Wicked Intentions
Page 49

But she looked up at him and smiled gently. “What makes you think I didn’t choose you?”
His dark brows snapped together. “What?”
She threaded her fingers through his glorious silver hair. “You are exactly what I want, exactly what I need. You are honest and strong and fearless, and you make me fearless too. You don’t let me hide behind excuses and prevarication; you make me face myself and you as well. I love you, Lazarus. I love you.”
“Then marry me,” he said fiercely.
She gasped, the prospect of happiness shimmering so close she could almost reach out and touch it. “But… what about your mother?”
He arched an arrogant eyebrow. “What about my mother?”
Temperance bit her lip. “I’m not an aristocrat—I’m not even close. Father was a beer brewer. Surely your mother and the rest of society will disapprove of marriage to me? After the fire, I don’t even have anything to my name but the clothes I wore today!”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” he drawled, and his sapphire eyes seemed to glow in the shadows of the curtained bed. “You have a very fine piano.”
“I do?”
“You do,” he said, and kissed her nose. “I ordered it only a couple of weeks ago as a surprise present, and as it wasn’t delivered before the fire—it wasn’t, was it?”
“No.”
“There you are,” he said loftily. “You have a piano and a full set of clothes, and that’s plenty dowry to marry me.”
“But you provided the piano!” Temperance couldn’t stop the smile that was spreading over her face. A piano? Lazarus might call himself selfish, but it was the sweetest gift she’d ever received.
“Where the piano came from is of no matter, Mrs. Dews,” Lazarus replied. “The fact is you own it. As for society, it can go hang. I’ll wager the thing the gossip mongers will be most scandalized by is that I found a lady to consent to be my wife.”
“And your mother?”
“And my mother will no doubt be extremely happy that I’ve married at all.”
“But—”
He nudged himself against her damp folds, and she lost whatever objection she was about to make.
“Oh!”
She looked up and saw he was so very close, his silver hair falling like a curtain to either side of her face.
“Will you marry me, Mrs. Dews,” he whispered, “and save me from a life of loneliness and uncaring?”
“I will if you’ll save me from a joyless life filled with only work and duty.”
His blue eyes flamed, and then he was kissing her passionately. He pulled back only long enough to say, “Then you’ll marry me, my sweet Mrs. Dews?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Yes, I’ll marry you and love you until the end of both our days, my Lord Caire.”
And she would’ve said more, but he was kissing her again and it didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that he loved her and she loved him.
And that they’d found each other.
Epilogue
Now, a year passed and during that time, King Lockedheart grew more and more morose. One by one, he dismissed his courtiers until only a very few wise men remained. He grew weary of his beautiful concubines and he sent them, weeping, away. He sat alone in his great golden throne room on his velvet throne and wondered why he felt this way. All that was left to keep him company was his little blue bird, but a bird cannot talk or laugh or smile.
One day, a quiet knock came at the throne room doors, and when the king called for entry, who should come in but Meg the maid?
Well, the king sat up straight, but soon his broad shoulders slumped again and he looked a bit sulky. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, hither and yon and over all the wide world,” Meg said cheerfully. “I had a wonderful time.”
“Then I suppose you’ll be going again?” the king asked.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Meg said as she sat at his feet. “How did you feel when I was gone?”
“Lost. Empty,” the king said.
“And now that I’ve returned?”
“Happy. Joyful,” King Lockedheart growled as he scooped Meg into his lap and kissed her soundly.
“Do you know what this is?” Meg asked in a whisper.
“Love,” the king replied. “This is love, true and eternal, my sweet Meg. Will you be my queen?”
“Oh, yes,” Meg said. “For I’ve adored you since first you had me dragged before you. We will be married and we’ll live happily ever after.”
And so they did!
THREE WEEKS LATER…
The mornings were the hardest, Silence found. There just never seemed to be any reason to get up. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. William was gone, of course, four weeks now at sea and still no letter. That wasn’t so unusual, but the nagging feeling that he wouldn’t write at all this voyage was. Concord wasn’t speaking to her, except for one short lecturing letter that she’d burned because it might destroy any sisterly feeling she had for him should she read the whole thing. No one had heard from Asa.
Silence sighed and rolled to her side, idly watching a fly buzz against the bedroom window. Temperance would be happy to have her come and help plan the wedding. But the sad thing was that Temperance’s happiness with Lord Caire contrasted depressingly with Silence’s estrangement from William. And jealousy of her own sister made Silence feel small, ugly, and bitter.
Winter had come around twice asking in his easy, patient way for her help with the foundling children, but—
There was a thump at her door.
Silence turned in the direction of the outer room. It had been quite a loud thump for her to have heard it in the bedroom. Who could it be? She owed no tradespeople and wasn’t expecting anyone. It might be Winter come to cajole her again. She scrunched down in the covers. If it was Winter, she didn’t want to see him. She had just decided to pretend to not be at home when she heard it: a faint mewling.
Well, that was odd. Was there a cat at her door?
She got up and padded to the door, cracking it only slightly because she was still in her chemise. No one was there—or so she thought until she heard the sound again and looked down. A baby lay at her feet in a basket, like Moses, only without the rushes. She frowned at him and he frowned back, stuffing a fat fist into his mouth and growing rather red in the face. She didn’t know much about babies, but she did know when one was about to bawl.
Hastily she bent, scooped up the basket, and closed the door behind her. She set the basket on the table and lifted out the baby, inspecting him—or rather her, as it turned out. The baby was dressed in a gown and stays and was quite pretty, with dark eyes and a wispy curl of dark hair peeking from her cap.
“I don’t receive visitors before two of the afternoon,” Silence muttered to the little girl, but the baby simply waved a fist, nearly catching her in the nose.
Silence looked in the basket and found a worn silver locket in the shape of a heart.
“Is this yours?” she asked the babe as she opened it awkwardly with one hand. Inside was a slip of paper with the word darling written on it. That was all. She searched the basket, even taking out and shaking the blanket the baby had lain on, but there were no more clues to the baby’s identity.
“Why would someone leave a baby on my doorstep?” she wondered aloud as the baby gummed her fist. The child seemed happy enough now that Silence was holding her. Perhaps the unfortunate mother knew of her connection to the foundling home?
“Well, then I’d best take you to Winter,” Silence said with decision. Suddenly she had a reason to get up this morning. She felt almost excited. “And since I found you, it seems only right that I be the one to name you.”
The baby raised her eyebrows as if in query.
Silence smiled at her. “Mary Darling.”