Epilogue
VENICE, ITALY
APRIL 1815
On a bright afternoon in early April, Lord and Lady Castlerosse stood on the open balcony off their bedchamber in the Palazzo di Contini, looking over the Grand Canal.
“Thank God it’s only early spring and not the middle of summer,” Knight said, leaning on the polished wood railing. “It was my misfortune to visit Venice in August some six years ago. The stench was nearly overpowering. But now—” Knight paused and breathed in the cool spring morning air.
“I have been wondering what’s under that dark water,” Lily said, peering down from their third-story view. “It’s menacing and murky, a lover of the gothic would say.”
“I shudder to know what’s under it.”
“Ancient Greek coins, perhaps? Roman urns and centurions’ shields? I know, Attila the Hun left his sword here, and it sank.”
“Someone’s dead cousin, more’s to the point. The Venetians aren’t known for their forgiving natures.”
Lily shuddered and turned, to lean her back against the balcony railing. “You’re not a romantic, Knight.”
He grinned at her, that grin that made her want to leap into his arms and wrestle him to the floor. “And have my way with you,” she finished aloud.
“What?” He immediately put his fingertip to her lips. “No, don’t repeat what you said. It’s possible I misunderstood. I prefer to believe that you want to fling me down and rip off my clothes and caress me with your hands and mouth and—”
“You’re terrible. But yes, that’s it exactly. You’ve been distant today, Knight. Admit it.”
His grin faded a bit. He pulled her into his arms, settling her there exactly where she belonged, her head on his shoulder, her hands around his waist. “It’s like you’ve been with me all my life,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “You’re feeling quite well again? You promise?”
“I promise,” she said.
“We’ve been here for three weeks now. We’ve attended nine balls, three in our honor, gambled away five hundred pounds—”
“I lost only fifty pounds! It was rouge et noir, and you said I was cheated.”
“Well, I knew it was some vast amount. In any case, we’ve ridden in the gondolas until you were nearly seasick, we’ve fed every damned pigeon in St. Mark’s Square, we’ve trudged over the Rialto Bridge a good three hundred times, and you almost locked me in the dungeons in the Doges’s Palace—”
That brought out a giggle. “I didn’t really lock you in.”
“You made me think so. I found a gray hair the very next morning. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I’ve had Tintoretto for breakfast, Carpaccio for lunch, Parodi for afternoon tea, and Bellini for dinner. The only activity that hasn’t paled in the least, in fact the one that keeps me hard as those supports under the Rialto Bridge, is making love with you.”
He felt the small shudder go through her at his words and smiled.
“I suspect that won’t pale for a very long time.”
“Fifty years, Lily?”
“At the very least. Now, what is really on your mind?”
Knight sighed. She knew him well, his wife. “I miss the children. We’ve been gone from them nearly two months now. And even though it’s been wonderful—”
Lily laughed and kissed him. “What are you really trying to say?”
“Haven’t you wondered if Castle Rosse is still a fine old manor house and not a squalid remnant from the past? If our servants are still sentient people and not blathering idiots? If the upstairs maids haven’t gone shrieking to Bedlam after putting their hands in Sam’s bread dough?”
Lily was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. “Oh, stop,” she managed. “You’re so funny, Knight. How did I live so long without the wittiest, the handsomest, the most wonderful, the—”
“The best lover?”
“Yes, the best lover and nearly the youngest husband in the entire world?”
Knight moaned. “All my fine philosophies—shredded and tossed to the winds. I, a young man, captured in his prime, hurtled into captivity, forced to service a woman who has endless appetites for my young, virile body. How can it be borne?”
“What is it to be, then, my lord?”
“It’s my turn.”
“To hurtle me to the ground? I, a young lady, to be captured in her prime?”
He laughed and squeezed her tightly against him. “Enough talk for a while. It’s time we made love.”
They did, and it was sweet and fierce and slow and very, very fine. The sun was sinking into twilight before Knight was able to string more than two words together. “If I had met you when I was forty, you would have killed me within a week. I’m damned lucky I’m young; it’s the only way I could survive being married to you.”
Lily kissed his shoulder.
Knight kissed the tip of her nose. “When did you plan to tell me?”
Lily was caught in mid-yawn. “Tell you what?”
“That you’re pregnant.”
She gave him a radiant smile. “Next month, I thought. No, don’t frown at me. I wanted to be certain. How did you know? You’re a man.”
“Even a man notices if his wife doesn’t have her monthly flow. That, and your breasts. They’re fuller, more sensitive, more tender. Haven’t you noticed how careful I’ve been when I’ve caressed you?”
“No,” she said quite honestly. “When you touch me, all I notice is that I’m wild and hot and aching for you.”
“Ah,” Knight said, his hand going to her belly, his fingers splaying over her. “That is very nicely said. When can I expect my fourth child to enter this world?”
“The end of November, I think.”
“You’re feeling well?”
“Oh, yes, extremely fit. I haven’t been at all ill in the mornings.”
“Doubtless it’s due to your remarkable husband’s care of you.” Knight glanced at the puckered scar on her shoulder. He felt a shock of memory, then resolutely shook it off. That was over, long over. “What was I saying? Oh, yes. Now, I’ve decided I’ll give you the reward and not keep it for myself, even though I am certain I earned it.”
Lily blinked up at him. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“The reward. For the return of Billy’s Baubles.”
“What reward? From the Prince of Orange?”
“Certainly from the prince. I got a letter this morning from Burke. Billy, my dear, wants us to accept a token of his esteem and profound thanks for the return of his sparklers, in the form of a small seventeenth-century manor house he owns in Cornwall, near Lostwithiel, I understand.”
“A house for the return of some paltry jewels?”
“Not quite so paltry. Evidently they were worth something in the neighborhood of sixty thousand pounds.”
“Goodness,” Lily said. “And they were sewn in the ermine lining of my cloak. What if I’d lost the cloak? Sold it? Oh, dear—”
Knight’s fingers were on her lips; then he leaned down and kissed her. “When will I stop wanting you all the time? The manor house is called Swan’s Grange. I was thinking we could change the name to something more noble. Perhaps—”
Lily lightly caressed him and he forgot everything except her soft hand and her soft mouth on him.
“Perhaps what?” she asked, her breath warm in his mouth.
“Attila’s Hall? Napoleon’s Chase? The Turk’s Abbey? I don’t know, I don’t care.”
Lily didn’t either at that moment.
“I know,” he said some thirty minutes later.
“Know what?”
“We’ll christen it Medici Manor. We could build old, dank prisons. We could sell poisons, import the Italian concept of vendetta.”
Lily giggled. “You’re making me laugh too much.”
“My mission in life. Get used to it.”
“All right,” Lily said and kissed him.
About the Author
CATHERINE COULTER is a perenn
ial New York Times bestselling author of both historical romance and romantic suspense novels. She lives in Northern California with her husband Anton and her cat.
Do let her know which of the novels in the Night Trilogy you like best. Write her at P.O.Box 17, Mill Valley, CA 94942, or e-mail her at [email protected]. Visit her website at www.Catherine Coulter.com.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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