“Those words may yet add to your troubles,” she pointed out.
He shook his head. “If you will persist in claiming that they have anything to do with me, say only that they’ve added to my legend.” Surely that was a flicker of amusement that crossed her expression? “I had to do something,” he continued, letting some of the old mockery creep back into his voice. “All this talk about my good deeds was quite ruining my reputation. As it is, I suspect no one will ever look at Lord Ash the same way again.”
Quickly, she rose—to hide a smile, he thought. Unhappy at being disturbed, Elf gave a little groan of displeasure and turned to Gabriel. But he too had got to his feet. Resigned, the dog flopped onto the carpet and went back to chewing on Remy’s shoe.
“Mr. Dawkins’s new scheme of printing books in parts seems promising,” Camellia said, drawing one fingertip along the spines lining the bookshelf. “But what does he mean to do about the ending? The manuscript you gave him was unfinished.”
“I’m not sure.” Gabriel felt hopeful but hesitant, a gambler with a promising hand, waiting for the deal of the final card to decide his fate. “Have you changed your mind about the outcome of the story?”
She paused, evidently puzzling over the title of some thick volume. The ink stains on her hand had faded. Not surprising if the circumstances of recent weeks had curtailed her writing, he supposed, but those marks of her literary labors were as much a part of her as her emerald eyes and her quick tongue, and he missed them now as he had been missing all the rest of her for weeks.
“I confess it’s been troubling me for some time,” she said at last. “I had hoped to show my readers that Ireland was more than capable of being independent.”
He dared to take a step closer. “And you have.”
“But Papa says the outcome of the rebellion will almost certainly mean more English control, not less.”
His heart sank a little as he imagined how she and her brothers must feel about such a result. “I fear he’s probably right. Not exactly a happy ending for Róisín, to be under the thumb of a man who’s proven himself unworthy of her.”
Turning, she fixed him with that familiar defiant spark in her eye. “Róisín, under a man’s thumb?” Her nose wrinkled slightly and her head wagged in disbelief. “She has far too much spirit for that.”
“True,” he agreed, and hope dared to swell once more. “But what then?”
She steepled her fingertips before her and looked thoughtful. “I had in mind a match made on more even ground, in which each complemented what the other lacked. A true union, in which the whole is stronger than the parts.”
“In other words,” he said, coming forward to cover her hands with his, “you imagine a resolution in which the arrogant, dissolute Englishman is reformed by the love of an independent-minded Irishwoman?”
Her eyes remained focused on their joined hands for a moment before rising to his face. “I do.”
He dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers. “An inspired revision, my love.”
“Well,” she said, freeing her hands to step more fully into his embrace, “I’ve recently been reminded that happy endings need not be limited to the pages of fiction.” Her cheek rested against his chest and her arms came around his waist. “You’ve made Felicity and Mr. Fox very happy.”
“They make one another happy,” he said, laying his cheek against the top of her head. “I had only to get out of their way.”
“‘Get out of their way’?” When her head tipped back, he looked down into her incredulous eyes. “Is that what you call it? Enabling them to marry by presenting Mr. Fox with a very lucrative living on a certain estate in Shropshire?”
That piece of raillery earned her another kiss, more thorough than the last. “Your readers may be disappointed, you know,” he said, when he was at leisure to speak. “I believe the current fashion is for villains to suffer a grisly end.”
The wicked gleam in her eyes was matched by the sly upturn of her lips. “Fear not. Granville’s uncle will get his just deserts for trying to tarnish the reputation of our hero.”
His bark of laughter made Elf pause in her noisy labors. “Well, it seems you’ve tied up all the loose ends,” he said when the sound of chewing filled the room again. “You have only to put your name to the tale and you shall be the toast of the town.”
“Ah,” she said, reaching up to trace his jaw with her fingertip. “But a lady must be ever mindful of the impropriety of setting herself before the public. So which name shall I use?”
A little flutter of panic rose in his chest, born on the wings of his long-standing conviction that what he had to offer, no sensible woman should want. Holding her in his arms left very little room for fear, however. “How would you feel about signing your work ‘Lady Ashborough’?”
She tipped her head, considering. “Society would be scandalized. Poor Mr. Dawkins would have to print more copies to keep up with demand.”
“Camellia…” Another time, she might tease him to distraction. But just now, he could not bear it.
With a trembling smile, she relented. “Yes, my dear.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Bending, he lifted her into his arms—oh, she really was too thin—and carried her to his favorite chair. He’d always thought it comfortable, but the addition of her slight curves made it perfectly snug. As he pressed his lips to her forehead, he wished it were possible for them to stay ensconced in that spot forever.
Which, of course, it was not.
Some part of his thoughts must have been visible on his face. Worry flitted across her eyes, the shadow of a cloud on a grassy knoll. “Gabriel?”
“I was recalling
