Always in April

IX.

—Three Weeks Later—

Cecelia waited with bated breath as Sebastian unlocked the cream and gilt double doors to his rooms in Sir William's house in Paris. The ambassador's house was very grand — a palace, really — but Sebastian had warned her that his own quarters would not be as comfortable as she was accustomed to. She was a little frightened it would be like the inn in Scotland where they had spent their wedding night. Just a little.

The latch clicked and Sebastian swung the door open. She stepped through and looked around and immediately was relieved by what she saw: a good-sized room with very high ceilings and very tall windows all along one wall letting the light stream in. Going to the windows, she saw they looked down upon the garden — a very French garden, with dwarf hedges in symmetrical swirls and paths of white gravel and a mossy fountain in the middle.

It was true the room had a definite masculine presence. The bookcases were overstuffed, the furniture was square and heavy and all the upholstery wearing thin. No cushions anywhere. Few decorations. The only pictures on the walls of naval battles. Instantly Cecelia decided she wanted Sebastian's portrait done. Just a miniature. One she could carry with her.

"Will you be happy here?" Sebastian asked.

"It's big and clean and only a little too full of books." She bit back her smile. "I'm going to have no luck with the books, am I?"

"I need them," he said apologetically.

"But I'll bring some cushions. And I think I want the walls papered. I don't really like that pink paint."

"Lady Shipman chose it," Sebastian explained. "I'm afraid I bowed to her feminine opinion. But I do believe it was uglier before. Sort of dun coloured."

Cecelia shuddered. "Flowers?"

"No flowers," Sebastian said firmly, crossing the room to an inner door. "I won't have flowers, not papered on the wall, anyway. The real ones are alright."

"Then perhaps a vertical print in cream and gold? It would look well with the moulding."

"I like that." Sebastian opened the door and beckoned to her. "Here. Come here."

She followed him to the next room and stopped in the doorway. It was a bedroom — the bedroom. As masculine as the other room, with a double-bed — only one — set against the furthest wall. Sebastian was rummaging through a chest of drawers. Cecelia tiptoed past him and tried a further door, but beyond that was nothing more than a bare-floored and cluttered dressing room. Then they were to share the bedroom, and the bed. In London, they had continued to stay in their separate rooms at night. After all that had happened between them, they had not dared attempt to close the distance of six years in one night.

A touch at her waist made her jump. "Something wrong?"

"No, no, it all appears very comfortable and clean."

"Talk to me, Cece," Sebastian reminded her gently.

"I just... didn't realize we will be sharing the bed."

"We can wait for... for that." His cheeks darkened to an adorable shade of pink in embarrassment, or perhaps anticipation, she could not tell. "If it would make you more comfortable, I'll have a bed made up on the couch. As long as need be."

"That would make you very uncomfortable," Cecelia said. "It's a lumpy couch."

"But I don't want to rush you. And it's my fault for not thinking ahead."

She shook her head. "We'll share."

"And do we wait too?"

It was her turn to blush. "I don't know."

He nodded slowly. "I see. Here. Give me your hand."

She held out her hand, but, distracted and flustered, the wrong one. He shook his head with a half-smile and took her left hand instead. Something glinted in his palm, a slender ring of gold set with a purple-red stone about the size of a raindrop.

"Now if it doesn't fit..." Sebastian said.

It did fit; it slid onto her finger like she had worn it all her life.

"Seb, it's perfect. Thank you."

He lifted her chin to kiss her and, when she wrapped her arms around him, kissed her again and deeper. They had started out — or restarted really — quite slowly in that regard, cautious, halting. Things were getting very warm between them now.

Quite burning.

Sebastian broke away, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright. "Is this waiting or the opposite?"

"Probably the opposite."

"Then do we wait?" he repeated, tracing the line of her cheek. "I hurried you six years ago, Cece. I won't hurry you now. Just say the word."

It was that which decided her. "Six years," she said. "I think, Seb dear, we've waited long enough."

*

A/N: Thank you for reading this one. Something sweet and short to bridge the gap between novels.