They departed London at dawn, the city still wrapped in mist and early morning quiet. Margaret sat beside Edward in the carriage rather than across from him, a small intimacy that felt monumental. His hand rested on her knee, a casual claiming that sent warmth through her despite the morning chill.
"Regrets?" he asked as London disappeared behind them.
"About what?"
"Chasing me to London. Spending two nights in my bed. Agreeing to return home with me." His thumb traced circles through the fabric of her dress. "Any of it."
Margaret considered. Forty-eight hours ago, she'd been alone at Blackwood Manor, torturing herself with doubt. Now she was returning home with a husband who looked at her like she was something precious.
"No regrets. Except perhaps that I didn't bring a proper change of clothes. Beatrice will be scandalized by the state of my wardrobe."
"Beatrice will be scandalized by many things, I suspect." Edward's hand moved higher on her thigh, still over her skirts but decidedly improper for daytime travel. "Starting with the fact that her mistress spent two nights thoroughly debauched."
"Edward." But she didn't move his hand away.
"Margaret." He leaned close enough that she could feel his breath against her ear. "We have six hours in this carriage. I intend to make excellent use of them."
"We have Beatrice in the other carriage. And your valet. They'll wonder—"
"Let them wonder." His lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. "I'm done caring what people think."
Margaret's breath hitched as his hand slipped beneath her skirts, finding the ribbon of her stockings. "This is highly improper."
"Mm. Shall I stop?"
"Can you?"
His laugh was low and delighted. "There's my bold wife. The one who chased me to London and demanded I court her properly."
"I never demanded—" The words dissolved into a gasp as his fingers found bare skin above her stocking.
"You demanded everything," Edward murmured against her throat. "And I intend to give it to you."
The journey home became a lesson in restraint and pleasure, in the art of being quiet when you wanted to scream. Edward took his time, mapping her responses, learning what made her bite her lip to keep silent, what made her grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
When they finally reached Blackwood Manor in the late afternoon, Margaret was flushed and disheveled, her carefully pinned hair coming loose, her lips swollen from kissing.
Mrs. Dawson greeted them at the entrance with professional neutrality, though Margaret caught the flash of satisfaction in the housekeeper's eyes when she saw them arrive together.
"Welcome home, my lord, my lady. Shall I have your things taken to your usual chambers?"
Edward glanced at Margaret, a question in his eyes. Separate chambers or together? The choice of how to present themselves to the household, to their new life.
"Lord Blackwood's chambers will suffice for both of us," Margaret said, surprising herself with her boldness. "Have my things moved there."
Mrs. Dawson's smile was subtle but approving. "Very good, my lady."
As the servants bustled about with luggage, Edward pulled Margaret aside into the now-empty drawing room.
"You're certain? Sharing chambers? It's quite the statement."
"I'm tired of statements that aren't true. Let's make one that is." She straightened his cravat, which she'd thoroughly mussed in the carriage. "Besides, after the past two nights, I've rather gotten used to sleeping beside you."
"Only sleeping?"
"Among other activities."
Edward captured her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "I need to check on the estate. Meet with Henderson about the cottage repairs, review the accounts, speak with the steward. But tonight—"
"Tonight?"
"Tonight I'm going to make love to my wife in our bed. Properly. Without worrying about hotel staff or schedules or anything but her pleasure."
Heat flooded through Margaret. "That sounds thoroughly indecent."
"I certainly hope so." He released her hand reluctantly. "Go settle in. I'll return for dinner."
Margaret climbed the stairs to Edward's chambers, which were now their chambers, feeling as though she were stepping into a new life. Beatrice was already there, unpacking Margaret's things with brisk efficiency.
"My lady." The maid didn't look up from folding chemises. "I've arranged your wardrobe in the adjoining dressing room. Lord Blackwood's valet has been most accommodating about the space."
"Thank you, Beatrice."
"Will you be requiring my services this evening for dressing?"
Margaret heard the question beneath the question. Will you be needing me, or will your husband be handling such matters?
"Just for dinner preparations. After that, I'll manage on my own."
"Very good, my lady." Beatrice's expression remained neutral, but Margaret caught the hint of approval. "If I may say so, you look well. London seems to have agreed with you."
"London had its moments."
