“Four,” he continued, “you are excellent at keeping a secret, and Five: you have finally learned not to offer suggestions pertaining to my writing career.”

“No,” she protested, right through her tears, “Miss Forsby and the Footman would have been marvelous.”

“It would have brought me down in a flaming pit of ruin.”

“But-”

“You’ll notice there is nothing on this list about how you never interrupt me.” He cleared his throat. “Six: you have provided me with three remarkably brilliant children and Seven: you are an utterly marvelous mother. I, on the other hand, am utterly selfish, which is why Eight is all about the fact that you love me so splendidly well.” He leaned forward and waggled his brows. “In every possible manner.”

“Sebastian!”

“Actually, I think I’ll make that Nine.” He gave her a particularly warm smile. “I do think it’s deserving of its own number.”

She blushed. She couldn’t believe it, that he could still make her blush after four years of marriage.

“Ten,” he said softly, coming to his feet and walking toward her. He dropped to his knees and took her hands, kissing each in turn. “You are, quite simply, you. You are the most amazing, intelligent, kindhearted, ridiculously competitive woman I have ever met. And you can outrun a turkey.”

She stared at him, not caring that she was crying, or that her eyes must be horribly bloodshot, or that-dear heavens-she badly needed a handkerchief. She loved him. That was all that could possibly matter. “I think that was more than ten,” she whispered.

“Was it?” He kissed away her tears. “I’ve stopped counting.”

About the Author

JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since.