Extended Epilogue

Five years later

Although the Season had just begun, the streets were already busy, and the invitations piled on the mantelpiece. Sebastian had leafed through them, merely out of curiosity, but he was content to let Aurelia decide which they should attend and which they should spurn—either out of a desire to shun the hosts or because they were too busy.

With two children at home, Aurelia did find herself getting tired on occasion. Sebastian thought that was understandable, and he secretly hoped that it meant she was pregnant with their third.

He had been joking about ten. Mostly.

On this bright March morning, the sun shone brightly on their heads, and Aurelia marched importantly ahead of him to Hatchards. One of her favorite things to do in London now was to visit the bookshop. In part because she loved to read, and she especially loved that he could buy her whichever books she fancied.

Most grand ladies spent their pin money on clothes and hats and shoes and outrageous items of fashion. Aurelia did too, on occasion, but she spent the bulk of her money and time on books. Beautiful, leather-bound, gold-engraved tomes that were as much works of art as works of literature.

He hurried to catch up with her. “What’s the urgency?”

“Lady Rothbury asked me to meet her at Hatchards at eleven, and it’s near that time now. We ought to have taken the carriage.” Her skirts snapped around her legs as she walked. “I thought as it was such a nice day, we could walk.”

He caught up with her and slipped his hand through her elbow. Lady Rothbury was Mary Ann as was, and the two ladies had maintained a close friendship even after Mary Ann married a prominent northern gentleman, the Viscount of Rothbury. They were only ever in London during the Season, and recently, due to the birth of her first baby, she had failed to make even that.

“I think she has some news for me.” Aurelia’s steps lengthened, and he had to hurry to keep up with her. “And, of course, I intend to buy some books while we are there.”

“Of course,” he said dryly. “You may pretend you are visiting only for the purpose of social meetings, but in truth you go there for the books.”

“Knowledge is a precious thing.”

“As is fiction,” he said. “You partake in both.”

“That’s no bad thing.”

“Did I say it was?” He laughed at her scowl. “I find it charming that you have filled our library with new purchases and the latest literary ventures.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I am your wife and you are obligated to find me charming. Ah, here we are.” She paused outside the building for a moment, gazing through the windows at the assembled books. Before marrying Aurelia, Sebastian had never been acquainted with the establishment, but marriage changed a man.

He could have visited any number of gentleman’s clubs, but he had chosen instead to accompany his wife. Later, no doubt, he would put in an appearance. It had taken years for the rumors to fully die, but now people no longer looked at him and thought that he might have a terrible past. Now, they looked at him and saw a duke.

He didn’t mind.

Aurelia turned and kissed him on the mouth. “I really think I should go in alone, my darling.”

He blinked at her, momentarily confused. “Alone?”

“Yes. To see Lady Rothbury.”

“But—”

“She has something to tell me she might not wish to tell you.” Aurelia patted his shoulder. “But there are fireworks at Vauxhall tonight so we shall see each again for that if nothing else.”

“That is one of the events you selected for us to attend?”

“Of course!” Aurelia beamed at him, and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but smile helplessly back at him. This was what he, cruel duke with a terrible reputation, had become—and he didn’t mind in the slightest. “Go to one of those awful smoky places you call a club and make its patrons quake in fear.”

“I’m not so intimidating,” he protested, but she merely fluttered a gloved hand at him as she pushed open the door and with the tinkle of a bell, disappeared.

Grumbling, Sebastian set off down the street. He might as well go to White’s, which was no doubt Aurelia’s plan. Although they were firmly cemented in London Society now, with no one disparaging Aurelia for her birth or him for his past, she never failed to keep making sure that continued. Not once did she let her guard down, lest the world turn its back on them again.

Sebastian understood the sentiment. They had both fought too hard for their position to let it go so easily now.

White’s it was. He entered past the doorman, who bowed at him as he strode inside. When he was younger, Sebastian liked to make an entrance. Now, in his mid-thirties, he enjoyed the sensation equally as much. There was something about the sudden obsequiousness in everyone’s actions once they realized he was a duke that he found especially entertaining.

After some deliberation, he chose a table that Lord Redwood was sitting at. Since Sebastian’s return to the ton, Redwood had lost a lot of his bluster. And, to Sebastian’s knowledge, was no longer groping servants in the hopes that they might be forced to lie with him.

There was little Sebastian despised more in a man.

“Redwood,” he said, seating himself in the armchair to the man’s right and accepting a brandy that the manservant handed him. The air was thick with cigar smoke, and Redwood nearly choked on his. His face turned red.

“Ravenhall,” he said curtly.

“I confess I am delighted to find you here,” Sebastian said with a sly grin. “I hear you are to be married.”

With effort, Redwood appeared to control himself. “So I am.”

“My condolences to the bride.” Sebastian sipped his drink, thinking about the times Redwood had attempted to harm Aurelia in any way—in every way—and knowing that no punishment he offered here, no social condemnation, would ever be enough.

Redwood rose abruptly. “I forgot I had an appointment. Forgive me.”

Sebastian inclined his head, and watched Redwood stride out of the door with no little satisfaction. Gone were the days of hiding—he was here and he was prepared to fight for his place in the ton, no matter who he had to displace to do it.

***

After returning from her Hatchards rendezvous, Aurelia barely had time to change before they had to leave for dinner at Vauxhall Gardens, where Sebastian had procured them a box. To her surprise, he waited until they were situated within the box, dinner being served and all manner of people walking outside for their entertainment, before asking.

“What did Lady Rothbury want?”

