Emma sank her fingers in his thick, dark hair and tousled it. “I am still afraid I might never hear them.”

Alex drew back and cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Emma Elizabeth Dunster Ridgely,” he said solemnly. “I love you with all of my heart and all of my soul. I love you like I never dreamed it was possible to love a woman. I love you like—”

“Stop!” Emma cried out, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Why, darling?”

“I’m too happy,” she said in a choked voice.

“You can never be too happy. In fact, I intend to devote the rest of my life to ensuring that each day you live is happier than the one before it.”

“I don’t think that will be very difficult as long as you remain by my side.”

Alex smiled. “As if I would ever leave.”

“Good!” Emma said saucily.

“As if you would let me,” he teased. “My fierce American duchess. You’d probably come after me with a shotgun.”

Emma sat up and swatted him with a pillow. “Beast!” Laughing merrily, she let him wrestle her back down to the bed. “Besides, I don’t even know how to use a shotgun,” she said, catching her breath.

“What? My tree-climbing, fishing rod-toting duchess can’t fire a shotgun? I’m disappointed.”

“Well, I am better than average with a pistol.”

Alex leaned down to kiss her. “That’s more like it.”

“Alex?”

“Hmm?”

“We don’t have to go back to town anytime soon, do we?”

“No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“I think I’m developing a fondness for Westonbirt.”

Alex pouted. “For Westonbirt or for me?”

“For you, you big baby. But I never get to see you in London. Everyone puts such demands on your time. Do you think we could just stay here for a while?”

Alex cuddled his wife against his chest, treasuring the newfound love that shone in his heart. “I think that could be arranged.”

Chapter 22

The next few weeks of Emma’s life were among the happiest she had ever known. She floated through the days in a blissful haze, wearing the indestructible smile of a woman who loves and is loved in return. Her life with Alex developed into a rather comfortable routine. They had all of their meals together—although many had to be brought up to their room on a tray. They went for a ride every afternoon, taking a different route each time, and Westonbirt was large enough that after three weeks Emma still hadn’t seen all of the estate. Every evening after supper, they lounged in their new sitting room, reading or playing chess, or simply enjoying each other’s company.

And their nights, of course, were not reserved just for sleeping.

Emma soon learned to make good use of the time she didn’t spend with Alex. He had quite a few business ventures that required his attention, and he often spent time in his study going over important letters and documents. Also, there were four other estates besides Westonbirt that required careful management, and Alex didn’t like to leave all the details to overseers. His tenants deserved more than an absentee landlord, and he had books and books of notes in which he tried to keep track of their progress and needs.

So while Alex was busy with all of his work, Emma set about the job of getting to know her new home. Her first venture was to have the bed in the duchess’s bedroom hauled away. A quick trip to London to visit her family and shop for furniture resulted in her new sitting room getting redecorated in record time. Then she busied herself with learning about the management of the ancestral Ashbourne home. After getting acquainted with all of the servants, she spent a little extra time with the higher ones, asking them questions about the running of the household. Her meetings were doubly successful, for in addition to learning more about the inner workings of Westonbirt, she developed a sense of trust with the servants. They truly appreciated her interest in their welfare and were flattered that she bothered to ask them for advice about her new role as mistress of Westonbirt.

But one could only spend so much time redecorating and interviewing servants, and soon Emma found that she had little to do. The efficient staff ran the household like clockwork, and very little intervention was required on her part. So one morning, about three weeks into her marriage, she took the initiative and knocked on Alex’s study door.

“Come in.”

Emma poked her head in the doorway. “Am I bothering you?”

Alex put the papers he’d been reading down on the desk. “No, not at all. Is it time for dinner yet?”

Emma shook her head.

Alex glanced out the window. “It’s a beautiful day. Shall we have Mrs. Goode prepare us a picnic?”

“That would be lovely, thank you, but actually I just thought I’d pop in and see how you were doing. What are those papers you’re reading?”

Alex raised his eyebrows at her unexpected interest. “They pertain to an interest I have in a sugar plantation in the Caribbean.”

“Oh. May I look at them?”

“Certainly.” He held them out to her. “But I don’t think you’ll find them very interesting. Besides, they’re in French.”

Emma picked up the papers and scanned them. Her French was not as good as Alex’s, but it was good enough to get the general idea of the letters from the plantation manager. A bad season had resulted in a poor crop. Alex probably would not see a return on his investment for another year. She handed the papers back to him. “That’s too bad,” she said.