He collapsed atop her, lying there for two breaths before sliding to the side so as not to crush her. They lay there for quite some time, just letting their bodies cool, and then, finally, Iris let out a little sigh.
“Oh my.”
He felt himself smile, slow and satisfied.
“That was . . .” But she didn’t finish.
He rolled to his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “That was what?”
She just shook her head. “I don’t even know how to describe it. I don’t know how to begin.”
“It begins,” he said, leaning down to kiss her lightly, “with ‘I love you.’”
She nodded, her movements still slow and languid. “I think it ends with it as well.”
“No,” he said, his voice gentle but brooking no argument.
“No?”
“It doesn’t end,” he whispered. “It never ends.”
She touched his cheek. “No. I don’t think it does.”
Then he kissed her again. Because he wanted to. Because he had to.
But mostly because he knew that even when his lips left hers, their kiss would still linger.
It, too, would never end.
Epilogue
Maycliffe
1830
“WHAT ARE YOU READING?”
Iris smiled at her husband as she looked up from her correspondence. “A letter from my mother. She says that Marie-Claire attended three balls last week.”
“Three?” Richard shuddered.
“Torture for you, perhaps,” Iris laughed. “But Marie-Claire is in heaven.”
“I suppose so.” He took a seat beside her on the little bench she used at her writing table. “Any potential suitors?”
“Nothing serious, but I have a feeling my mother is not trying quite as hard as she might. I think she wants another season with Marie-Claire. Your sister is proving a far more cunning debutante than any of her own daughters were.”
Richard rolled his eyes. “God help them both.”
“And in other news,” Iris said with a laugh, “Marie-Claire is taking viola lessons three days per week.”
“Viola?”
“Perhaps the other reason my mother is reluctant to let her go. Marie-Claire has a spot in next year’s musicale.”
“God help us both.”
“Oh, yes. There is no way we shall be allowed to miss it. I would have to be nine months pregnant to—”
“Then we should start right now,” Richard said with enthusiasm.
“Stop!” Iris protested. But she was laughing, even as her husband’s lips found a particularly sensitive spot just above her collarbone. He always seemed to know exactly where to kiss her . . .
“I’ll shut the door,” Richard murmured.
“It’s open?” Iris squealed. She yanked herself away.
“I knew I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered.
“Later,” Iris promised. “We haven’t the time now, anyway.”
“I can be quick,” Richard said hopefully.
Iris gave him a lingering kiss. “I don’t want you to be quick.”
He groaned. “You’re killing me.”
“I promised Bernie we would take him out to try his toy boat on the lake.”
Richard acquiesced with a smile and a sigh, as Iris knew he would. Their son was now three, an adorable little butterball with plump pink cheeks and his father’s dark eyes. He was the center of their world, even if they were not the center of his. That honor went to his cousin Samuel, who at age four was one year older, one year taller, and one year more wily. Fleur’s second son Robbie was six months younger than Bernie and completed the mischievous trio.
The first year of marriage had not been easy for Fleur and John Burnham. As expected, their wedding had caused quite a scandal, and even though they now owned Mill Farm, there were still those who would not let John forget that he had not been born a gentleman.
But Fleur had spoken true when she’d said she had never wished for riches. She and John had made a very happy home, and Iris was grateful that her children would grow up with cousins just down the lane. It was still just Bernie, but she hoped . . . there had been a few signs . . .
Her hand went to her abdomen without her realizing it. She would know soon.
“Well, I suppose we have a ship to launch,” Richard said, holding out his hand as he came to his feet. “I feel I should tell you, though,” he said as Iris rose and took his arm, “I had a similar boat as a boy.”
Iris winced at his tone. “Why do I think this does not end well?”