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“I have never wanted to rush something so badly,” he whispered. “And never wanted to get it so right.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. She could not quite speak, so she merely nodded.

Aidan reached behind him, his fingers fumbling briefly before the door closed with a quiet click. He did not move closer, not yet. Instead, he searched her face, as if to memorize it, every freckle and curve etched into his mind like a treasured line of verse.

When he did lower his head, it was slow. Intentional.

Their lips met gently. No blaze, no devouring, only the soft, shivering wonder of a first kiss as husband and wife. It was a vow made tangible.

There was no need for more. Not yet. The fire could wait.

A sudden growl caused them both to still and glance about.

Buttercup, ever vigilant, had apparently re-entered the room before the door had been fully shut. A silly oversight, Gwen supposed, but one that brought the moment to an abrupt halt.

Aidan huffed, not without amusement, and moved to the door. Gwen quickly bent down, gathering the bristling dog into her arms and guiding her firmly across the threshold. Buttercup gave one last pointed glance before Gwen’s hand slipped back into the room, and Aidan closed the door with a soft finality, a small click signaling their temporary solitude.

A sharp, indignant bark rang out, followed by the sound of tiny paws scampering off, likely toward the kitchens, where sympathy could be found in the form of leftover beef.

Gwen stood, her cheeks warm with both fondness and anticipation. She turned back toward Aidan, who watched her with quiet intensity.

Her hands rose, not with haste but with wonder, to the lapels of his coat. She longed to place her palms against his chest, out of the need to feel something true and real and steady beneath her fingertips. The coat shifted slightly beneath her grasp.

“Citrus,” he murmured softly, as though just now registering her scent.

His lips brushed her cheek, warm and searching. She tilted her head slightly, savoring the intimacy of the moment. When his mouth found the curve of her jaw and then the edge of her ear, she shivered, not from desire alone, but from the raw sweetness of being seen and wanted.

Her breath caught.

“Faith,” she whispered, overwhelmed by the strange, luminous newness of it all.

The coat slipped from his shoulders with a soft whisper of wool. She placed her hands upon the fine linen of his shirt, the warmth of him steady beneath her fingertips.

Aidan leaned in once more, his hand rising to cradle the back of her head with infinite care. When his lips met hers again, there was no urgency. Only a deep, unfolding tenderness. It was not a kiss of hunger, but of commitment. Of beginnings.

He drew her closer, with the gentle assurance of a husband finally home.

Gwen lay nestled in the crook of Aidan’s arm, her head resting against the warm, steady rise of his chest. Each beat of his heart echoed in her ear, a soft and wondrous rhythm that seemed to speak of promise. His fingers trailed absently through the strands of her hair, drawing light spirals as though trying to memorize its feel.

They had shared one moment of intimate union that night, Aidan insisting with gentle conviction that there must be restraint for her first time. There had been no urgency, only intention. He had treated the occasion as sacred.

Eventually, he rose to retrieve the dinner tray left just outside their door. Gwen watched him cross the room with a dawning sense of awe and belonging, her eyes following the strong lines of his back, the measured grace in his stride. This man was her husband, bound to her in name, in deed, in heart.

They were married.

For all her days, she would have this man by her side.

When he returned, he slipped beneath the counterpane and propped himself on an elbow beside her, offering her slices of pear and clusters of grapes from the tray. Between bites, he quoted lines of poetry—odes to beauty, to awe, to affection—pulling from memory the verses of great poets as if he had memorized them solely for her ears.

Gwen listened, mesmerized. Aidan was clever, tender, and thoroughly romantic. She had never known such attentions, such open admiration from a gentleman before. Several times throughout the ensuing hours, she fought the urge to pinch herself for fear this dreamlike moment might vanish. But the thought of waking to her old life was too dreadful to entertain, and so she let the dream linger.

She wanted this life … with him.

She longed to be his confidante, to hear his verses whispered in that rich, steady voice. She wanted to forge a partnership rooted in trust, in shared burdens and joys alike. To exchange secrets in the dark and find peace in each other’s arms. Their kisses—tender, exploratory, full of wonder—had already deepened her longing to remain enfolded in his embrace.

As sleep crept upon her slowly, like the settling hush of twilight after a golden dusk, she edged closer to him, pressing her cheek to his side and wrapping an arm around his waist.

Just as the veil of slumber claimed her, she murmured the truth that had danced in her chest since the moment he had appeared at her door.

“I love you,” she whispered and fell into sleep.