Page 109 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

She drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, and kissed him.

Stokes tightened his arms about her, drew her tight.

And decided that, after all, everything was, and would be, all right.

After checking on Oliver, then retreating to their bedroom, Penelope and Barnaby spent the next hour enthusiastically celebrating in their own private way.

Finally spent, her breasts still rising and falling deeply as she waited for her breathing to even out, her hair spread about her in tangled disarray, Penelope lay on her back and stared at the moonbeams playing fitfully across their ceiling. Slumped beside her, Barnaby lay on his chest with his face half buried in the pillow beside hers, one heavy arm flung across her waist.

His breathing was even more labored than hers—hardly surprising, given his recent performance.

The downpour had finally petered out, but the sense of everything outside having been washed and made new remained; the coming day held infinite promise.

She sighed, the sound redolent with happiness. “I’m so glad we didn’t turn away from this chance—that we faced the challenge, rather than let it slide. We’ve worked our way through, to this—to my new state of equilibrium. And as we’ve done it once, we know we can do it again—that no matter what comes, we can adjust, find our new path, and go on. Together.”

And in that, she felt she should give credit where credit was due. “I’m proud beyond words of you—and of Stokes, too. You both came through the challenge with colors flying.” Lifting a limp arm, she gestured widely, if weakly. “You assimilated the changes and adjusted as necessary.”

Stirring, Barnaby snorted, the sound muffled by the pillow. Shifting his head slightly, he said, “If you don’t by now know that to keep you happy—to keep you engaged, enthused, and challenged, as I know you need to be—I would alter the way the moon revolves about the earth, then you need new spectacles.”

She laughed. Turning to him, she stroked a hand down his naked side, and when, in response, with a groan he turned over and shifted his arm, she snuggled closer, resting her head where she preferred it to be, in the hollow beneath his shoulder. Relaxing as he draped his arm around her, she pressed a kiss to his chest. “I have noticed, but, in all fairness, I should admit that you don’t—and won’t—need to go to the trouble of interfering with any celestial bodies. You just need to stand by me as you have in this. You just need to keep being you.”

Lifting the hand she’d spread on his chest, Barnaby pressed a warm kiss to her palm before settling that palm once more over his heart. “That,” he murmured, “I can do.”

A second passed, then she murmured, “I love you, too.”

Eyes closed, he smiled, and decided he could live with that.

Forever.

The next morning, Montague arrived in Albemarle Street at precisely ten o’clock. Leaving the hackney waiting, feeling oddly nervous, he ascended the steps to the Adairs’ front door. He raised his hand to knock—and the door swung inward.

Mostyn grinned at him. “Been keeping an eye out.” The majordomo stepped back, and Violet swept through.

Her gaze locked on Montague’s face; she nodded to Mostyn without taking her eyes from Montague’s. “Thank you, Mostyn. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

In light of her smile, in light of her words, Montague felt like a conquering hero. Offering his arm, he said, “You look lovely.” To his eyes, she was radiant.

Her smile deepened. “Thank you. I have to admit that I did sleep well.”

Guiding her down the steps, he dryly murmured, “Not having the threat of a murderer hovering over you must have been a great relief.”

She glanced at him, then, smiling, allowed him to hand her into the carriage. He followed and, shutting the door, settled beside her. When the carriage rattled into motion, she reached for his hand and settled her fingers in his. “If you must know, it wasn’t relief that the murderer was caught that made it so easy to fall asleep—it was happiness, pure and simple, at knowing what today would bring.” Turning her head, she met his eyes. “I felt like a child waiting for Christmas morning.”

The words warmed him; lightly pressing her fingers, he quietly said, “I hope what comes lives up to your expectations.”

Her fingers tightened on his, returning the pressure. “Trust me, it will.” After a moment, she said, “Tell me—were you born in London?”

As they rattled through the town, he told her of his past—of the parents he’d been close to despite the fact they’d been getting on in years before he was born, of the evolution of his business from the more conservative services his father had supplied to the more varied activities he now pursued. “I was the Son in Montague and Son—as figures and money always fascinated me, I started working alongside my father when I was fifteen. Eventually, my father drew back from the business, gradually passing his clients into my hands.” Montague met Violet’s gaze. “By the time he died, I was the de facto principal of the business and had been for several years.” He shrugged and looked ahead. “Some might say I came to my position easily, that it was handed to me—and there’s some truth in that.”

Smiling, Violet shook her head. “No—the opportunity might have been laid before you, but what you did with it? That was all you.” She met his gaze. “What you are now, the businessman, the man, is entirely due to you.”

She thought he blushed, but then he glanced away. “And what of you?” he asked. He looked back at her. “Are you a Londoner, too? Or . . . ?”

“Not. I was born in Caversham, just north of Reading. My father was the vicar of Woodborough, and he held the living there until his death. My mother had died several years before, so I was left to find my way.” The carriage rolled around a corner, and she briefly met his eyes. “I was lucky enough to find a position with Lady Ogilvie in Bath, and when she died, I moved to London to take up my post with Lady Halstead. She and Lady Ogilvie had been acquainted.”

She looked ahead, but his gaze remained on her face.

“You were happy with Lady Halstead.”