Anna Campbell: What a Duke Dares

“I love you.” He still pronounced the words as if they scalded. Staring at her like the most precious jewel in the world, he cradled her face between his palms.

“You don’t sound very certain,” she said shakily, at last sure enough to tease.

His smile widened until his face blazed with brilliance. “I love you, Penelope Rothermere.”

“That’s better.”

It was. The declaration resounded like a fanfare.

“You love me.” He sounded like that was a miracle. “You love me. And I love you.”

Pen was so happy, she felt like she’d swallowed the sun. She was so happy that she couldn’t stop crying. They’d come so near to losing one another.

With a wordless groan, he dragged her into his arms. She felt more a part of him at that moment than in all their nights of unfettered passion.

“So we get a happy ending after all,” she whispered just above where his heart thundered. The heart that he’d finally unlocked and presented to her. She’d never take that for granted. Never.

His embrace tightened almost to pain. “I’ll always love you, my darling.”

Curse these tears. She couldn’t stop weeping all over him. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Give me the next fifty years to adore you and we’ll be equal. You know how I hate to lose a contest.”

“I look forward to that.”

“So do I,” he said fervently. “Now let me take you back to the Bear and Swan where I’ll prove my devotion.”

“That will make an excellent start,” she said huskily.

They’d journeyed their whole lives to reach this point. They’d been through the storm. Now they found safe harbor.

After the years of wandering, Penelope finally came home.

Fentonwyck, Derbyshire, December 1828

Pen stirred from a doze to find Cam sitting on her bed in the shadowy room. He gently stroked the hair back from her face and smiled when she opened her eyes. A smile so full of love that she curled her toes under the blanket. Even now, months after the revelations in that squalid Liverpool attic, she marveled that her dreams had come true.

“Good afternoon,” she said drowsily, smiling back.

“Good afternoon to you.” He kissed her with a sweet thoroughness that set her toes curling again. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a grumpy elephant.” She let him help her up against the pillows. “Your son stays awake all night and he expects me to keep him company.”

Cam laughed softly. “My daughter is troublesome just like her mother.”

The friendly argument over whether their baby was a boy or girl had continued for months. In Liverpool when Pen had said that she might carry his child, she’d spoken true. Soon after they’d returned to London, morning sickness had set in. Then for a few blissful months, she’d felt marvelous. But in the last weeks, she’d just been uncomfortable and exhausted.

“Boy or girl, this baby kicks like a mule.” She caught Cam’s hand and placed it where the next Rothermere emphatically made its presence known.

“Another powerful personality.” He tried to sound ironic, but Pen heard his pleasure.

“What time is it?” she asked on a yawn.

“Nearly four.” He kissed her belly and rose. He crossed to the windows and drew the curtains with a rattle. A snowy afternoon filled the ornate room with soft light. “Why are you smiling?”

He stared at her as if he beheld the most glorious creature on earth. Pen thought she looked like a hippopotamus, but she’d come to realize that her husband observed her with the eyes of love. The eyes of love found even the advanced stages of pregnancy beguiling. “The snow reminds me of our journey through the Alps. You have no idea how close I came to shoving you into a glacier.”

He laughed again. “I deserved it.”

“You did.” She extended a hand. “But I’m glad that I didn’t.”

“Because you love me?”

“No, because you come in very handy when I need to stand up.”

“Ah, the painful truth at last.” He drew her from the bed.

She braced her hands against the persistent ache in her lower back. As she stretched, her attention focused on an oblong rectangle wrapped in black velvet and set against the wall. “What’s that?”

“Your Christmas present.”

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

“Should I take it away?” He wasn’t smiling, but the deepening lines around his eyes alerted her to his game.

“No.” She stepped forward. “It looks like a painting.”

“Well, I know that you take art very seriously.”

Even as her lips twitched, she cast him an unimpressed glance. “The Titian looks much better in the duchess’s London apartments.”

“I bow as always to your decision.”

Another unimpressed glance. Their relationship retained a delicious push and pull, resulting in the occasional clash. It was inevitable when two such opinionated people lived together. But the reconciliations were wonderful, and no disagreement assailed the deep-rooted strength of their union. Cam was her lover and her friend and the finest man she knew. Not a day passed when she didn’t whisper a prayer of thanks for his love. “Can I look?”

“Yes.” He regarded the painting. “I want you to see it before our guests arrive tomorrow.”

For their first Christmas as a couple, they played host to their favorite people. The Harmsworths. The Hillbrooks. Lydia and Simon and their baby girl Rose. Sophie and Harry who were so rapturously happy that they barely noticed society’s disapproval. Elias. Marianne Seaton who had proven a good friend to Pen through the repercussions from Harry and Sophie’s elopement.

Lord Leath even planned to stay a day or two. He and Cam weren’t the best of friends, but there were signs of rapprochement. Cam’s canal scheme had proceeded, to the benefit of the Thorne coffers. Leath’s grudging acceptance of Harry gradually changed to genuine respect. Especially since Harry had taken over one of Cam’s estates and showed every sign of making a success of it.

The beau monde might frown at Her Grace, the Duchess of Sedgemoor entertaining so close to her confinement, but these days the Rothermeres paid little attention to gossip.

Which was a good thing. The scandal after Harry and Sophie’s elopement had been appalling. Insults, innuendos, and ribald lies had proliferated. The young couple still faced a degree of ostracism.

Pen knew better than to stew over the world’s spite. To her satisfaction, Cam showed every sign of agreeing. The Camden Rothermere who teased her this afternoon was his own man. If the world didn’t approve, that was the world’s loss.

With a theatrical gesture, Cam lifted the velvet to reveal the painting.

The bristling silence extended until Cam’s delight faded to concern. “Pen, are you all right? I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am,” she said in a suffocated voice.

She couldn’t tear her attention from the painting. She’d only seen it once before, after the artist completed it. On that single viewing, it had brought tears to her eyes. Now, six years later, she still wanted to cry. Because it was so beautiful. Because it was so true. So heartbreakingly true.

“How did you get it? He swore never to let it out of the studio.”

“I set out to buy it after we got married. It seemed a suitable gift for a new duchess. But he passed away last April and I had to negotiate with his heirs.”

“But why did he change his mind? He said it was his most precious possession.”

“He always intended it to be yours, apparently. There’s a note down in the library that came with the painting. He calls it a gift of love.”

“He didn’t love me.”