After Beatrice left, Margaret explored the chambers properly. Edward's space was masculine but not severe, with dark wood furniture and deep green fabrics. Books were scattered everywhere, stacked on tables and shelves, some lying open as though he'd been reading multiple volumes simultaneously.
She picked up one near the bed. Poetry. The same collection he'd shown her in the bookshop, pages worn soft from repeated reading.
In the adjoining dressing room, she found her gowns hanging beside his coats, her jewelry box positioned next to his cufflinks. The juxtaposition of their belongings felt intimate, permanent. A physical manifestation of lives intertwining.
She found the book he'd bought her, the essays on connection, and carried it to the chair by the window. The afternoon light was perfect for reading. She settled in, intending to read just a chapter.
That's where Edward found her two hours later, curled in his chair with his book, so absorbed she didn't hear him enter.
He stood in the doorway watching her, this woman who'd chased him to London and demanded honesty and now sat reading in his chambers as though she'd always belonged there.
"Margaret."
She looked up, startled, then smiled. The smile was unguarded, genuine, and it hit him like a physical blow. When had she started looking at him like that?
"You're back. How was the estate?"
"Fine. Henderson sends his gratitude again. The new cottage is nearly ready." He crossed to her, pulled her up from the chair, and into his arms. "But I don't want to talk about cottages."
"No? What do you want to talk about?"
"Nothing." He kissed her thoroughly. "I want to stop talking entirely."
Margaret laughed against his mouth. "It's barely evening. Dinner will be ready soon."
"Then we'll be quick." He was already working on the buttons of her dress.
"Edward, the servants—"
"Know we're married. Know we're sharing chambers. They'll assume exactly what we're doing." He pushed the dress off her shoulders, his hands reverent on her skin. "Let them assume correctly."
Then he kissed her, his tongue gliding against hers. It was a slow, sensual kiss, but the buildup of desire from their time in the carriage ignited as he cupped her face with one hand and threaded the other into her hair, tilting her head just so to deepen the kiss. Margaret melted against him, overwhelmed by the taste of him, the warmth of his body pressing her back against the wall.
His hands traveled down her sides, tracing the curves of her waist before slipping beneath the thin fabric of her dress to find the smooth skin of her back. He gripped her tightly, grinding their bodies together as he moved his lips to the hollow of her throat, trailing kisses down to her collarbone. His breath was hot against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.
"Margaret," he murmured, pulling back slightly to gaze into her eyes, his own darkened with desire. "You are so beautiful."
"I feel like a wanton," she breathed, her heart racing as his fingers explored the small of her back, pushing the fabric of her dress aside.
"No apologies, my love," he replied, his lips curving into a smirk. "You're mine now."
She sighed at the possessiveness in his tone, excitement coursing through her. As he kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly, his hand brushed along the curve of her hip, fingers deftly unbuttoning the bodice of her dress until it slipped down her shoulders.
"I've dreamt of this," Edward confessed between kisses, his lips trailing lower to the swell of her breasts, warm and inviting just above her shifting dress. Margaret's breath caught as he flicked his tongue across the lace lining of her corset, teasing her.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, guiding him back to her lips. "Then don't waste any more time," she urged, her voice trembling with urgency.
He chuckled softly, the sound reverberating against her chest as he pulled away just enough to relish the sight of her—eyes lit with anticipation, lips swollen and pink from their passionate kisses. "No more delays," he promised.
With a practiced ease, Edward lifted her, cradling her to his chest as he carried her to the bed. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he laid her gently upon the soft sheets, the fabric cool against her heated skin.
He hovered over her, his body shielding her from the world, and kissed her again, deeply, consuming her with his presence. Margaret's fingers traced down the planes of his chest, feeling the powerful muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt, yearning for more.
"Let me see you," she breathed, her voice husky with desire.
With a nod, Edward slowly peeled off his shirt, revealing his toned torso. The flickering candlelight illuminated the taut lines of his body, and she bit her lip at the sight. As he joined her back on the bed, he took a moment to press tender kisses along her shoulders, down to her collarbone, savoring the sweetness of the skin he uncovered.
"Tell me what you need," he murmured, their eyes locking with an intensity that made her heart race.
"I need you," she replied, the urgency in her voice cutting through the softness that had filled the room. "All of you. Now."
