Extended Epilogue
8 years later…
The golden hush of evening had begun to settle over the woods of St. John’s, casting long, languid shadows between the trees. The scent of earth and new blossoms filled the air, mingling with the soft rustle of Evelina’s skirts as she guided Dorian along the once-familiar woodland path, her gloved hands gently covering his eyes.
“No peeking, dear,” she warned against his ear, her tone teasing. “That would quite ruin the surprise.”
Dorian gave a low chuckle that stirred something deep beneath her breastbone. “And yet you lead me blindfolded into the woods like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“A very spoiled, very safe lamb,” she replied, smiling. “Besides, you are too curious for your own good, and far too sentimental to spoil this.”
“Far too sentimental? Only where you’re concerned,” he said, his voice quieter now.
At last, the trees gave way to a glade bathed in the amber light of the setting sun. Ellie stepped around him, breath catching in her throat as she lowered her hands.
“Now,” she whispered, “open your eyes.”
Dorian blinked against the light—and froze.
The once-familiar old oak stood at the center, its limbs broader, thicker than he remembered—yet still the same tree that had once sheltered two ragged children from the world almost two decades ago. Lanterns now hung where they had once tied ribbons of grass, flickering like little stars caught between branches. Beneath it lay a linen-covered table surrounded by wildflowers, the scene transformed from a forgotten childhood haunt into a sanctuary of memory and belonging. It took him a moment to find his voice.
A delighted cry rang through the air. “Papa! Do you like it?”
Their eldest, Emily, dashed forward, with the younger two twins, Aaron and Abigail, tumbling out behind her, breathless with excitement. “We helped! We tied the lanterns!”
Evelina stepped beside him, her voice low, brimming with meaning. “It was overgrown last we visited. Verily abandoned. I thought… why not turn it into something more? Something for all of us.” She paused. “We made so many memories here. I thought we might make a few more.”
Dorian’s gaze swept the clearing, then lingered on the children playing. “It used to feel like the only place that belonged to me,” he murmured. “Before titles. Before I had you again.” He reached for her hand, his throat thickening. Even after nearly a decade of their marriage, it was still a rare sight, one that now filled Ellie with pride. “And now it belongs to them, too.”
Evelina leaned into his side, heart full. “It deserved more than just memory. And so did we.”
Dorian turned, cupped her cheek. “You made it beautiful.”
She smiled, just before he kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, familiar and full of promise. Behind them came a dramatic groan.
“Mama and Papa are kissing again!” Aaron groaned wryly, only to be met with a swat on the arm by the eldest, Emily. “Ow! What was that for!”
“Maybe someday you’ll be as lucky!” Emily chided from beside him, acting as mature as ever before her younger siblings, though the glint in her gaze showed she was seconds away from groaning too.
Abigail giggled, covering her eyes. Evelina laughed against Dorian’s mouth and tucked herself into his arms. “Brace yourselves,” she called, “Aunt Harriet and Uncle Benedict are coming—and they’re far worse!”
As if summoned by name, footsteps approached through the underbrush. Harriet and Benedict emerged hand in hand, their smiles bright.
“Oh, Ellie, this is marvelous,” Harriet breathed, eyes sweeping over the glade. “It looks like something from a dream. Did you do this on your own?”
Ellie brimmed with pride once more. “Well, it was Victoria and I—” A firm glare on her neck from her three children had her stalling, “Though Emily, Aaron, and Abigail carried much of the burden, I must say. Very arduous workers, and never did they complain.”
Her remark was met with three separate cheers from the little ones, as Abigail threw herself into Dorian’s arms, truly a Papa’s girl.
Benedict gave a solemn nod. “An insult, really, that we weren’t invited to help.”
“It was tough work, Uncle Ben, I don’t think you are cut out for it,” Aaron, the sassiest of the bunch, said solemnly.
Harriet crouched lower to meet the boy at eye level before ruffling his hair. “Don’t tell him, but I think I agree,” a comment met with laughter from all except Benedict, who gasped in mock horror.
“Speaking of, will Victoria be joining us?” Dorian asked Benedict, his old friend who had once been his nemesis, though now they were closer than even their childhood days.
Benedict snorted. “Do we speak of the same Victoria? If you mean to refer to the Victoria Rothwell who used to scold us for stepping on her library rug, and now writes tales that would make a sailor blush, then no. In fact, I’m shocked your wife managed to lure her away from her writing den long enough to help civilize this place.”
Ellie snorted this time. “Oh, do be kind, you two.”
They all settled beneath the oak, wine poured and plates passed, as golden light filtered through the branches. Abigail took her position next to her Papa, as was customary, while Emily sat diligently by her aunt’s side, and Aaron ran circles around Ellie, pretending to duel an imaginary shadow. The children behaved rather admirably than was usual, appreciating the solemnity of the day—until Abigail looked up with keen curiosity.
“Papa, is it true you were a chimney sweep?”
Dorian nearly choked on his drink. Evelina muffled her laughter behind a napkin.
“And Mama,” Aaron asked, blinking with wide eyes, “did you really fall out of the skies into Papa’s lap?”
Harriet howled with laughter. “She did, dears. I saw it myself. Quite the spectacle.”
Benedict leaned close to his wife, sharing a look before Harriet rested a hand against her middle.
“Speaking of spectacles,” she said with a grin, “we’ll be needing more plates at next year’s picnic.”
