Ignoring the collective gasp of their audience, Cross kissed the tip of her nose and rectified the situation. Jasper Arlesey, Earl Harlow lowered himself to one knee and—in front of all the world—proposed to his brilliant, bespectacled bluestocking.
Epilogue
If my work has taught me anything, it is this: While a great many curiosities can be explained using thorough scientific research and sound logic, there are a handful of them that resist such easy hypothesis. These mysteries tend to be the most human. The most important.
Chief among them is love.
That said, there remain scientific truths . . .
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
August 10, 1831; four months after her wedding
Cross woke in a lavishly appointed bed, in the town house that had been inhabited by generations of Earls Harlow, already reaching for his wife.
Coming up with nothing but a wide expanse of crisp white linen, he did not hesitate in rolling to his feet, pulling on the silk robe she had gifted him on their wedding night and going in search of her.
He did not have far to travel; when they had taken up residence in the town house, Philippa had summarily chased away the demons that had lurked in its darkest corners, reminding him again and again that he was worthy of her, of their love, of this place, of this life.
As part of her exorcism, she’d turned the suite of rooms that had once belonged to Baine into a small indoor garden—a lush, green Eden hidden away in the family’s quarters, smelling of soil and sunshine and life.
She was hunched low over her worktable when he entered the room, still wearing her own night rail, hair arranged in a haphazard pile atop her head, surrounded by pink roses. He approached quietly, moving to the sound of pen on paper, noticed only by Trotula, who stood guard over her mistress, long pink tongue lolling happily from the side of her mouth.
He snaked one long arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her to him, loving the way her squeak of surprise turned to a sigh when he set his lips to the soft skin of her neck.
“Good morning,” she whispered, one hand reaching up, her fingers threading into his hair.
God, he loved her touch. His tongue rewarded it with a little swirl at the place where neck met shoulder, and he smiled against the heat of her, reveling in the fact that her pulse raced for him. Only for him. “Good morning to you, Countess.” He looked over her shoulder to the journal on the table, and the pile of correspondence nearby. “You’re at work early.”
She turned in his arms, lifting her lips to his for a proper kiss, which he was more than happy to give her. After several long, heady caresses, she pulled away with a smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He lifted her to sit on the workbench, sliding one hand along the side of her body, loving the shape of her, luxuriating in the feel of her—in the barely believable fact that she was his. Pressing his forehead to hers, he said, “You know I am always willing to help you with that problem if you care to remain abed.”
She laughed, the sound warm and welcome. “Or out of bed, I’ve noticed.”
“I simply attempt to be the best possible research associate,” he said, reaching for the hem of her nightgown and sliding one hand around her soft, slim ankle. “What are you working on?”
For a moment, she seemed to have forgotten, and he loved that he had the power to befuddle her quick mind. Loved, too, that instead of thinking too much about the answer to his question, she kissed him. Thoroughly. Until he couldn’t think either.
Which was why, when she lifted her head from the kiss, and said, “The roses!” it took him a moment to follow.
She twisted to reach for a discarded piece of paper on the table. “The Royal Horticultural Society has considered my research, and to their knowledge, no one has ever cultivated a new species of rose before. They invite me to attend the meeting of the Society next month to present my work. And they ask that,” she read, “I inform them of the name I have selected for the rose at my earliest possible convenience.”
She grinned up at him, and he was filled with admiration and pride. “I am in no way surprised, my beautiful scientist. Indeed, I would have expected nothing less.” He paused, then added, “But are they aware that you’re quite terrible at naming things?” He looked to Trotula, who lay in the shade of a large potted fern.
Pippa laughed. “It’s not true!” She followed his gaze to the dog.
“It’s most definitely true. Castleton’s hound was never so lucky than the day Meghan Knight named her.” The evening Pippa ran the tables at Knight’s had begun a whirlwind courtship of the Earl of Castleton and his new bride; Knight had earned himself a title even as he’d lost his club.
“Trotula, he maligns you,” Pippa said, and the hound’s tail set to instant wagging.
Cross looked to the dog. “She could have named you anything. Daisy. Or Antoinette. Or Chrysanthemum.”
Pippa cut him a look. “Chrysanthemum?”
He raised a brow. “It’s better than Trotula.”
“It is not.” They smiled, loving each other. Loving the way they matched. “At any rate, I’ve already named the rose. I thought I’d call it the Baine.”
He caught his breath at the quiet certainty in the words, at the way she stripped him bare and gave him the most simple, perfect gift she could. “Pippa,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t know . . . love . . . I don’t know what to say.”
She smiled. “You needn’t say anything; I think it a fitting memorial to your brother.”