Aurelia thought back to the bookshop, with the warm scent of leather and paper and ink, and the way her friend had gathered her to a corner of said bookshop and spoken with her at length about her intentions for her future.

“She wishes to enter the world of politics,” Aurelia said, smiling a little at the thought. “Do you not agree that women should have the vote?”

Sebastian looked at her sternly, and she fought the urge to giggle. “If you did, you would vote us all out.”

“And replace you with women? Perhaps. Does that not indicate that you are doing a poor job?”

“It suggests that you have a vendetta.”

“After years of being belittled and persecuted, I can understand it if we do. But that is not the purpose of equality, dearest. Its purpose is that we are both equal.”

He made an unimpressed sound. “Is that what it is.”

“Yes! I fully support the endeavor.”

“A man cannot vote without property,” Sebastian said. “Are you suggesting we change that, too?”

Aurelia propped her chin on her hands as she gazed at him. “Is that so terrible a thought?”

He appeared to consider it for a moment. That was something else she loved about him: the way he always looked at things from all angles before coming to a conclusion about them. “I suppose it depends on their level of education and comprehension. A man working the fields will not have the same priorities as a man who owns those fields.”

“And a woman will have different priorities again. But we must all live in this country, Sebastian.” She reached across to squeeze his hand. “Would you object if I were to join her attempts?”

“And do what?”

She shrugged. “Canvass people, perhaps make a pamphlet. With you and our children, I expect I will not have the time to do anything but be a patron.” Although that made difference enough. Money, as she knew well from her time before being a duchess, was what made the world go round.

“You may do as you choose,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “So long as you don’t forget to love me.”

“Now that would be impossible.”

There was a bang to their left. Lights skittered across the sky. An almost unanimous ooh rose from the crowd around them. Sebastian pulled Aurelia into his lap, and they both sat together, looking at the sky as their world erupted with light. Her body felt strange in a way she had experienced twice before, and when they returned home, she would tell him about his third child.

But for now, she let herself live in the moment, her head against his shoulder and his arms around her waist, and she could not have been happier.

The End.

Extended Epilogue

Five years later

Lydia spread the blanket across the grass beside the pond, smoothing the corners while keeping one eye on the small figure darting between the trees. At just four years old, Helena possessed all of her mother’s determination, and, more inconveniently, her father’s stubborn streak.

“Helena, darling,” she called, shading her eyes as sunlight caught her daughter’s tumbling blonde curls, “don’t venture too far now.”

“I wonder who she inherited that particular habit from,” Eliza pointed out, lowering herself carefully onto the blanket, one hand pressed to the gentle swell of her stomach. After five years of marriage, she had finally quickened with child, and the glow of impending motherhood suited her sharp features remarkably well.

“She has also inherited Alexander’s refusal to listen to anyone,” Lydia tucked a basket beside her with a sigh.

Soft laughter floated from the nearby trees, where Marie sat beneath the shade of a wide-branched elm, supervising her two children with the calm of a seasoned mother. Marcus, aged five, and Catherine, still wobbly at two, played contentedly in the grass beside her.

“Speaking of husbands,” Marie said as she came to join them on the blanket, “where have our lords and masters disappeared to this fine afternoon?”

“Samuel mentioned something about inspecting Alexander’s new hunters,” Eliza replied, rolling her eyes. “As though we couldn’t possibly manage a simple picnic without their protection.”

“You’d think we were venturing into the Scottish Highlands rather than walking half a mile from the manor,” Lydia laughed. She set about unpacking the cold chicken and fresh bread from the basket.

The pond sparkled peacefully in the June sunshine, its surface dappled with dragonflies and the occasional ripple from a passing breeze. Years ago, it had been a place of pain and memory. Now, thanks to Alexander’s insistence, it had been dredged, cleaned, and transformed into a serene woodland retreat. Water lilies floated at the edges, and a small wooden bench sat beneath the ancient oak that had witnessed so much of their history.

“Mama, look!” Lydia turned just in time to catch her daughter bounding toward her with a fist full of wildflowers. “For you!”

“How lovely, darling!” Lydia accepted the bouquet with appropriate solemnity, tucking one bloom behind her daughter’s ear. “Shall we put them in water when we return home?”

The little girl nodded, already distracted. Spotting her playmates, she dashed off again, shrieking with delight. “Marcus! Kitty! Come see what I found!”

“She is quite the force,” Marie said softly as they all watched the children gather like birds around spilled grain. “I have a feeling she will have all of us wrapped around her pinky finger by the time she debuts.”

“Heaven help us all then,” Lydia murmured, though pride colored her tone. “Alexander already indulges her shamefully. Last week, I found them in his study, and she had convinced him to let her ‘help’ with his correspondence. There were ink fingerprints on several documents.”

Eliza laughed, then winced, one hand splaying across her belly. “Samuel would perish from apoplexy,” she breathed, “though I suppose I’ll discover soon enough how impossible it is to deny one’s own child.”

“Are you well?” Lydia asked, immediately concerned.

“Perfectly. This little one simply enjoys reminding me of its presence. I still can’t quite believe it’s real…”

“Samuel must be beside himself,” Marie giggled.

“Oh, he’s been insufferable,” Eliza frowned. “He’s already planned the child’s entire education, regardless of whether we have a son or daughter. I found him in the nursery last week, measuring the windows to ensure they were secure.”

“Alexander was just as ridiculous!” Lydia confessed with a snort. “He had the entire room redecorated three times before Helena arrived. Poor Mrs. Jones threatened to hand in her notice and flee to the coast.”

They fell into an easy silence.

