He rang the bell; they could hear it jangling deep in the house. They waited, but no one came to let them in.
“The caretaker’s also the gamekeeper—he’s probably out.” Drawing a large key from his pocket, Simon slid it into the lock, turned, then pushed the door wide.
He went in first, looking around; she followed on his heels.
Immediately forgot all her questions over why they were there as curiosity took flight. From the wood-paneled hall with its stained-glass windows, she went from room to room, not waiting for him but leading the way.
From outside, the house had appeared sprawling; inside, it was even more so. Rooms opened from flagged corridors, more corridors sprang from halls, leading hither and yon. Yet every room was gracious, warm, filled with excellent furniture lovingly cared for, with rich fabrics and pretty things, with antiques, and some pieces she recognized as more than that. They were heirlooms.
A fine patina of dust lay over everything, but the house did not exude the musty chill of a place long deserted. Instead, it felt like it was waiting—as if one owner had recently departed, but another was expected at any time. It was a house built for laughter, for warmth and happiness, for a large family to fill its sprawling vastness. That atmosphere pervaded, so definite it was tangible; this was a house that had seen generations grow, that lived and breathed and remained confident of its future, indeed, was eagerly awaiting it.
She knew the Cynster motto, To have and to hold, well enough, recognized it and their coat of arms in various forms—on cushions, on a carved panel, in a pane of stained glass.
Eventually, in the big room on the first floor at the top of the main stairs, standing before the magnificent bay window that overlooked the forecourt, she turned to Simon; he stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her. “Whose house is this?”
He studied her, replied, “Mine.”
She raised her brows, waited.
He grinned. “It was Great-aunt Clara’s. All the others were already married and had their own homes, so she willed this place to me.”
She tilted her head, studied him in return. “Why did we come here?”
Simon pushed away from the doorjamb, walked toward her. “I was on my way here all along—I stopped at the house party on the way.”
Halting beside her, he took her hand, drew her around to face the long view over the lawns to the gatehouse. “I told you—I hadn’t been here for years. My memories of it . . . I didn’t know how accurate they were. I wanted to confirm it was as I remembered—a house that calls for a wife and family.”
He glanced at her as she glanced at him. “I was right. It does. It’s a house that’s supposed to be a home.”
She held his gaze. “Indeed. And what were you planning to do once you’d confirmed your recollection?”
His lips lifted. “Why, find myself a wife”—he raised her hand to his lips, kept his eyes on hers—“and start a family.”
She blinked. “Oh.” Blinked again, looked out over the lawns.
He closed his hand about hers. “What is it?”
A moment passed, then she said, “You remember when you found me at the lookout, and I vowed I would consider every eligible gentleman . . . the reason I’d decided to do so was that I’d realized I wanted to have children of my own—a family of my own. To do that, I needed a husband.”
Her lips twisted; she looked at him. “Of course, by that I meant a suitable gentleman who would fall in with my wishes and allow me to rule our joint lives.”
“No doubt.” His tone was acerbic. When she said nothing more but continued to watch him, as if studying him, assessing him anew, he softly asked, “Is that why you’re marrying me?”
She hadn’t said she would, yet both knew it,
a given—an understanding already acknowledged, albeit not in words. Her dark eyes sparked, registering his tack, then they softened. Her lips curved.
“Lady O is really quite amazing.”
He’d lost the thread. “How so?”
“She informed me that wanting children, while a perfectly acceptable reason to bring one to consider marriage, was not of itself a sufficiently good reason to marry. However, she assured me that if I kept looking—considering gentlemen to marry—the right reason would eventually present itself.”
He twined his fingers with hers. “And has it?”
She met his eyes, her smile serene. “Yes. I love you, and you love me. Lady O is, as always, right—no other reason will do.”
He drew her into his arms, felt their bodies react the instant they touched, not just sexually but with a deeper, more comforting familiarity. He gloried in the feeling, gloried in her as she draped her arms over his shoulders, as between his hands, he felt her supple strength, in her dark eyes saw an intellect every bit the equal of his. “It won’t be easy.”