Never Too Late (31 page)
And yet he knew from experience that, if he distracted her from this task, it would take even longer for them to get home and explore more fascinating and enjoyable endeavors.
So he wandered the office, scanning the ever-changing stacks and ever-stable knickknacks—the miniature of her parents, a pressing of the first flower he ever gave her. He’d grown quite fond of this room . . . and that desk. In fact, he had several extremely fond and vivid memories of that desk. Such as the evening soon after their engagement when he’d accosted her after closing, finding her on one of the ladders and then doing what he’d dreamed of since he’d first laid eyes on her. He dove under her skirt and petticoats as she stood above him and found
her
. One thing quickly led to another, and he’d laid her out on that very desk and tasted her womanhood, feasted on her deeply and thoroughly, as she moaned and squealed and cried out.
He finally sat down in the plump leather chair across from Nora and waited. Such recollection had a way of building like a snowball rolling down a mountain. He couldn’t stop himself from remembering another evening soon after that when he’d arrived late, delayed by friends at his club, and found Nora waiting impatiently. Hungrily. She’d pushed him up against the desk—right there!—roughly freed him from his trousers and then knelt before him, insatiable and relentless.
He grinned.
The problem with such memories, he thought as he shifted uncomfortably, was that there was only one satisfactory end result. And Nora was still too buried in the ledger for him to prompt her toward such results. He needed to distract himself before the tightness of his trousers and the throbbing of his groin made him a nuisance. So he forced himself to examine the items on his side of the desk very, very carefully.
“Here is an old friend,” he said. “
One Thousand and One Nights
! What an odd coincidence to find this portentous fellow lying about.”
“Hmm,” she said idly. “Yes, I acquired another copy recently. I was reminded of it today and wanted to check something.”
“Do tell.”
“Such a wonderful work. Do you remember the ending?”
“Let us see. Well, of course, the king falls in love with our inestimable heroine Scheherazade and ultimately decides he cannot possibly kill her.”
“Mmm-hmm. There was another detail I’d forgotten. . . .”
“Which is?”
Without raising her head, she held up her hand again, in the midst of calculations.
So he flipped through the last few pages of the book in his hands. Within those pages, an idea took root in his mind, growing from a whisper to a roar, a glorious and all-encompassing roar. Could it be? Dare he hope?
When he closed the book and looked back at Honoria, she was looking at him with great affection. He swallowed hard and moved toward her.
“My lady wife, is there some message you wish me to glean from this volume?”
“Yes.”
He rounded the desk and leaned in.
“I would rather not mistake your meaning. So could you give it to me plainly?”
“Certainly, my lord and husband. Our Scheherazade, brave and clever and beautiful, was very busy in all those long nights. Somehow after all those nights of drama and fancy, she not only found herself beloved and secure—but also in a rather happy but delicate condition.”
Barely breathing, he asked, “And why would you be reminded of her romantic denouement today?”
“Because, my love, it’s taken us far fewer than a thousand and one nights, more like one hundred and fifty nights, at least according to rough estimate by the doctor and midwife I saw this morning.”
His heart leapt, apparently into his throat, for he found himself unable to speak. He held her face gently, reverently in his hands. She truly did glow. And he wondered, not for the first time, what he could have possibly done to earn such a charmed life.
“You are
enceinte
? I did not think such a thing could be possible,” he said, finally. “Are you sure? Are you all right? Is it safe?”
“I am fine. I’m so much more than fine, love. I’m over the moon, and my heart is dancing among the stars.” She sobered a little. “The doctor says it could be rough going, bearing a child at this age. But it’s not unheard of. I’m strong in mind and body, and I have you with me.”
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied. “I know . . . we need better words for love.” And, when she kissed him, gently, he knew that this was one of those things for which no words could possibly suffice.
About the Author
Amara Royce
writes historical romances that combine her passion for 19th-century literature and history with her addiction to happily-ever-afters. She earned a Ph.D. in English, specializing in 19th-century British literature, from Lehigh University, and a master’s degree in English from Villanova University. She now teaches English literature and composition at a community college in Pennsylvania. When Amara isn’t writing, she’s either grading papers or reveling in her own happily-ever-after with her remarkably patient family.
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Copyright © 2013 by Precie A. Schroyer
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3117-0
