself. But do not hold your breath, Zee. I rather doubt anything has changed.”
Xanthia was quiet for a long moment. “He is never coming back, is he?” she finally said.
Nash shook his head. “No, my love, he is not,” he answered. “He cannot—and it would be selfish of us to wish otherwise.”
Xanthia turned, and went to the window. “I wish only for his happiness, Stefan,” she said. “But I do miss him dreadfully. I shan’t pretend I don’t.”
She felt Nash’s warmth behind her and leaned back against him as his arms came about her waist. “You need never pretend with me, Zee,” he murmured into the softness of her hair. “Besides, I miss him dreadfully, too.”
“Do you?”
“Well, I miss my wife,” said Nash with chagrin. “Since she is doing two jobs now, instead of just the one.”
Xanthia laughed. “Mr. Mitchell starts next week,” she assured him. “And whilst he comes dear indeed, he is exceptionally skilled. Give me a fortnight to bring him up to snuff, then I shall be all yours for a while.”
Laughter rumbled low in Nash’s chest. “Yes, that is what you said about the last fellow,” he said. “How long did he stay?”
Xanthia sighed. “Three months, perhaps?”
“Yes, perhaps,” her husband conceded. “Now, my dear, I must tell you that there was something else in that pile of post—something which I did open.”
Xanthia turned in his arms, her eyes alight. “What?”
“Do you remember, Zee, that little villa on the Adriatic which you yearned for during our wedding trip?” he reminded her. “You will never believe it—the owner is willing to sell it after all.”
“No!” Xanthia grabbed his forearms. “Stefan, my God! Are you jesting?”
Nash bent his head, and kissed her brow. “I’ve this instant come from the bank, my dear,” he confirmed. “Everything has been arranged. And perhaps by summer—provided your Mr. Mitchell has stuck it out—we can take the child for a long visit?”
“Oh, Stefan!” Xanthia found herself blinking back tears. “What wonderful, wonderful news!”
A warm, satisfied smile spread slowly across his face. “I will be very happy, I think, to have a home in Montenegro again,” he remarked. “And happier still to share it with you.”
Just then, the rumble of conversation in the storage room rose to another crescendo. Nash crooked one of his slashing black eyebrows. “Dare I ask how the nursery goes on?”
Xanthia winced. “I fear both our decorators are possessed of an artistic temperament,” she confessed. “I think we are going to end up with green watered silk, and some sort of fancy French draperies with dancing cows.”
“Ah,” he said. “And is that your wish?”
“No, but I know when I am beaten,” she admitted.
Nash threw back his head and laughed. “Then George Kemble is a better man than I,” he admitted. “I find you quite indomitable. But honestly, Zee, you must admit he’s done wonders with this room. And the new melon-colored paint and green Turkish carpet downstairs look remarkably fine—and have you noticed the clerks seem so much more cheerful? Old Bakely was singing ‘God Save the King’ when I came in just now.”
Xanthia gave a sharp laugh and let her head fall against her husband’s shoulder. She did not care, really, about the décor of her new nursery. She cared only for the child who would soon occupy it—and for the man who had made it all possible, the man who thought no less of her for wanting the best of both worlds and was determined to give it to her. And as her arms slid round his waist, and the wool of his coat grew warm against her cheek, Xanthia’s heart swelled with an almost breath-stealing joy.
“Oh, I love you, Stefan,” she said softly. “Do you know that, my darling? Do you have any idea of the depth of my devotion?”
He set his lips to the top of her head. “As deep as the Seven Seas, I think,” he murmured. “As deep as my love for you—and just as never-ending. You are my safe harbor, Zee. And I am so glad to have found you at last.”
He held her quietly for a time, just standing there by the window as the clouds above the Thames scuttled past, and the wintry sunlight shifted across the window’s stained and ancient glass. And amidst the peace and the joy which surrounded them, nothing else held sway, not the squabbling nearby, nor the door downstairs which kept slamming, nor even the teeming commerce on the riverfront below.
He kissed her again, then whispered, “Look, my love.” He turned her in his arms to face the window again. “Is that not the Mae Rose coming up past Wapping Old Stairs?”
Xanthia’s face broke into a smile. “Oh, thank God in heaven!” she said, pressing one hand to her chest. “She’s in! Six weeks late, but in and safe.”
“Who is at her helm?”
“Captain Stretton,” she answered.
Nash squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “Then let us go down and greet him, Zee,” he said. “Let us go down together, and welcome the Mae Rose safely home, too.”
Xanthia looked up at the man she loved, then took his hand in hers. And together, they went down the narrow steps and out into the mottled sunshine of a perfect afternoon. Together, they walked toward their future.