Lydia leaned back on her elbows, watching the children dart through the grass, all shrieks and sticky fingers. The sun was warm, her skirts were wrinkled, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. This—this noisy, messy, ordinary day—felt like happiness. She glanced at her friends and thought, not for the first time, how strange it was to grow up beside someone and still like them on the other end. They weren’t just dear to her. They were hers. Family, in every way that mattered.

“Can you believe it?” Marie exhaled contentedly after a moment. “Italy. Together, at last.” She drew up her knees, face tilted toward the sun. “Marcus has been planning this trip for years now, ever since our last one. He’s already sent word ahead to prepare the villa.”

Lydia smirked. “Naturally. If Marcus ever did anything without a letter of introduction, I fear the world might end.”

“A month in Italy…” Eliza mused aloud with a sigh.

“Mama!” Helena came dashing back, Marcus and Catherine trailing behind. “There’s a frog!”

“A green one!” Marcus exclaimed. 

“How exciting,” Lydia smiled, catching her daughter as she tumbled into her lap, all windswept hair and grass-stained dress. “Shall we go see?”

But before they could move, male voices carried through the trees. Alexander emerged first.

“And so the masculine invasion begins,” Eliza smirked.   

Lydia’s heart did what it always did when she saw Alexander—it expanded, grew warm, reminded her of every reason she loved him. Five years had added distinguished silver to his temples, and the lines around his eyes were deeper, but they were laugh lines now, not the harsh marks of grief and pain that had once defined his visage.

Samuel followed, gesticulating wildly as he recounted some story that had Alexander shaking his head in amusement. They, too, had aged well, their friendship evolving from the wild companionship of youth to something deeper and more fatherly.

“Ladies!” Alexander called, his face lighting when he spotted them. “I hope we aren’t too late.”

“Papa!” Helena immediately abandoned the frog in favor of launching herself at her father, who caught her and swung her up onto his shoulders in one smooth motion.  

“Have you been good for your mother?” he asked with a quirked brow.

“She found a frog,” Lydia informed him gravely. “Apparently, it’s green.”

“The very best kind,” Alexander agreed too seriously, before breaking into a fit of laughter and reaching down to help her to her feet. His hand lingered on hers, thumb brushing across her knuckles.

“We should return soon,” Samuel said, helping Eliza stand with exaggerated care that made her roll her eyes. “The luggage won’t pack itself, and we leave at first light.”

“Oh, come off it, Sam. You only just arrived! Besides, the luggage has been packed for three days,” Eliza reminded him dryly. “You supervised it yourself. Twice.”

“Now, dear, one can never be too careful when traveling abroad,” Samuel wagged his finger. “Alexander, old boy, tell her about the bandits.”

“There are no bandits,” Alexander said firmly. “Godwin read one dramatic account in The Times and has convinced himself we are venturing into lawless territory.”

“Mama, what’s a bandit?” Marcus asked, eyes wide.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, honey,” Marie said, shooting Samuel a reproving look. “Uncle Samuel is telling taradiddles again.”

After basking in the sun for another hour, they began their slow trek back to the manor, the children racing ahead while the adults followed at a more sedate pace. Alexander kept Helena on his shoulders, his hands steady on her small legs as she chattered about frogs and flowers and everything else she could set her little eyes on.

***

The manor buzzed with controlled chaos. Servants hurried between rooms, checking lists and securing trunks. Philips directed the operation with his usual stoic efficiency, though Lydia caught him smiling when Helena solemnly informed him that her favorite doll absolutely must travel in her special case, not with the other luggage.

“Of course, Your little Highness,” he said with perfect seriousness. “I shall see to it personally.”

An hour later, the children had been fed and were now corralled in the nursery with their nursemaids, ostensibly napping, though Lydia could hear excited whispers drifting down the hallway. The adults had gathered in the drawing room for a final evening together before the journey tomorrow.

“I still think we’re mad, attempting this with three children,” Samuel remarked. Not even a day yet into fatherhood, but ever since learning they were with child, his vigilance had increased tenfold, just as Alexander’s had when Helena was first born. “Do you remember our last trip abroad? That disaster in Paris?”

“That was entirely your fault,” Alexander retorted. “Who challenges a comte to a duel over a disagreement about wine?”

“He insulted English viticulture!”

“We don’t have viticulture, old chap. We have rain.”

Eliza laughed, leaning back against her husband’s shoulder. “And you wonder why I insisted on bringing my mother’s companion as an additional chaperone. Someone needs to maintain propriety.”

“Since when have you cared about propriety?” Samuel asked.

“Since I became responsible for preventing international incidents,” she replied tartly, though her hand found his and squeezed.

Marie stifled a yawn. “I should retire soon. Kitty was up half the night with excitement, which means I, too, was as well.”

“We all should,” Lydia agreed, though she was reluctant to end the evening. These moments of easy companionship were precious, she knew, made more so by knowing how hard-won they had been.

One by one, their friends departed to the guest chambers, until only Lydia and Alexander remained. He had moved to stand by the window now, gazing out at the darkening grounds, and she went to join him, slipping her hand into his.

“Are you happy?” he asked softly, the same question he’d been asking her for five years, ever since that fateful night when he had promised to give her everything and more.

“Incandescently so,” she whispered, the same answer she always gave.

He turned to face her fully, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. “Italy tomorrow. Are you certain we should attempt this? Helena is young for such a journey.”

“She is strong,” Lydia assured him. “And curious about the world. She will love it. Besides, when will we have another chance like this? All of us together, with no obligations waiting?”

