Extended Epilogue
Six years later
“That is not how Mama showed me,” Primrose, Harry and Bridget’s five-year-old daughter, dissented. “She said the strokes move down.”
“Oh?” Harry tilted his head as he regarded her with fascination. “What else did Mama teach you?”
“To hold my brush like this.” Primrose held the ferrule of the paintbrush.
Chuckling, Harry picked up another paintbrush. “Holding it at the handle will give you better movement.”
Primrose snatched the paintbrush from him and shook her red head. “You do not know how to do it, Papa.”
The morning Harry had given Bridget those flowers, she had made him promise to name their girls after them. Primrose was as fiery as her mother, while Iris was quiet but sly.
“Now,” Primrose said, “Will you allow me to teach you how to properly paint?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, holding back his laugh. He sat up and gave her all his attention as she dipped her paintbrush in blue paint and drew a line on the canvas. He wanted to look for Iris because the tower, which was now a painting room, was too quiet. But he knew Primrose would complain the instant he looked away.
“Are you watching, Papa?” She regarded him with bright blue eyes.
“Yes, my angel, I am.” He watched her stroke the canvas with a smile, thinking she had Bridget’s grace.
“Oh!” she gasped, looking about. “Where is the red?”
Harry began to help her search for the red paint. Suddenly, a giggle came from behind the door. He knew who it was, and he walked over to the door, pulling it to expose Iris. What he had not anticipated, however, was where the red paint would be, and what was being done with it.
Cato’s tongue hung out as he raised his red face to look at Harry.
“Lord, what have I sired?”
“Iris,” he said slowly, “what did Mama and I tell you about painting Cato?”
His four-year-old daughter giggled and covered her mouth with her tiny hands, staining her face with the paint. There was already blue and yellow decorating her forehead. “Cato wanted me to paint him.”
Cato barked and wagged his tail. Harry looked down at him and shook his head. “Are you not too old for this?”
“Papa!” Primrose called.
“Yes?” He sighed.
“I cannot find yellow.”
“Yellow is on Cato’s tail,” he replied.
Primrose ran to where they stood, gasping, then laughing when she saw what her sister had done. They seemed very pleased with themselves.
“Well, I am taking you to your mother. She has to see what she taught you.”
Their blue eyes widened, and they began to protest with primrose possessing the loudest voice. “Mama will be horrified.”
Harry shrugged. “You should have thought about your Mama’s sensibilities before you painted yourselves and her favorite fellow.”
“But I did not paint myself,” Primrose argued.
Iris jumped to her feet and pressed her stained hands on her sister’s cheeks, giggling, “Now you have!” She began to run, and Harry caught the sash of her dress from behind and pulled her back before hauling her up onto his shoulder.
Then he picked up Primrose with his free arm and descended the tower, Cato on his heels.
They met Andrew in the front hall, likely on his way to one of the drawing rooms. They were hosting a hunting season house party, putting the thirty unoccupied rooms in the castle to good use.
“Harry, what happened to your children and dog?” Andrew asked, his brows raised in surprise.
“Oh, they are only learning how to paint,” he responded.
“Do not tell Mama what you saw, Uncle Andrew,” Primrose whispered, while Iris giggled and played with the strap of Harry’s eyepatch.
He did not wear it when he was alone with Bridget and the children. As they grew, they often asked many questions about his scars, and he always told them that they were battle wounds he now wore as a badge of honor, and a memory to his closest friend, Norman.
Andrew held a finger against his lips. “She will hear nothing from me,” he whispered.
Belinda walked in through the front door just then, and the girls began to wiggle, shouting, “Aunty Belinda!”
Harry set them down and allowed them to run to her. She did not care that they might spoil her peach dress with paint and opened her arms to hug them. She no longer lived in Grayfield because she was married to Lord Amberton now, a kindly earl, and they lived nearby.
“She is not your Aunt you pesky little things,” Harry said over their excitement.
“Oh, please, Harry. What happened to your faces, darlings?” she asked after kissing their cheeks.
“I was putting rouge on Cato,” Iris said. “Just like Mama wears rouge.”
Belinda laughed and looked up at Harry. “Do clean them up before Bridget sees them.”
“Before Bridget sees what?” came her glorious voice. Harry’s body immediately began to answer, and when he turned around, he could not contain the awe that filled his heart.
One of her brows rose when she saw Cato and the children. “I see the girls are canvases now and Cato the paintbrush,” she drawled. Harry knew she would not stop teasing him about this now. They competed over who looked after the children better, and Belinda knew Bridget would claim victory when she advised him to clean them before she saw them.
“Iris was applying rouge on him,” Harry said smugly, “as she saw Mama do.”
“Heavens!” Bridget breathed. “We have guests in the house.”
