Page 75 of Someone to Watch Over Me
Grant laughed and loosened his arms, allowing her feet to touch the floor. “And then?”
Victoria dropped the cravat to the floor and ducked her face against his throat, breathing in his salty masculine scent. “And then I’ll show you again how much I love you.” Drawing back, she looked up at him with a hopeful smile. “If you’re able.”
He grinned and crushed a warm kiss on her lips. “I’m not a man to back down from a challenge.”
“Yes, I know.” And she laughed exultantly as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.
Epilogue
Although Victoria had thought she knew her husband well, she made many discoveries about him in the first six months of marriage. Agreeing with the general opinion that Grant was not the kind of man to take easily to domesticity, she had vowed to give him as much freedom as he required. She had decided never to render an opinion about his companionship. If he chose to stay out all hours of the night socializing, drinking, and cavorting, so be it. And if he allowed himself to be drawn into dangerous situations, she would try to restrain her criticism. After all, he had been a remarkably independent man until he had met her, and he would resent her efforts to rein him in. And Victoria had no desire to eventually be regarded as a millstone around his neck.
To her amazement, and that of everyone else who knew Grant, he took to married life as if he never known any other kind of existence. He inhabited the role of husband with ease and enjoyment, displaying the kind of devotion that most wives only dreamed of. Instead of carousing at the London taverns with friends, Grant preferred to spend his nights at home with Victoria sharing books and bottles of wine, drinking and debating and making love well into the night.
Grant took her everywhere, to balls, dinners, and musical evenings, as well as prizefights, races, and even gambling hells. He protected but did not shelter her, allowing her to see the seaminess of London as well as its beauty. He treated Victoria as a partner, a beloved companion, a lover, and because of him her life was infused with a vigor and vividness that she had never dreamed of in Forest Crest.
On the evenings they stayed at home, Victoria helped Grant to study and analyze mountains of books on law and theory, loaned to them by Sir Ross. Grant had found that the work of a police magistrate was demanding but fascinating, and offered more of a challenge than serving merely as a Runner. He relished his increased power in settling legal disputes and conducting inquiries, and had begun to accumulate a measure of political influence. That and his honorary knighthood had given him a social stature that far exceeded his previous celebrity.
Victoria, for her part, did her best to find her own place in London society, carefully selecting and accepting invitations from the piles that arrived each week. She consulted with architects and designers concerning the mansion Grant was planning to build in Mayfair, and solicited advice from newfound friends she had made in London. Before long she had also joined ladies’ committees in support of charities benefiting reformed prostitutes and disadvantaged children, though it seemed that the efforts of these committees were puny in comparison to the size of the problems they sought to address.
“The numbers of women and children who need help are so overwhelming,” Victoria told Grant one evening, feeling discouraged rather than hopeful about a planned charity event. “Even if the committee’s efforts are successful, we’ll have benefited only a fraction of those who need it. It makes me wonder why we should even try.”
Holding her in his arms, Grant stroked back a stray lock of her hair and kissed her forehead. “It’s always better to try,” he murmured, smiling into her worried face. “I’ve felt the same way in the past, wondering why I risked my neck to catch one thieving bastard when there were thousands more remaining out there.”
“Then why did you keep at it?”
He shrugged slightly. “I thought that by taking one criminal off the streets, I might be saving someone in the future. And saving even one person is worth all the effort, isn’t it?”
Victoria smiled and hugged him, feeling a great rush of love. “I knew it,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “At heart you’re an idealist.”
She felt him grin against her ear. “I’ll teach you to call me names, milady.” Drawing his head back, he kissed her until she had no breath left.
Absorbed in pages of notes on an inquiry he was conducting, Grant barely noticed the knock on the door of his office at Bow Street. “Yes,” he said gruffly, resenting the disruption to his concentration.
The door opened a crack, revealing Mrs. Dobson’s face. “Sir Grant, you have a visitor.”
He scowled in response. “I told you I won’t receive visitors until sessions are concluded this afternoon—”
“Yes, sir, but…it’s Lady Morgan.”
Immediately the scowl left his face. Victoria seldom ventured to the Bow Street office, which was a good thing, considering that it was frequently populated by scoundrels and criminals. However, any chance to see her in the middle of the day was greatly welcome. “For God’s sake, don’t keep her waiting,” he said. “Bring her in at once.”
The housekeeper smiled and opened the door wider, and Victoria entered. She was a lovely sight, especially against the drab backdrop of the office, her trim figure clad in a gown of pale pink muslin, its high collar and long sleeves trimmed with rose ribbons. The bodice of the gown was plaited and laced with silk cords that tied snugly over the tantalizing curves of her breasts. Rising from his chair, Grant waited until Mrs. Dobson had closed the door, and then he swept his wife in his arms and captured her smiling mouth in an ardent kiss.
“Just what I needed,” he murmured when their lips parted. “A pretty wench to relieve my tedium.”
“I hope I haven’t interrupted some important work,” she said apologetically.
“No work is as important as you.” He toyed with the ribbon that trimmed her collar, and nuzzled the soft, perfumed space behind her earlobe. “Tell me what brings you to Bow Street, milady. Do you have a complaint to lodge or a crime to report?”
She laughed breathlessly. “Not exactly.”
“Some testimony or information to offer?”
“In a way.”
He sat in his chair and drew her down to his lap, his green eyes gleaming roguishly. “I want a full confession, milady.”
“Grant, no,” she scolded with a discomfited laugh, wriggling on his knee and glancing uneasily at the door. “Someone might come in—what would they think?”