“Harrogate mentioned something about next summer,” he murmured with a wry smile.

“Heaven preserve us,” she laughed. “Though I suppose by then, we will all have experience managing an infant while traveling.”

Alexander’s hand slid down to rest over her stomach, a question in his eyes. They had been trying for another child for a couple of months now, and while the disappointment was gentle—they had Helena, after all—it was still present.

“Not yet,” she said softly. “But the midwife says there is no reason to worry. These things happen in their own time.”

He pulled her closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “We have time,” he agreed. “All the time in the world.”

From upstairs came a crash, followed by Helena’s voice declaring something about dragons and rescue missions. They both laughed, the moment of melancholy breaking.

“I should see what our daughter has destroyed now.”

“You mean what she shall convince you to help her destroy,” Lydia corrected with an arched brow. “I know you, Alexander Rayment. You are utterly incapable of denying her anything.”

“I learned from the best,” he murmured, stealing a quick kiss. “After all, I’ve never been able to deny you anything either, dear.”

She watched him go with a subdued smile, listening to his footsteps on the stairs and then Helena’s delighted squeal of “Papa!” when he appeared. Through the window, she could see the last traces of sunset painting the sky in shades of rose and gold.

Rosie appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Your Grace? Shall I help you prepare for bed?”

“In a moment,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting back to the window, toward the pond hidden far beyond the trees. “I think I would just like a moment to… reminisce.”

The maid withdrew quietly. Lydia stood there a while longer, thinking of the frightened girl who had once sought escape in those dark waters, and the boy who had pulled her free. Neither of them could have imagined this future then—this life full of love and laughter, friendship and family.

Alexander appeared in the reflection behind her some minutes later, little Helena drowsing in his arms, her small face tucked against his neck. He had removed his coat and cravat, and his shirt was mysteriously decorated with what appeared to be chalk drawings.

“Dragons vanquished?” she whispered, turning to stroke Helena’s sleep-warmed cheek.

“Most thoroughly. Though I’m afraid the nursery may need some attention from the staff.” He shifted Helena’s weight slightly. “I’ll put her to bed.”

“I’ll come with you.”

They walked together through the familiar hallways. The nursery was indeed in slight disarray, with cushions forming a fortress and Helena’s collection of toy soldiers engaged in an elaborate battle across the carpet.

Alexander settled their daughter into her bed with practiced ease, drawing the covers up to her chin. Helena stirred slightly, mumbling something about tomorrow and boats and gelato—a word Samuel had taught her in preparation for Italy.

“She is perfect,” Alexander murmured, brushing a curl from her forehead.

“She is stubborn, willful, and far too clever for her own good,” Lydia corrected.

“As I said. Perfect. Just like her mother.”

They stood there a moment longer, watching their daughter sleep, before retreating to their own chambers. The rooms that had once been separate were now fully joined, the connecting door permanently open.

Alexander was already in bed when she joined him a short while later, reading through some correspondence by candlelight. He set it aside immediately when she appeared, opening his arms so she could curl against his side, her head on his shoulder.

“No regrets?” he asked, fingers combing through her unbound hair.

“Never,” she assured him. “Well, perhaps one.”

He tensed slightly. “Oh?”

“I wish we’d started this tradition sooner. The traveling together, all of us. Think of all the adventures we’ve missed…”

He relaxed, chuckling. “I’ll be sure to make up for lost time then.”

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, the candle casting dancing shadows on the walls. Through the open window came the familiar night sounds of Halston Manor—an owl calling, the distant bark of a fox, the whisper of wind through ancient trees.

“Thank you,” Alexander said suddenly.

“For what?”

“For saving me. For giving me this life. For Helena, for turning this house into a home, for…” He paused, searching for words. “For being you, I suppose.”

Lydia pushed up on one elbow to look down at him, her heart full to bursting. Even after all these years, he still sometimes looked at her with wonder, as though he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune. She never tired of proving to him that it was real.

“We saved each other,” she reminded him gently, bending to kiss him softly.

When she pulled back, his eyes had darkened with familiar heat, and his hand curved around the nape of her neck to draw her down again. The kiss deepened, five years of marriage having taught them exactly how to drive each other to distraction.

“We have an early start tomorrow,” she reminded him breathlessly when they parted.

“Then we’d better make the most of tonight,” he suggested, rolling them so she was beneath him, laughing up at his wickedly intent expression.

Later, much later, as they lay tangled together in the aftermath of passion, Lydia thought about the journey ahead. Italy waited with its sun-drenched villas and ancient art, with gelato for Helena and wine for the adults, with new memories to make and adventures to share.

But none of it would compare to this—to falling asleep in Alexander’s arms, knowing that tomorrow and all the tomorrows after would be theirs to share. The girl who had once stood in a frozen pond, desperate for escape, could never have imagined this life.

Sometimes, Lydia thought as sleep began to claim her, the very best adventures were the ones that brought you home.

The End.

Extended Epilogue

Five years later

“Papa, must we stay perfectly still?”

The small voice piped up from the velvet settee where Harriet sat with their daughter perched on her lap. Little Charlotte—or Lottie, as she insisted on being called—squirmed against her mother’s arms, her dark curls bouncing with each fidget. Harriet smiled, brushing a curl from Lottie’s cheek. These moments, chaotic though they often were, filled a place in her heart she hadn’t known was empty until Lottie was born.

“For the hundredth time, yes,” Jeremy replied from behind his easel, though his tone held more amusement than frustration. “Unless you wish to be immortalized as a particularly energetic blur.”

“What’s ‘mortalized mean?” Lottie asked, twisting to look up at Harriet.

