Letters at Christmas by Amber Lin

know it. Couldn’t be sure.”
    “But now you are?” He sounded skeptical.
    “You must know that I love you. That I waited for you.”
    He swallowed. “I hoped.”
    “Come. This is my Christmas present.” She led him to her room and opened the door.
    Poppet lounged on the bed, looking mildly annoyed by the blue ribbon tied in a bow at the nape of his neck. “He was… Bailey left a litter behind. They were all grey striped, except for this one. Black.” She smiled sadly. “He’s already yours. I was just holding him.”
    “You did wait for me,” he said incredulously.
    She nodded, unable to speak. Tears of longing and relief sprang to her eyes; there was no holding them back now. Raising her hands, she tried to hide—but he wouldn’t let her. Firm arms pulled her to him. A broad chest pillowed her head. Warm breath brushed her temple while he murmured to her, “There. It’s over now. I’m with you. I’m here.”
    It only made her cry harder, because she hadn’t been sure this moment would ever come, and apparently neither had he. So much uncertainty of their promises, so much doubt in the face of their devotion. He caressed her hair with soothing strokes, washing away her fear. But then, they’d always had magic, those hands. They could calm her or excite her. They could spin an entire future from a few thin threads of hope.
    When she quieted, she wiped her eyes and gazed up at him as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re really here.”
    His eyes glistened. He quirked his lips. “Home for Christmas. You will marry me?”
    “Yes.”
    “You understand it is a step down. I still don’t have status or wealth like some—”
    “Hale, I wanted to marry you when you were poor. I will find a way to persevere now that you are not.”

Chapter Five
    Despite our secret and sensual play, I left England as your friend. A friend who refused to send letters, so that you might move on with your life, and even marry another if you chose to. That is not who returns to your life and your bed tomorrow. I intend to be your lover, your possession. Your husband. I am not the same man you knew, but I can only strive, with each day at your side, to be a better one.
    Hale touched Sidony’s cheek, smooth as silk beneath his palm. This morning he’d had to leave her bed early. Too early, to avoid being caught by the maid. Soon, though, he wouldn’t have to sneak, wouldn’t have to hide. He could send the maids away for hours, for days, and damn propriety, once she was his wife.
    As soon as her maid had gone, he’d slipped back into Sidony’s room, unable to stay away. It had always been that way. Hundreds of miles away, years away, and he couldn’t stand to be apart. At least the few minutes separation had given him time to shave and dress in new tailored clothes he’d had made on Bond Street upon his return. Their cut was elegant, the fabric carrying the weight of wealth and position. As if the clothes could make the man.
    They couldn’t. He wasn’t good enough for her, but she never seemed to mind. He felt ever bulky and uncouth beside her—unworthy.
    She opened her eyes and gave him a smile, lips trembling. He had to kiss them, to take her fear and excitement for his own. He felt the whole world through her, using her as a shield when all he ever wanted to do was protect her.
    “I must explain,” he muttered. “I have to tell you…”
    He’d always known it would come to this. He should have told her a long time ago. She grasped at his clothes, her breath fast and eager. Every time he’d tried, he’d gotten lost in her lithe body or the endless well in her eyes. He drowned in her, and he would do so his whole life, but she deserved to hear this.
    Grasping her hands, he pulled back. “You know about my father.”
    Solemnly, she nodded. Hale had never hidden from her his dislike of the viscount who had sired him. He was easy to talk about. Unlike his mother.
    “My mother… She loved my father. She