arling.”
With a sigh, Maggie looked up from the poem she’d been attempting to write. Ten of the fifteen lines she’d penned thus far had been summarily scratched off. Some days, poetry came easily to her. Most days, she needed to scrabble and claw for it.
Simon sauntered into the library in his riding clothes, looking debonair and sinfully handsome at the same time. Her heart gave a great pang of love. Each day that had passed between them in the months since he’d come to her at Nell’s had only brought them closer together, making their love stronger. She didn’t think she could ever grow tired of seeing his gorgeous head lying on the pillow each morning.
“How was your morning ride?” she asked, grateful for the interruption. She’d been writing a great deal of poetry recently, her love for the art renewed along with her happiness. She hoped to publish another volume one day soon, and Simon had been wonderfully encouraging to her.
“Most invigorating, but I do wish you’d joined me.” He strode across the room, eating up the distance between them in no time.
He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. These days, she appreciated the help, given the relative roundness of her stomach. “You know I can’t properly ride in my condition.”
Simon pulled her close for a hungry kiss before winking down at her. “As long as you continue to ride me, I shan’t complain.”
She tried to suppress a smile at his wicked words but couldn’t maintain a properly staid façade. “You’re a devil of a man,” she said without heat, “speaking to me so.”
“You like when I’m wicked,” he returned with ease. “I can tell by the way your eyes turn that lovely shade of dark violet, and the way you try to frown at me but really cannot stop smiling.”
He knew her too well. She inclined her head, conceding the point. “Very well. I suppose I’m a book too easily read.”
His hands tightened on her waist, or what remained of it given the ever-growing babe inside her. “Not easily read, my love. It is simply that I know all the best parts by heart.”
She leaned into him for another kiss, thinking that her dratted poem could certainly wait. Why had she decided to pen something about love, anyway? Each time she attempted to write about the man she loved, she either ended up turning into a quivering blob of sobs or throwing the entire thing away. She supposed that sometimes, the most wondrous aspects of life could never be properly written.
“You’re frowning,” he said, dropping another peck on her waiting lips before straightening again. He reached into his jacket and extracted a letter, handing it to her. “Perhaps this shall make you smile again.”
Her curiosity piqued, Maggie took the letter from his hands and scanned its contents. Shock made her nearly drop it from her numb fingers. It couldn’t be. How could he have done this without her knowing? “What have you done, Simon?”
He grinned at her. “I sent away some of your poems to Livingston Press. I felt it was bloody well time for the world to once again see your work.”
He was ever surprising her, this husband of hers. She hadn’t known he’d had such a scheme in mind. He’d never said a word. The glowing language of the letter returned to her, buoying her flagging spirits. “And they want to publish a full volume?” She’d never dreamed of such a possibility. After all, it had been too long since she’d published a word, and even then, it had only been because of her father’s influence.
“The publisher says he would be thrilled to print another M.E. Desmond book. Indeed, he considers it quite a rare find, for as you know, the mysterious Desmond has only written but the one volume.” That penetrating gaze of his was trained upon her, gauging her reaction. “Are you happy?”
She threw her arms about him, laughing when her ungainly stomach wouldn’t allow her to embrace him as she wanted. “Happy? I’m utterly thrilled. I can’t believe you did this for me.”
He caught her up in a nearly crushing embrace. “Much as I’d like to, I can’t keep you all to myself, now can I?”
How she loved him. If she wasn’t careful, she’d turn into a watering pot all over him. Heaven knew she’d done it a great deal since becoming with child. “Thank you, Simon.”
“It is I who must thank you,” he said against her ear.
“What must you thank me for?” she asked, puzzled.
He drew back to gaze lovingly down at her. His hands went to her belly, hidden cleverly in the layers of her skirts. “For loving me in spite of myself. For giving me the family I’ve always wanted. Finding a publisher for your poetry is the least I can do after all you’ve done for me, Maggie. You’ve made me whole again.”
“No,” she said softly, putting her hands over his as their baby gave a kick. She thought of all she’d left in New York and just how much she’d gained in England. She never could have imagined just how complete she’d feel in Simon’s arms. “We’ve made each other whole again.”
As he took her back into his embrace for another passionate kiss, she knew instinctively that the best was yet to come.