The Bridgertons Happily Ever After - By Julia Quinn Page 0,59
great deal worse.
But when Gareth had assumed the title, he discovered that he’d inherited debts, mortgages, and houses that had been emptied of almost all valuables. Hyacinth’s dowry, which had increased with prudent investments upon their marriage, went a long way toward fixing the situation, but still, Gareth had had to work harder and with more diligence than he’d ever dreamed possible to wrench his family out of debt.
The funny thing was, he’d enjoyed it.
Who would have thought that he, of all people, would find such satisfaction in hard work? His desk was spotless, his ledgers neat and tidy, and he could put his fingers on any important document in under a minute. His accounts always summed properly, his properties were thriving, and his tenants were healthy and prosperous.
He took another sip of his drink, letting the mellow fire roll down his throat. Heaven.
Life was perfect. Truly. Perfect.
George was finishing up at Cambridge, Isabella would surely choose a husband this year, and Hyacinth . . .
He chuckled. Hyacinth was still Hyacinth. She’d become a bit more sedate with age, or maybe it was just that motherhood had smoothed off her rough edges, but she was still the same outspoken, delightful, perfectly wonderful Hyacinth.
She drove him crazy half the time, but it was a nice sort of crazy, and even though he sometimes sighed to his friends and nodded tiredly when they all complained about their wives, secretly he knew he was the luckiest man in London. Hell, England even. The world.
He set his drink down, then tapped his fingers against the elegantly wrapped box sitting on the corner of his desk. He’d purchased it that morning at Mme. LaFleur, the dress shop he knew Hyacinth did not frequent, in order to spare her the embarrassment of having to deal with salespeople who knew every piece of lingerie in her wardrobe.
French silk, Belgian lace.
He smiled. Just a little bit of French silk, trimmed with a minuscule amount of Belgian lace.
It would look heavenly on her.
What there was of it.
He sat back in his chair, savoring the daydream. It was going to be a long, lovely night. Maybe even . . .
His eyebrows rose as he tried to remember his wife’s schedule for the day. Maybe even a long, lovely afternoon. When was she due home? And would she have either of the children with her?
He closed his eyes, picturing her in various states of undress, followed by various interesting poses, followed by various fascinating activities.
He groaned. She was going to have to return home very soon, because his imagination was far too active not to be satisfied, and—
“Gareth!”
Not the most mellifluous of tones. The lovely erotic haze floating about his head disappeared entirely. Well, almost entirely. Hyacinth might not have looked the least bit inclined for a bit of afternoon sport as she stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, but she was there, and that was half the battle.
“Shut the door,” he murmured, rising to his feet.
“Do you know what your daughter did?”
“Your daughter, you mean?”
“Our daughter,” she ground out. But she shut the door.
“Do I want to know?”
“Gareth!”
“Very well,” he sighed, followed by a dutiful “What did she do?”
He’d had this conversation before, of course. Countless times. The answer usually had something to do with something involving marriage and Isabella’s somewhat unconventional views on the subject. And of course, Hyacinth’s frustration with the whole situation.
It rarely varied.
“Well, it wasn’t so much what she did,” Hyacinth said.
He hid his smile. This was also not unexpected.
“It’s more what she won’t do.”
“Jump to your bidding?”
“Gareth.”
He halved the distance between them. “Aren’t I enough?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He reached out, tugged at her hand, pulled her gently against him. “I always jump to your bidding,” he murmured.
She recognized the look in his eye. “Now?” She twisted around until she could see the closed door. “Isabella is upstairs.”
“She won’t hear.”
“But she could—”
His lips found her neck. “There’s a lock on the door.”
“But she’ll know—”
He started working on the buttons on her frock. He was very good at buttons. “She’s a smart girl,” he said, stepping back to enjoy his handiwork as the fabric fell away. He loved when his wife didn’t wear a chemise.
“Gareth!”
He leaned down and took one rosy-tipped breast into his mouth before she could object.
“Oh, Gareth!” And her knees went weak. Just enough for him to scoop her up and take her to the sofa. The one with the extra-deep cushions.