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“Second honeymoon.” James glanced away with an uncomfortable cough. “Rejuvenating effect.”

Tib’s eyes widened. “You mean that woman . . . that was the duchess? Your mother?” She shook her head. “I’d never have recognized her. She looked . . .”

“Let’s not dwell on how she looked.” James gritted his teeth. “Let it suffice to say, she and my father were in the best possible mood to receive our news.”

“They don’t object?” A little flame of excitement kindled in her breast. “They think we’re getting married, and they don’t object?”

“We are getting married, and they’re delighted.” He paused. “Unless, Tib—do you object?” He stroked her cheek, eyes roaming over her. He leaned closer, a knowing, cocky smile playing over his lips. “You have yet to answer,” he murmured, “and I am suffering torments.”

“No, you’re not.” She laughed. Or rather, her heart was overflowing, and laughter was the sound. “You’re obnoxiously sure of yourself. You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“That’s just my disagreeable face. I won’t subject you to it. Go on now. Decide my fate.” He made to put his back to her, and she threw her arms around his neck, holding him still.

“I want to marry you,” she said. “Despite your face.”

He sobered instantly, and looked at her with something like awe. Then he smiled a slow, dangerously seductive smile. His face really was disagreeably appealing. Absolutely irresistible. She had to kiss him and kiss him. Each kiss sent sparks skittering over her entire body.

“I want to marry you.” She pulled back, just far enough to look up into his eyes. “But only if I still get to set you Herculean labors.”

One of his brows arched. “What did you have in mind?”

She whispered in his ear and felt him flex, every muscle gone taut. His arms tightened around her convulsively.

It was a moment before he could speak and when he did, his voice was a heated, unintelligible growl. He might have been cursing, or uttering a prayer.

Her hands wandered over his shoulders. “You accept the challenge?”

He dropped his head with a groan and spoke into the curve of her neck. “Please. Now. Right this second. Or blast, I suppose after breakfast.” She felt his grin.

“But tell me,” he continued in a murmur. “How on earth did you even come up with such a gloriously filthy idea?”

“Lord Blane.” She grinned too. “I have a very good imagination.”

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Tib swung out from the car of the balloon, gripping one of the ropes that suspended it firmly from the silken globe.

“Careful,” said James and grasped her around the waist. So anchored, she leaned out even further.

To look upon the world from on high—the wonder of it still took her breath away. Once you flew past the kirk spires and smoky chimneys of Edinburgh, the mainland was a green tapestry of fields and glens and rolling hills and mirror-like lochs.

James had missed most of this particular journey. His head and shoulders had been buried beneath her skirts.

He’d insisted that the view was even better.

“Here we go!” she cried. They’d reached it—Scotland’s edge. No more quilted squares. She beheld below a wild, scalloped mix of grays and blues, jagged rocks and roiling waves.

Soon they’d float over Dearnrigg.

Soon they’d set down on Selchskerrie.

They’d been coming and going all year. And now they were to spend the whole month in the isles. At Castle Lyon, with the duke and duchess, and Arthur, recently returned from the war. At her cottage, where she did her very best writing.

The late summer days would unfold, slow and golden.

There was ample time for everything, for everyone.