“It means Papa is going to paint us so beautifully that everyone will remember us forever,” Harriet explained, gently turning her daughter’s face back toward Jeremy.

“But my nose itches,” Lottie whined, scrunching up said nose dramatically.

Jeremy peered around the canvas, paintbrush poised. “Your nose has been itching for the past twenty minutes, little minx. Along with your ear, your elbow, and I believe at one point, your left toe.”

“It’s my right toe now,” Lottie announced solemnly.

Harriet bit back a laugh. “Darling, if you can sit still for just five more minutes, Papa will let you see the painting.”

“You said that five minutes ago,” Lottie pointed out with the devastating logic of a four-year-old.

“Did I? How curious. I don’t recall,” Harriet said innocently, though she caught Jeremy’s eye and saw him fighting a smile.

“Mama’s turned forgetful in her old age,” Jeremy said to Lottie in a stage whisper. “Happens to all of us eventually. Why, just yesterday I forgot where I’d left my—”

“You’re not old, Papa,” Lottie interrupted. “Mr. Atkins is old. He has wrinkles like a raisin.”

“Charlotte!” Harriet admonished, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

At that precise moment, the door opened to admit Atkins, who carried a silver tea tray. His eyebrow climbed toward his receding hairline as he caught the tail end of Lottie’s observation.

“Indeed, Lady Charlotte,” he intoned with perfect gravity, though Harriet caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “One does tend to acquire a certain… prunelike quality with the passage of time. Though I daresay some of us wear our raisins with more dignity than others.”

Lottie giggled, bouncing again on her mother’s lap. “You’re not wrinkly, Mr. Atkins. Only a little bit around the eyes!”

“How reassuring,” the butler replied drily, setting the tray on the side table with practiced ease.

Before anyone could respond, the sound of wheels on gravel and horses’ hooves echoed from the drive. Lottie’s entire body went rigid with excitement before she erupted from Harriet’s lap like a jack-in-the-box.

“Aunt Jane! Aunt Jane is here!” she shrieked, her small feet already carrying her toward the door at alarming speed.

“Lady Charlotte—” Atkins moved with surprising swiftness for a man of his years, catching the child gently by the shoulders just as her foot caught on the edge of the Turkish carpet. She wobbled precariously before he steadied her. “Perhaps we might attempt a more dignified entrance? One that does not involve testing whether young ladies bounce?”

Lottie looked up at him with wide eyes, then grinned mischievously. “You moved very fast, Mr. Atkins. Not old at all.”

The door burst open before Atkins could properly announce the visitor, and Jane swept in with all the drama of her younger years, though her movements were notably more careful now. Her silk traveling dress couldn’t quite disguise the gentle swell of her belly—the long-awaited blessing that had finally come after five years of marriage and quiet disappointment.

“Don’t you dare scold me for not waiting to be announced,” Jane declared, already opening her arms for Lottie, who had wriggled free from Atkins’ gentle restraint. “Philip wanted to delay another hour—can you imagine? He’s leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow and was fussing over the carriage springs, of all things. I told him if he inspected them one more time, I’d take a hack instead.”

“Aunt Jane, are you getting fat?” Lottie asked, patting Jane’s rounded middle.

“Charlotte!” Harriet gasped, mortified.

Jane snorted, kneeling carefully to Lottie’s level. “Not fat, darling. There’s a baby growing in here. Your little cousin.”

“Like Mrs. White’s cat had kittens in her belly?” Lottie’s eyes went round with wonder.

“Rather like that, yes,” Jane agreed, shooting Harriet an amused look as she straightened with slightly less grace than she’d descended. “Though hopefully with less scratching involved when they arrive.”

Meanwhile, Jeremy turned to the butler. “So, what was it, Atkins?”

“Ah, Your Grace,” Atkins interjected smoothly, producing a folded paper from his pocket. “The document you requested arrived this morning. I thought you might wish to see it.” He paused delicately. “It concerns the Winchester Opera House.”

Jeremy took the paper, his fingers stilling on the wax seal. The room seemed to hold its breath as he unfolded it and scanned the contents. Behind them, Lottie was regaling Jane with a detailed account of her new pony’s dietary preferences, complete with dramatic gestures that sent Jane into peals of laughter.

“The sale went through, then,” Jeremy said quietly, his voice perfectly neutral. “To Henri de Rouvroy.”

Harriet moved closer, her hand finding his arm. “Are you quite all right?”

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face—not regret exactly, but perhaps a ghost of the ambition that had once consumed him. Then he folded the paper with deliberate care and smiled at her, genuine warmth replacing whatever shadow had momentarily passed.

“Completely,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. “After all, I rather think I got the better end of the bargain, don’t you?”

She’d once worried that giving up the pursuit of acclaim would leave Jeremy restless. But looking at him now—relaxed, present—she felt nothing but certainty.

“Besides,” she added softly, “Henri commissioned three of your paintings for the main foyer. The Winchester Opera House will have Penhaligon art from the present Duke after all.”

Jeremy’s smile deepened at that, but before he could respond—

“Papa, can Aunt Jane see your painting now?” Lottie called out, abandoning her pony tale mid-sentence.

“Is everything ready for our escape to the coast?” Jane asked, settling into a chair with visible relief. “Philip made me promise to ask about the arrangements three times. The man becomes positively militant about schedules when travel is involved, especially as of late.”

“The hampers are packed, the carriages arranged,” Harriet assured her. “We leave in three hours. We’ll stop at the church first, to visit Grandmama.”

