Page 95 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“I’ll hold you to that.” He didn’t let go of her hand. “But if I may ask a purely curious question, are you enjoying working for Penelope? Do your talents actually lie in that direction?”

She nodded. “To my surprise, they truly do—and, trust me, she truly is in need of the sort of help I can give.”

“Another pair of intelligent eyes.”

She smiled. “Something like that. I may not be able to translate the obscure languages that she can, but I do know how to keep an appointment book, and that is one skill Penelope sorely lacks. She nearly missed an important lecture that she’d agreed to give at the library today. She’d forgotten to note it down, and if I hadn’t unearthed the letter confirming the date from the stacks on her desk, she would have embarrassed herself dreadfully. So, yes, she does need my help on a continuing basis.”

“Hmm . . . but, perhaps, not on a live-in basis.” He arched a hopeful brow.

Chuckling, she inclined her head. “No, indeed—I could quite easily travel here for a few days each week, and that would be sufficient.”

“And, after all, the City isn’t all that far. Just a short hackney ride.”

She tilted her head. “Is that where you live—in the City?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “I live in an apartment over the office. It’s quite spacious, and the nearness means I’m home very soon after the close of business every day, but—”

Again she placed her fingers over his lips. “No—don’t say anything else. You will have to show me this apartment of yours, and we’ll work things out from there.” She smiled. “I really don’t have any firm views against living in the City.”

He nodded. “Good. That will give me a chance to convince you.”

Her expression grew serious. “You won’t have to do that—where you are, wherever you choose to live, that place will contain the most important element I want—that I rather think I need—to make the rest of my life complete.”

Understanding, pure and true, all but shimmered and glimmered between them, a clarity in their gazes, a seeing with no screen, no veil to dim the reality.

Locked in the other’s eyes, each saw and knew the possibilities, each recognized the potential.

The moment tugged. Montague bent his head, and Violet stretched up. Hands found hands and locked, holding them together, steady and anchored as their lips touched, brushed, then met.

Held.

The kiss was simple, unadorned, bare of anything save their feelings—and what they each intended the contact to convey. A pledge, a promise.

His lips moved on hers, seeking, yearning. Slipping her fingers from his, she reached up, wound her arms about his strong neck, pressed closer and kissed him back.

Gently, his hands rose to grip her sides, then he spread palms and fingers over her supple back, supporting and holding, keeping, but not seizing.

Glorying in her giving.

And his.

Eventually, he lifted his head. And felt faintly giddy in a dizzyingly pleasant way.

With a warmth that bloomed in his chest and spread as he saw the delight in her eyes, saw his own satisfaction mirrored there.

“Soon,” he said.

She nodded. “Soon.” With that, she drew back and, reluctantly, he let her go.

Drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Violet turned to the gate. Heathcote walked with her the few steps further, waited while she slid the bolt back and swung the solid panel open. She looked up at him—her man, the one man she’d been waiting all of her life to find—and smiled softly. “Good night, Heathcote.”

His answering smile held a touch of possessiveness. “Good night, my Violet.” With a dip of his head, he stepped through the gate. “Good night.”

On a sigh, she shut the gate, listened—and realized he was waiting for her to lock it. She did. A few seconds after the bolt slid home, she heard his footsteps slowly walk away.

Smiling, her expression incapable of adequately reflecting the joy buoying her heart, she turned and walked back to the terrace.

Walking up the shallow steps, she murmured to herself, “And how I’m going to manage to fall asleep I truly do not know.”