He slipped his hand between them, fingers deft as they traced along the curves of her thighs, teasing the lace of her garters above her stockings before slipping deeper. Margaret gasped as she felt his fingers brush against her, igniting sensations that left her yearning for more, bidding him to explore further.
"Just like this?" he asked, his voice a rich murmur, eyes locked onto hers as he expertly elicited soft whimpers from her.
"Yes, Edward. Just like this." She squirmed beneath him as he found a rhythm, her body arching and melting at the sensations swirling within her.
The tension built between them, an electric hum that made Margaret grit her teeth to suppress her cries of pleasure. She could only watch him, entranced, as his determination made him all the more irresistible.
"And now," he said, his voice a seductive whisper, "let me have you completely."
He positioned himself at her entrance, pausing just long enough to meet her gaze one last time. Then, with a slow thrust, he buried himself deep within her. Margaret gasped, pain blending seamlessly with pleasure as he filled her, both familiar and entirely new.
"Yes," she breathed out, her body instinctively enveloping him, urging him deeper. Their movements became a dance of rhythm and breath, limbs entwined as they melted together completely.
Edward focused on her, every thrust causing her to tremble, their bodies slick with perspiration. The world outside faded away as they found their release together, a tide of ecstasy crashing over them, rolling away the last remnants of tension.
As they lay tangled together, hearts racing, panting breaths mingling in the stillness of the room, Margaret looked up into Edward's gaze, the warmth of their connection making her feel invincible. "That was—"
"Magnificent," he filled in the blank, kissing the corner of her mouth.
Margaret smiled, feeling a profound sense of satisfaction wash over them both.
"Now," he said, propped on his elbows and looking down at her, "what else shall we scandalize the servants with tonight?"
"We missed dinner," Margaret observed.
"Worth it."
"Completely." She traced patterns on his chest. "Though Cook will be disappointed. She made your favorite."
"We'll eat later. Cold roast is underrated." Edward caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her fingers. "Stay here. Just like this. For a few more minutes."
Margaret had no intention of moving. She felt boneless, sated, profoundly comfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the physical mattress and everything to do with the man beside her.
"Edward?"
"Mm?"
"I'm glad I chased you to London."
"So am I." He pulled her closer. "Though I would have come home to you regardless."
"I know. But I needed to be the one to close the distance. To choose you actively, not just wait for you to choose me."
He was quiet for a moment. "We both chose. That's what matters."
Eventually, hunger drove them from bed. They dressed casually, Edward in shirtsleeves, Margaret in a simple day dress. When they descended to the dining room, they found cold roast and bread and cheese laid out, along with wine.
"Mrs. Dawson is efficient," Edward observed, pouring them both wine.
"Mrs. Dawson knows everything that happens in this house. She probably predicted exactly when we'd emerge."
They ate companionably, talking about nothing important. The weather. The book Margaret had been reading. Edward's plans for winter repairs. Ordinary conversation, but it felt momentous simply because they were having it without barbs or careful distance.
After dinner, they retreated to the library. Edward built up the fire while Margaret curled into the sofa with her book. He settled beside her with estate reports, their bodies touching from shoulder to hip.
This, Margaret thought, was what marriage should be. Not grand passion every moment, but this comfortable intimacy. Working in companionable silence, occasionally reading passages aloud, sharing space without needing to fill it with words.
"Listen to this," she said eventually. "'Connection is not the absence of conflict, but the willingness to remain present through conflict. To choose relationship over righteousness, understanding over victory.'"
Edward set down his reports. "Read that again."
She did.
"That's what we never had before," he said quietly. "The willingness to remain present. We'd fight and then retreat for weeks. No resolution, just avoidance."
"What do we do differently now?"
"Stay. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard." He took her hand. "Promise me that when we have our first real argument, which we will, you won't run. You'll stay and fight it out with me."
"I promise. If you promise the same."
"I promise."
They sealed it with a kiss, and the kiss deepened, and the book fell forgotten to the floor as Edward pulled Margaret into his lap.
"Again?" she murmured against his mouth.
"Again. And again. And again." His hands were already working on her dress. "I have three years of neglect to make up for."
"We'll scandalize the servants."
"They're already scandalized. Let's give them something to really talk about."
Margaret laughed, the sound free and joyous, and let her husband carry her back upstairs to their chambers, to their bed, to the life they were finally, truly beginning to build together.