A brief silence fell at the mention of Agnes, who had passed peacefully in her sleep the previous winter. Lottie, too young to fully understand, simply nodded solemnly—she knew visiting Grandmama’s special place meant bringing flowers.

“Three hours?” came a booming voice from the doorway, breaking the moment. “Good God, Hattie, I thought we’d agreed on this afternoon!”

Ralph strode in, looking more animated than he had in months, his usually serious demeanor replaced by something almost boyish. The instant Lottie spotted him, she abandoned Jane entirely and launched herself at her uncle with a squeal of delight.

“Uncle Ralph! Did you bring me something?”

“Would I forget my favorite niece?” He scooped her up effortlessly, producing a small carved wooden horse from his pocket. “The craftsman in the village made this specially. See? It looks just like your pony.”

“It does!” Lottie exclaimed, clutching the toy. “Thank you, Uncle Ralph!”

“You’ve been busy with preparations, I hear,” Jeremy remarked with a grin, noting the ink stains on Ralph’s fingers.

“I may have written to the hotel three times,” Ralph admitted, looking slightly sheepish. “And to the coaching inn. And perhaps sent a messenger ahead to ensure the private beach access was still arranged. We leave in three hours, after all—I wanted everything perfect.”

“Three hours?” Jane groaned. “Philip will have my head. He was certain we had until evening.”

“Where did I put that list?” Harriet suddenly muttered, patting her pockets and glancing around the room. “The one with the children’s things? I was certain I left it here this morning.”

“The blue paper?” Jeremy asked. “I might have seen it upstairs when I was gathering my painting supplies.”

“Would you help me look, dear?” She caught his eye meaningfully, and something unspoken passed between them. “…I’d feel better knowing everything is accounted for before we leave.”

Jeremy immediately set down his paintbrush, wiping his hands on a cloth and grinning. “Of course! Ralph, perhaps you could show Jane and Lottie the new carriage arrangements? I know you’ve reorganized them twice since yesterday.”

“No, Jeremy, please don’t—” Jane began, mouth agape, only to be interrupted by Ralph’s overly zealous laugh. “Oh dear…” she resigned to her fate.

As Ralph launched into an enthusiastic explanation of optimal seating for coastal travel—for the seventh time since the plans had been first set the last week—Harriet slipped her hand into Jeremy’s and drew him toward the door. They managed to escape into the hallway just as Lottie began demanding to know if there would be room for her wooden horse to have its own seat.

Harriet stifled a laugh as the voices faded behind them. There’d been a time when slipping away like this would’ve felt bold. Now it was simply theirs—an unspoken rhythm in the chaos of family life.

The moment they reached the privacy of their chambers, Jeremy pressed her against the closed door, his mouth finding hers with an urgency that spoke of days of restraint. She gasped against his lips, already breathless, her back arching as her body remembered how badly she’d missed the feel of him. He kissed like a man starved—devouring, impatient, thorough—and Harriet met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he murmured against her lips. “Three days of your brother sleeping in the next room. I thought I’d go mad.”

“You could have simply been quieter,” she whispered back, nipping at his lower lip.

“With the sounds you make?”

“The sounds I make?” She pulled back just enough to look at him incredulously. “It is you who—”

His hands were already under her skirts, dragging them upward in impatient handfuls, palming her thighs like he owned them.

Harriet moaned deeply, trailing off as her head tipped back and thudded softly against the wood. Heat pulsed between her legs, sharp and immediate. “We don’t have long,” she breathed, but even as she said it, she was already hiking her hem higher. “They’ll—ah—they’ll notice we’re gone.”

“Let them,” he growled, his mouth trailing down her neck, teeth grazing the curve of her collarbone. “I’m tired of stealing moments in our house.” His hands found her waist next, lifting her slightly and pressing her more firmly against the door.

“Our house,” she repeated, savoring the word. She gasped as his mouth found that spot just below her ear that always made her knees weak.

“Mmm, ours,” he agreed, his teeth grazing her neck. His hands slid lower as his fingers traced the silk of her stockings. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning. Watching you in that dress, the sunlight catching your hair…”

“Yes?” she breathed, arching against him as his hand found bare skin above her garter.

“How much I wanted to lock that door and have you right there on the carpet,” he finished, his voice rough. “Forget the painting entirely.”

Harriet made a sound that was half laugh, half moan. “Scandalous.”

“You love it.” He lifted her suddenly and carried her to their bed.

He set her down on the edge of the bed, kneeling between her parted knees, his hands sliding up her thighs with deliberate slowness. “Do you think we can make time alone during the trip?”

“Oh, stop talking!” she laughed, pulling him up for a fierce kiss, her legs wrapping around his waist.

The next few minutes were a blur of heated touches and half-stifled sounds, clothes pushed aside rather than removed, urgent and necessary. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Harriet’s hair was thoroughly disheveled, and Jeremy’s shirt was untucked and twisted.

“Your cravat is utterly ruined,” she exhaled in a fit of laughter, trying to smooth it with shaking fingers.

“Worth it,” he breathed heavily, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Perhaps next we could ruin your—”

“Mama! Papa!” Lottie’s voice carried clearly from the bottom of the stairs. “Uncle Ralph says we’re going to be late!”

They looked at each other and burst into breathless laughter.

“How long were we—?” Harriet began, glancing at the clock on the mantle.

“Half an hour, at least,” Jeremy admitted before offering her his hand as he drew back, looking slightly sheepish. “We got rather carried away, I think.”

“Half an hour!” She accepted his hand and scrambled to fix her hair. “They’ll all know exactly what we’ve been doing!”

