Page 108 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Montague sniffed the air. “By tomorrow morning, the City will be washed clean.”

A sudden gust of wind and a flurry of rain had the four hurriedly retreating back into the hall.

Leaving the door almost closed, Barnaby turned to Montague and held out his hand. “I sent a footman down to Piccadilly to find you a hackney. Can’t have you going out in this and catching your death.”

“Or drowning.” Grasping Montague’s arm, Penelope stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for saving my secretary—she’s only been with me a short time, but already I don’t know what I would do without her.”

“More accurately,” Barnaby said, “you do know, and that only makes you more determined to keep her.” He smiled at Violet and took her hands in his. “If I may?” He bent and brushed a kiss to her cheek. Then he released her and, taking Penelope’s hand, stepped back toward the stairs as he nodded to both Violet and Montague. “Good night to you both.”

“Indeed.” Allowing Barnaby to draw her up the stairs, Penelope sent an air-kiss winging Violet’s way. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow sometime, Violet dear.”

Violet watched the pair disappear up the stairs. As she turned to Heathcote, the two footmen came back through the front door and walked on down the hall.

One nodded to Heathcote. “Mr. Mostyn said as the hackney will be just a few minutes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Montague waited until the pair had passed through the swinging door at the rear of the hall, then, turning to Violet, taking her hands—hands she readily surrendered—he looked into her face.

Her well-beloved face.

She looked up at him; the same hopes and expectations that were burgeoning in his chest were shining in her lovely eyes.

He smiled, gently, then raised one of her hands and brushed his lips to her fingers. “We need to talk—we have so much to say, to discuss.” He searched her eyes. “To decide.” He drew a deeper breath and faintly grimaced as the sound of the rain drumming outside increased—as if to remind him he needed to go. He sighed. “Sadly, however, this is clearly not the right time or, indeed, the right place.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like, if you agree, to call on you tomorrow. There’s somewhere I’d like to take you. To show you.”

Her smile was all gentle understanding. “Of course. I’ll be here, waiting for you. At what time will you call?”

His smile deepened. “I would say as early as possible, but . . . shall we say ten o’clock? At least that seems somewhat civilized.”

Her smile broke into a soft laugh. “Dear Heathcote—ten o’clock sounds perfect.” She held his gaze and quietly said, “I would wait for you for forever, but I’d really rather not. I’ve waited all my life for you, and now you’re here . . .”

He nodded and pressed a more heated kiss to her other hand. “Indeed. Now we’re here, we both want to get on.”

On a waft of wet wind and a flurry of raindrops, Mostyn looked around the door. “Carriage is here, sir.”

“Thank you, Mostyn.” Releasing Violet’s hands, Montague lifted his hat from the nearby stand. His eyes still on her, he nodded, then forced himself to turn to the door, set his hat on his head, and stride away, out into the night and the rain.

Alone, but not for long.

Slumping back in the dark of the hackney, Montague felt expectation well and realized he was grinning.

Griselda settled Megan in her crib, then, straightening, looked down at her sleeping cherub and smiled.

Standing alongside his wife, Stokes dipped his head and, glancing into her face and savoring the madonna-like quality of that smile, felt something inside him ease, and settle, too, just like his sleeping child. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the plunge and murmured, “You’re content with this, aren’t you?”

Faint surprise in her face, Griselda looked at him, studied his eyes, then her lips curved again, reassuring and calming. “You mean being a mother, being a milliner, being the lady of this house, being Penelope’s and now Violet’s friend, and being an investigator, too, and working to somehow make everything fit?” Placing a hand on his arm, she steered him out of the nursery and toward their bedroom next door.

He nodded. “Yes—that. All of that.”

Her fingers found his and twined, and she drew him into their room, paused to let him shut the door, then she went into his arms. “Yes.” She met his gaze. “I’m content. It’s not easy, and probably never will be, but the rewards are great.”

Then she tilted her head, her eyes still searching his, a coy smile spreading across her face. “You didn’t notice, but I left something out.”

“You did?” Her list had sounded fairly comprehensive to him . . . his hands firming about her waist, he replayed her words, but he couldn’t see it. “What?”

Her sultry chuckle reached to his bones as, stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and smiled, all wifely indulgence, up at him. “I omitted to mention the best thing of all—the one that makes all the others worthwhile. Not because it’s less than all the rest but because it’s more—because it’s the foundation all the other parts of my life stand upon.”

Something in him quivered as he read the truth in her eyes, but he had to, needed to, hear it from her. To hear the words on her lips. “And that something is?”

Her smile turned radiant. “Being your wife.”