Bromham Hall, England

August 1819

 

“Bradford, look!” A series of stars whipped across the night sky. Philomena leapt from the settee, pointing. “Just like the night we were reunited.”

She scooped her infant son from his cradle. Hurrying to the French windows—open to let in the evening’s cool air—she kissed his downy head.

“See, Giles? Mama and Papa saw stars like this the night your Uncle Giles, smart man that he was, insisted we wed.”

Bradford encircled her from behind and dropped a kiss on her crown. “I owe your brother a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

“The same is true of me.” Lifting the gurgling infant, happily waving his tiny fists, she brushed her face against his soft, sweet-smelling cheek and closed her eyes. “At least he lived long enough to meet his namesake.”

“A miracle, that. I didn’t think he’d last the night after his collapse at Wimpleton’s ball.” He tightened his arms a fraction as he bent to bestow a kiss on their son. “His life was short, but at least his last days were peaceful and painless.”

“I’m so grateful he didn’t suffer.”

Resting against Bradford, Philomena gazed at the clear sky, each star so vibrant, it seemed she could snatch it from the heavens. Another star whizzed past.

“See, there’s another. Make a wish.” Bradford nudged her head with his chin. “Hurry, before it’s too late.”

“What could I possibly wish for?” She slanted her head to look at him. “I am already blissfully content.”

“Anything, my love.” He kissed her nose. “It can only be a boon to our happiness.”

“Well, then, what I wish is to couple with you, every day, twice on Sundays, until I’m an ancient, shriveled crone.” She chuckled at the image.

“That’s a scandalous wish for a lady.” He turned her in his embrace, and lowered his head. “But one I’m positive will come true, starting this very moment.”