The little poodle was staring at it fixedly, silently transmitting his desire. Effie absently tossed him a piece of bread crust. Franc caught it in a flash, hopping down from the bed to eat his prize in privacy.

Across the bedchamber, Gabriel stood in front of the washstand, clad in a pair of trousers and nothing else. The muscles of his bare chest flexed as he mixed up the lather for his morning shave.

He met Effie’s eyes in his shaving mirror. His pale blue gaze was warm, taking in her unbound hair and her naked shoulder, exposed by the drooping cap sleeve of her nightdress.

They had wed at the registrar’s office not two months ago, almost immediately after the balloon had brought them gently down on the green near Victoria Park. Life since then had been something of a perpetual honeymoon. They lingered in bed most mornings, reluctant to quit each other’s company. It had made them unreliable companions to their friends and business associates.

Gabriel didn’t mind. Quite the opposite. He frequently professed that there was no place he’d rather be than in Effie’s arms.

Effie readily admitted to feeling the same. Theirs was a passionate marriage—both of them possessed of strong tempers, decided views, and healthy appetites. It wasn’t unexpected that they should take such enormous enjoyment in each other. Indeed, the only surprising fact of their marriage was how exceedingly sweet it was.

Gabriel was an attentive husband, as tender as he was fierce. He never lost an opportunity to kiss her or to clasp her hand in passing. And when they were intimate together, in those scorching, honeyed moments when he took her and loved her, he left her in no doubt that she possessed him body and soul.

It was a heady feeling, to know someone cared for her this much. Effie was still not entirely accustomed to it. Neither was Gabriel, she suspected. He seemed to relish the intimacy of their new life together as much as she did. The brick house in Sloane Street with its black-painted door and its unconventional staff had become a home to them. A place of safety and sanctuary, where they had, at last, found themselves truly happy.

“Another one?” Gabriel asked as he lathered his face. “I’d have thought Quincey would be finished by now. Compton certainly is.”

The viscount’s public downfall had been as swift as it was decisive. Shortly after Mr. Quincey had published his story, exposing Compton’s fraud against Elizabeth Wingard, Compton had departed London in favor of his country estate. He’d spent the first month attempting to ride out the storm in Hampshire. But the storm hadn’t subsided. Calls for Compton to withdraw from politics had only grown in fervor.