Laughing, Harry picked up Iris as Bridget reached for Primrose’s hand. Iris began to squirm in his arms.
“Edgar! I want to play with Edgar!” She held her arms toward Sarah and Meyer’s son, Edgar. It appeared they had just arrived.
“Irith!” Edgar jumped. “I have a thlug for you.”
“You can play with him when you are clean,” Harry said, trying to sound stern and refusing to relinquish his hold. They started up the stairs and Edgar followed them.
They handed the children to their nurse, leaving Edgar with them. Harry glanced around one of the hallways, and once certain they were alone, he pushed Bridget to the wall and pressed his body to hers.
“Harry!” she protested, but was already meeting his lips for a kiss. “The castle… is full of guests.”
“Mhmm, and I am full of need,” he murmured, grazing his teeth against her jaw before kissing her.
Her breathing quickened and her eyes darkened. Harry wanted her then, not caring who could happen upon them, but he knew she had much to do, and if he was patient, he would make love to her tonight. He let his hands roam her body for a moment longer before kissing her one final time.
“Run before I change my mind,” he whispered in her ear.
She laughed, the sound exciting him, and then slipped out of his arms.
***
Bridget sat at the end of the long dining table, feeling as though Harry was miles away from her. She loved hosting formal dinners, but she was not fond of the seating arrangements.
Once, they had dined at a round table so they could be close to each other, and Harry’s hands had found their way under her skirts. Although the guests had not noticed anything different—or perhaps they had and pretended—Bridget had found concentrating a most challenging endeavor.
Now she gazed longingly at him, for the house party had ensured they did not spend enough time with each other.
“I heard you host the most beautiful balls in your garden, Your Grace,” the lady seated on her left said. “I am eager to attend tomorrow’s ball.”
“Yes, the gardens are enchanting,” Bridget murmured as Harry’s mouth curved, his gaze heating her body.
“Lady Mellow, Grayfield’s winter balls are the most enchanting,” another lady said to the one who had spoken earlier.
“I still have trouble deciding which season’s ball is the best,” Magnus said. He was married to Lady Annabelle now, but they were friends. He had proven himself over the years and had even invested in their brewery. And the ale they made was one of the finest in England.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Drew said as he rose, calling everyone’s attention. “I wish to make a toast to our hosts.” He looked from Harry to Bridget. “Their love inspires this realm every day.” He grinned. “May it live on forever.”
“May it live on forever!” everyone at the table echoed as they raised their glasses. Her father beamed from his seat beside Harry.
Harry raised his glass to her, and she did the same, her heart expanding with joy.
After dinner, Bridget was in the drawing room with the ladies after they had left the gentlemen to enjoy some port when she felt Harry’s warm hand on her shoulder.
“The children want us,” he murmured, taking her hand and drawing her to her feet. They excused themselves and went up to the nursery.
Primrose and Iris were under their covers when they arrived, and Cato lay on his cushions between their beds. He spent more time with them now than he did with Harry and Bridget.
“Mama.” Iris yawned, holding out her little arms. Bridget hugged her and kissed her plump cheeks as Harry kissed Primrose. “Good night.”
“Sleep well, my little one,” she murmured.
“I taught Papa how to hold his paintbrush today,” Primrose said when she moved to her bed.
“Did you, now?” She glanced at Harry, who was tickling Iris. “Did he learn?”
“He needs to improve,” she giggled.
“I am sure he will.” Bridget kissed her. “Good night, my darling.”
Harry offered his arm to her at the door, and instead of rejoining their guests, he led them to their chambers.
“I think you have something to tell me, Bridget,” he murmured as he opened their door.
“Do I?” she asked, her smile sly.
“Yes.” He closed the door and took her in his arms, his fingers slipping the buttons of her dress. She took his hand and placed it on her belly, grinning. His surprise and joy were evident even though he suspected.
“More children to paint Cato,” she murmured.
Harry lifted her off her feet and twirled her. “Thank you, Bridget!” he whispered when he set her down.
“We shall see if the servants will win this bet.” They were still betting on a little lord.
“They are not good gamblers,” Harry chuckled. “What names should we consider?” He picked her up again and carried her to the bed.
“Marigold if a girl,” she suggested.
“Agreed. Leonardo if a boy?” he asked. “After da Vinci.”
“He will be a genius.”
“And Marigold will be strong and tenacious. I hope they have your lovely eyes.” Harry kissed her closed lids, removing her dress.
“If they do not, we try again and hope.”
Harry paused and looked down at her. “Are we gambling now?”
“Perhaps we are.”
Bridget was quickly lost in his touch. She believed her truest purpose was to love him, yet she always marveled at the way he showed her his own love every day. And as he whispered, “I love you,” into her ear now, she knew she could never match it.