“Let them,” he chuckled, though he was hastily retucking his shirt. “We are married, after all.”

Five minutes later, they descended the stairs with as much dignity as they could muster. Ralph took one look at them—Harriet’s slightly flushed cheeks, Jeremy’s hastily retied cravat—and rolled his eyes.

“Found the list, did you?” he asked dryly. “Must have been terribly well hidden to take thirty minutes.”

“The carriages are ready,” he continued pointedly, ignoring Harriet’s blush. “And Lottie’s been asking where her swimming costume is.”

“In the blue trunk,” Harriet said smoothly, though she could feel Jane’s knowing gaze on her. “Shall we?”

The party made their way outside, where two carriages stood ready on the gravel drive. The summer morning had turned glorious, with a soft breeze carrying the scent of roses from the garden. Lottie immediately broke free and ran toward the lead carriage, her wooden horse clutched in one hand.

“I want to sit by the window!” she announced, attempting to climb in before Ralph caught her and lifted her properly.

“Ladies first, little monkey,” he said, helping Jane up the steps with considerably more care. “And that means your mother and aunt, not you.”

Jeremy paused beside the second carriage, where the luggage was being secured. He caught Harriet’s hand, drawing her close for a moment.

As they settled into their seats, Lottie immediately scrambled onto Jeremy’s lap, pressing her nose against the window. Ralph and Jane were laughing about something in the opposite seat, and sunlight streamed through the windows, casting everything in gold.

The carriages rolled forward, and twenty minutes later, they stopped at the small churchyard in Danbury. Lottie carried the wildflowers she’d picked that morning, placing them carefully at the base of Agnes’s headstone while the adults stood quietly behind her.

“For Great-Grandmama,” she said solemnly, then turned to tug on her father’s coattails. “She can see the sea from heaven, can’t she, Papa?”

Jeremy glanced at Harriet, then lowered down to smooth his daughter’s curls with a wistful smile. Harriet felt a mixture of butterflies and bliss as she regarded the two people she now cherished most in this world.

“I’m certain she can, darling. And she’s watching us have our adventure.”

When they climbed back into the carriage and set off again toward the coast, the mood had shifted to something lighter yet richer, touched by memory but not weighed down by it. Lottie chattered about shells and sandcastles, Jane and Ralph debated the merits of sea-bathing, and Jeremy’s hand found Harriet’s, as it always did, squeezing gently. The road stretched ahead, winding toward the promise of salt air and sunshine, carrying them forward into whatever came next—together, always together, in the life they’d chosen and the love they’d fought for.

The End.

Extended Epilogue

Seven years later

Frederick hefted Georgina and Juliet onto their ponies, one at a time. They wrapped their chubby fingers around the reins, their expressions solemn. This was not their first time riding with their father, but they were going to go beyond the confines of the immediate fields surrounding the estate, and they were so excited, it bordered on nervous.

From astride Fortuna, Alice rested her hand on her rounded stomach as she watched him fuss over their daughters, making sure their feet were in the stirrups. It had been the dearest wish of their heart that any children they had would ride, and he had been eager to accept.

Twins, he had not accounted for, however. Especially ones as prone to mischief as Georgina was. Juliet was her sister’s shadow, compliant when her twin was naughty, and always attempting to tempt Georgina back to the straight and narrow.

Frederick predicted that Georgina would give him gray hairs before his time—but when she looked at him with Alice’s sparkling hazel eyes, wrapped her arm around his neck, and declared that she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone in her life before, all her bad behavior was worth it.

As for Alice—he knew that their daughters were everything she had wanted. Spirited and affectionate, prepared to take what they could from the society they lived in.

He caught her watching him over the back of Juliet’s pony, and she smiled. Over seven years since their marriage, and he still wanted nothing more than to find a secluded place he could kiss her senseless. Thirty had come and gone, tracing soft lines around her eyes. He loved all the brushes age made across her face, and couldn’t wait to see what the rest of their life had in store for them.

“If you are trying to make me stay behind,” she said, urging Fortuna into a trot ahead of them, “then you may as well abandon the endeavor now.”

Georgina cackled her laughter and urged her pony, aptly named Loki—despite Loki being a girl—into motion, too. Juliet, ever the gentler sister, waited for Frederick to swing astride his horse before they clopped out of the courtyard together.

Summer at his estate. He could never have imagined something so wonderful.

They kept a slow pace until they reached a flat country lane that led to a small hill in the distance. There, servants would have already prepared the picnic.

Alice slowed her horse to a trot beside him. “When are you expected back in London?”

“I have a meeting with Lord Barwell in two days’ time,” he said. “And no, my darling, before you ask, you cannot accompany me. The physician suggested you not travel too far.”

Actually, he had suggested she begin to consider confinement, but she had outright refused. After so long rehabilitating her leg, she knew her own body, she claimed.

She was a Duchess; no one argued with her. And his aunt, when she’d heard the news, had merely nodded.

“Strong-willed girl,” she’d said. “That’s good. She needs to be.”

“I want to go to London, Papa,” Georgina pleaded in her small voice.

Juliet jutted out her jaw. “I don’t!”

He laughed at them both. They had inherited his blonde hair, though his had darkened over the years and theirs was still beautifully golden, falling in loose curls down their backs, held back by ribbons. One day, he was sure, he would face the harrowing reality of launching them into the marriage mart, but for now, they were nothing more than his daughters.

“It is quite all right, Juliet,” Alice giggled, firing him an amused glance. “We won’t be going anyway. Papa is only going for a few days before returning.”