Evelina froze for a moment, her eyes settling on Benedict’s hand on Harriet’s stomach. Then she squealed, throwing her arms around her cousin. “You’re—oh, Harriet! You are with child!”
Dorian whooped and clapped Benedict on the back.
The children bounced in place, wide-eyed with the idea of having a new playmate.
Time unraveled gently after that, like the threads of a well-worn tapestry. The hours spun out in laughter under the giant oak, in quiet stories shared between bites of bread and sips of wine. Dorian’s voice carried over the glade as he recounted his daring rooftop escape as a chimney boy, each detail more exaggerated than the last, before finally regaling their enraptured audience with how he and Ellie first met.
“So yes, I suppose she did fall out of the skies into my arms,” Dorian laughed when it was all over.
“See, I told you so,” Emily tutted to her younger siblings.
As dusk deepened and lanterns glimmered, farewells were exchanged with lingering hugs and warm promises. The carriage ride home was a soft lull, Aaron and Abigail dozing against one another after a very tiring day, while Emily sat primly by the window seat, nestled in the corner, gazing into the surroundings passing them by, every once in a while asking questions about the scenery and animal life she saw. Evelina nestled against Dorian, fingers tangled in his.
“This,” she whispered for her husband’s ears alone, “this is the life we’ve made. I never imagined it could be so full.”
The front doors creaked open when they eventually reached the warm, familiar halls of Wolfthorne Castle, where they had relocated almost seven years ago with the birth of their eldest. The housekeeper, Mrs. Baxter, appeared from the corridor with her usual calm poise and a knowing smile. “Welcome home, Your Graces,” she said, then turned her gaze to the twins, who were already beginning to peel off their boots. “And you two—lessons await. We’ve a bit of Latin and penmanship to finish with Miss Harrow before supper.”
The children groaned in unison, their shoulders sagging in melodramatic despair. Before protest could truly begin, Evelina knelt to their level, smoothing a hand over Abigail’s and Aaron’s tousled curls. “If you’re good,” she said gently, “and you finish all your lessons without fuss, we’ll go back to St. John’s Woods tomorrow. Another picnic, but just the five of us this time.”
In a blink, the children straightened. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Evelina smiled. “But only if I hear glowing reports.”
With mock salutes, they scampered off, with Emily making for the drawing room to practice at the pianoforte, a hobby she had picked up in the time away from her lessons.
Dorian slid an arm around his wife’s waist when they were alone again.
“Bribery,” he murmured. “You’re quite good at it, I must say.”
They ascended the stairs slowly, the house around them bathed in the quiet hush of the late afternoon. Every step felt familiar—the creak on the fourth stair, the worn edge of the banister polished by years of hands. This was the house they had built with time and patience, with compromises and midnight laughter, with stolen kisses in the hallway and whispered dreams beside the fire. It wasn’t just a roof and walls; it was the echo of every morning they’d woken tangled together and every night they’d weathered side by side.
Inside their chamber, as the door clicked shut, Dorian turned with a slow grin.
“Alone at last.”
Evelina arched a brow, fingers skating down her husband’s chest with featherlight teasing. “Is that the glint of freedom I see in your eye, Ash? Or mischief?”
Dorian captured her wrist with one hand, bringing her palm to his lips with exaggerated reverence. “Why must it be one or the other? Perhaps I intend to exercise my freedom… through mischief.”
“Oh, do be careful,” she drawled, though her voice was already growing breathy, “I have always been dreadfully susceptible to your scandalous plots.”
He swept her up in his arms then, quite without warning, earning a startled gasp and delighted laugh from her as he carried her to the edge of the bed. She landed atop the coverlet in a tumble of skirts and mischief, her hair spilling across the linen like a spill of ink.
She blinked up at him, flushed and laughing. “You’re serious.”
“Always,” he muttered solemnly, as he reached for his cravat with the slow menace of a villain untying a ribbon from a gift. “About undressing you. About worshipping you. And, naturally, about the terrible things I intend to do now that the children are safely imprisoned in Latin lessons.”
She groaned, stretching languidly across the mattress. “Say more dreadful things like that. It sends chills down my spine.”
“I haven’t even begun,” he promised, crawling up over her with leonine grace.
The weight of him, the warmth—it was a kiss of safety and desire all at once, her world reduced to the firm press of his chest and the wicked gleam in his eyes. When his mouth found the sensitive place just below her ear, she arched into him, fingers curling in his hair.
“You’re still overdressed,” she whispered, tugging at his waistcoat buttons.
“You say that as if it’s my fault,” he murmured against her skin.
She smirked. “Cruel.”
“Exacting,” he corrected, tracing her collarbone with his tongue. “There’s a difference, dear.”
And when their mouths met again, it was not soft or sweet—it was hunger remembered and reignited, a decade of passion and two decades of love folded into the sharp heat of wanting.
They undressed each other like it was a sacrament, murmuring nonsense and endearments, the candlelight throwing golden halos across bare skin. And when he finally slid into her, slow and sure, her breath caught—not just from the pleasure, but from the way he held her gaze, like she was still forever the only star in his sky.
“Still cruel?” he whispered, voice thick.
“Only if you stop,” she gasped.
He didn’t.
“I love you,” she breathed.
“I love you more.”
And in the hush of twilight, long after vows and titles, they made love like they were still learning how to be home.