“All of our children, no matter what gender, will inherit an equal portion of the estate when we die.”

He seemed to be getting over his shock. “How very modern of you, Mrs. Wylde. That sounds alarmingly progressive.” He frowned. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m not interested in your money.”

“I know. But it makes me happy. And I trust you. With my heart. With my happiness. It’s stupid if I don’t trust you with my money as well.”

He caught her in his arms. “In that case, I promise I will never give you cause to regret your decision,” he said gravely. He gave the desk behind her a speculative glance and backed her up so she was trapped between the hard wood and his strong body.

Georgie’s pulse quickened. He reached around her and pushed the silver inkwell and paper to one side with distinct deliberation. Her limbs turned to water.

“I don’t think I’ve ever shown you my husbandly appreciation on a desk before,” he mused. “A bed, yes. And several chairs, certainly. The sofa in the sitting room.”

“Don’t forget the bath,” she reminded him judiciously, as a slow curl of excitement twisted in her veins. “That was particularly memorable.”

“How could I forget the bath? But a desk? No. Never.”

“I don’t believe so,” she said breathlessly.

“In that case, allow me to—”

“Letter for you, sir!”

Benedict swore roundly as the cheerful voice of Jem Barnes carried down the hallway. They’d retained the little terror as a general stable boy, errand-runner, and cook’s assistant, as a means of providing him with a regular source of income and food. He slept in the rooms above the stable, and his boundless energy paired with his youthful cynicism was usually a source of much amusement. Now, however, his presence was most unwelcome. Georgie pushed her skirts back down just as he bounded into the room without knocking.

“Letter just come,” he repeated, his face glowing with excitement. “Look, ’ere. It’s from the king!”

Benedict took the proffered envelope and frowned down at the embossed royal crest. “So it is.”

Georgie peered over his shoulder as he broke the seal. “What does it say?”

“It’s a summons, from Carlton House,” he said, reading slowly. “The Prince Regent has been instructed by his father the king to bestow an honorific title to—good God—to Benedict Wylde, in recognition of ‘invaluable services to the crown.’” He looked up with an astonished, bewildered expression. “He’s making me an earl. We have to go to Carlton House for the investiture at the end of the month. Bloody hell.”

Georgie threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.