Mary Balogh: At Last Comes Love

And even now, when it was close to midnight, she was not in bed. Neither was he. In fact, they were not even inside their home. They were seated on the riverbank, where they had picnicked earlier before all the excitement and activity began.

They sat with their backs to a thick tree trunk. The water rippled darkly past them and lapped against the bank. The leaves overhead rustled in the cool breeze, which was welcome after the heat of the day.

A night owl hooted some distance away.

Duncan felt relaxation seep into his bones. At the moment it meant as much as sleep.

Toby was safe. They were all safe. His family and Maggie's knew the whole truth, and incredibly none of them were scandalized at the presence of the child in his nursery – even though Tobe was not in reality his son at all but the product of incredible ugliness. Duncan's mother was quite determined, despite those facts, that she would be his grandmama. And his grandfather had somehow managed to fish a shilling out of his coat pocket.

Duncan had felt embarrassingly close to tears when that had happened. "I wish," Maggie said, reaching for his hand in the darkness of the night and clasping it in hers, "you did not have to appear the villain in all this yet again, Duncan. I wish everyone did not have to believe that you and Mrs. Turner were lovers even before you ran away together." "But it must be what people have always believed," he said. "Why would we have eloped if we were /not/ lovers, after all? Nothing has changed.

And it is very old news. The recent discovery that there was a child of our illicit union has doubtless titillated a few fancies, especially when it seemed he might have been Turner's. But Turner's repudiation of him will soon put an end to that speculation. All will be forgotten again soon enough." "I just wish," she said, "you might have been vindicated in the end. I wish people might know the truth." "About Toby?" he asked, turning his head to look at her.

She was silent for a while. "About you," she said. "But one could not be known without the other, could it?" "Life is not perfect," he said. "It is one thing one learns in thirty years of living, Maggie." He watched her smile. "No," she said. "Life is /not/ perfect. Will you shield Toby from the truth all his life, Duncan?" He sighed. "No," he said. "He would surely find out. Too many people know the truth, after all, and someone would be sure to think it a fine thing to tell him. I will let him know about his birth when he is old enough to deal with the knowledge, and when he is secure enough in my love and yours not to have his sense of self destroyed by it. We can love him and love him, Maggie, but only he can live his life. Just as only we can live ours." "There is no happily-ever-after, is there?" she said. "Would you want there to be?" he asked her. "Would not life be horribly dull? I would rather aim for happiness." "Happiness?" she asked, turning her face to look back at him. "When everyone will think the worst of you?" "Oh, not everyone," he protested. "All those who are nearest and dearest to me know why I did what I did – both five years ago and this year after Laura died. Sacrifices must sometimes be made, Maggie. And sometimes they bring with them blessings that far outweigh the suffering they caused. If I had not run off with Laura and scandalized the /ton/, I would not have known and loved Toby And I would not have met you. Or if I had, it would have been too late – I would have been married to Caroline." "Would that have been so dreadful?" she asked him, her voice soft and surely wistful. "Not meeting me, I mean?" "Yes," he said. "It would have been the most dreadful thing of all. I would have missed the whole point of my life. I would have missed the reason for my existence. I would have missed the love of my life. I might have known what it is to love, for there are people in my life whom I /do/ love and always will. But I would never have been /in/ love.

There would never have been that magic – or that missing part of myself to make me whole." "Oh," she said. "Just /oh/?" He lifted one hand to set the backs of his fingers lightly against her cheek. "You /love/ me?" she asked him. "Truly love /me/? Love betrayed me once, Duncan, and then life and youth passed me by. I have wanted so desperately to gather the dregs of life and love to myself so that I could give contentment to someone else and draw contentment to myself.

Have I found love instead? A love that makes the other one pale in comparison?" "I cannot answer that," he said, feathering his lips across hers and discovering that her face was wet with tears. "/Have/ you?" "I tell myself," she said, "that I love you because I admire the courage with which you have lived your life. And I tell myself I love you because you love a poor helpless child totally and unconditionally. And I /do/ love you for those things. But Duncan, I love you most because you live /here/." She patted one hand over her heart. "Because I know I was meant all my life to meet you and discover the joy for which I was created." "Ah," he said. "Just /ah/?" She attempted a soft laugh and hiccupped instead.

He kissed her, and when she pressed her lips back against his, he wrapped her in his arms and deepened the kiss as he turned her to lay her down on the grass beside the tree.

They made love at half past midnight on ground that was none too soft surrounded by air that was none too warm – and when they were both almost light-headed with exhaustion.

Life was not perfect.

Except when it was. "Duncan," she said when they were finished and she lay cradled in his arms while moonlight danced in patterns of light and shade over them as the branches of the tree swayed in the breeze. "I must tell you something, though I did not mean to do so until I could be more sure. It is not a day for secrets, though, is it? Or am I talking about yesterday? Today is not for secrets either. There is a chance – the merest chance – that I am with child." He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled slowly. Already? He had been a father for four and a half years, but was he now to be – a /father/? "I am only a few days late," she said softly. "Perhaps it is nothing." "I promised my grandfather when I was twenty," he said, "that I would be married by the time I was thirty and would have a child in the nursery by the time I was thirty-one. A son and heir. Is it to happen after all?

Or could this be a daughter? Oh, good Lord, Maggie, a daughter! Could life offer a greater miracle?" "I cannot even be sure yet," she said, "that there will be a child at all, Duncan. But perhaps there will. A son or a daughter. Oh, perhaps it is true. I am never late." He drew her more snugly into his arms. He breathed in the warm woman's scent of her and closed his eyes. "No matter," he said. "We will have an excuse to try even harder if this is a false hope. I love you and you love me and we are married and living at Woodbine, and we have our families and Toby. All that is quite happiness enough for now, Maggie. We will hope there is a child but not be too disappointed if there is not. Agreed?" "Life is not perfect," she said, and laughed softly. "It feels pretty close at the moment," he said. "Except," she said, "that I have a tree root or something digging into my hip and my feet are like blocks of ice." They walked homeward with their arms about each other's waists. "Are you as tired as I am?" he asked. "At least twice as tired," she said. "Shall we persuade your grandfather to stay with us for a good long while? Perhaps even to make his home with us if he wishes? And shall we invite some of our neighbors to dine before Nessie and Elliott leave? Shall we – " He bent his head to kiss her as they stepped onto the terrace before the house. "We certainly shall, my love," he said. "But tomorrow. Or later today.

Much later. Shall we go to bed now? And sleep?" "Sleep?" she said. "Oh, that does sound wonderful, Duncan. I could sleep for a week – but only if your arms are about me." "Where else would they be?" he asked her, his one arm closing more tightly about her waist as he led her up the steps to the house. "Nowhere, I suppose," she said. "Precisely." She yawned and tipped her head sideways to rest on his shoulder.