“I want to see the animals in the Tower of London!” Georgina insisted.

Frederick regretted telling her about the king’s menagerie. “Perhaps next year?” he suggested with a grimace.

“A wonderful idea,” Alice nodded resolutely and glanced over her daughters. “Georgie, you’re slouching again. You know that you will ruin your posture if you do that, and you will never be able to ride as fast as your sister if you do.”

Juliet stuck out her tongue. “That is because I listen,” she said in an alarmingly accurate imitation of Alice’s lecturing voice.

Alice raised a brow. “I don’t like your tone, young lady.”

Juliet flushed. “Sorry, Mama.”

“Now then.” Frederick nodded to a tree ahead of them. “Shall we canter?”

The two girls agreed with a laugh, and he eased his gelding into a very slow canter. By this time, his horse understood the expectations upon him, and he accompanied his girls on their little fat ponies to the tree they pointed out, pretending all the while he was racing as fast as he could while they each vied to win.

As always, they were neck and neck.

Alice followed behind. He was not an exacting husband—he wanted her happiness above everything, and every day when he woke in her arms he was relieved that she had found it with him. He never failed to thank God and whoever else had conspired to make this life possible.

“I won!” Georgina cheered.

“No, I did,” Juliet groused.

They both turned to him. “Papa lost!” they cackled in delight in unison, and he laughed with them.

How odd that a heart had the capacity to keep growing. When he’d held the twins in his arms for the first time, one in each arm, he had felt his heart expand. Instead of loving Alice less in exchange for loving the twins, he merely loved them all more than he could ever comprehend.

And when he thought about the new babe she was carrying, his heart expanded still further.

She rode up to them, her face flushed from the exercise, looking healthier and happier than ever, despite the bump in front of her. She had one hand on its rounded curve, and her eyes were sparkling into his.

There would never be a day where he would grow tired of this.

“The hill isn’t far now,” he said, gazing into the distance. “I wonder if there will be strawberries!”

He knew for a fact there would be; Alice had gone out and picked them herself in the garden she had helped redesign. Every part of his life now held her touch.

As the girls raced ahead, he settled back beside her, letting his horse sink back into a walk. The sun beat on their heads, and the girls were laughing. Everything felt tranquil and peaceful in a way he had not known before Alice.

“Do you think Lord Barwell will agree with your proposal?” she asked when they were a little more alone.

“No,” he replied honestly. “But I think he will listen, and that’s an important first step.” He reached out to squeeze her hand. “I doubt we will see change immediately, but we can dream, and I will not give up.”

“Of course not.” Her gaze held his, steady and sure. “You never give up on the things you believe in.”

“I never gave up on you.”

“Precisely. And look at me now.” She tapped her leg, which was all but fully recovered. She would never be able to walk far without a stick, and she would always have a slight limp, but she was mobile. Nothing prevented her from living her life precisely the way she chose.

The pride that erupted in his chest at the thought made him smile. “You could have done that all on your own.”

“Mm, but would I?” She let the question hang in the silence between them as the groom rode ahead to marshal the girls up the hill to where their picnic awaited. “You found me when I was broken, Frederick, and you healed me.”

“We healed each other.”

“And now you have the impossible task of finding our daughters husbands who will respect and love them the way you love me,” she said on a laugh.

“Not in the slightest,” he returned, grinning at her. “You will have that pleasure.”

“Mama!”  Georgina cried, holding up a basket in her hands. Her voice traveled down the hill to them, and probably across the entire valley. It was the sound of joy. “There are strawberries!”

***

Later, that night, after Alice had made gentle love to the husband who never stopped seeming to want her, even when she felt bloated and large, she lay back against the bed as he moved down her body to massage her swollen feet. And then, following a pattern they engaged in every night, her calves.

“That feels… magnificent,” she breathed, groaning a little when he found a tender spot.

“I should hope so, after seven years.”

“Seven wonderful years,” she said drowsily. “Can you believe it has been so long?”

“Helena’s little boy is almost five. I can believe it.”

Alice smiled at the thought. Helena’s circumstances were already improving, married to a proud captain and the mother of a dainty, sweet little boy. Even Lord Denshire had married, and they were almost what she would call friends. His wife, Katherine, was a fiery lady Alice admired immensely.

“I think I shall be satisfied to stop after our son is born,” she murmured absently, tracing the skin of her bump.

Frederick laughed, kissing the soles of her feet. “You don’t want twelve children?”

She pushed herself up on her elbows so she could see him over her bump. Although she still had several months to go, this one was a large one. Not twins—thank heavens—but she just knew it would be a boy. “If you would like to bear all children in the future, we can have as many as you’d like.”

He laughed, kissing her again, his thumbs banishing the soreness from the day. “I am content with three. The perfect number. My perfect family.”

Alice closed her eyes in bliss, lying back against the pillow. Sometimes, when she thought about her parents, she still grieved them, but she had come to understand that this—her life—was everything they ever could have hoped for her. And if she were to live with Frederick until the girls were nineteen, only to die and have them marry a man who would love them this deeply, she knew she would be content with the world.

“Frederick,” she mumbled, near sleep. “I am so grateful you found me.”

“I know.” He kissed her calf, then leaned up to press a kiss against her mouth. “I am too.”

The End.

Extended Epilogue

Redmane Manor, Summer 1819

“Papa!” James’s indignant voice cut through the lazy hum of summer insects. “Uncle Harold says frogs eat boys who don’t behave. Is that true?”

Damien Fitzgerald, Duke of Redmane, paused in his conversation with the estate steward, a role now belonging to his former butler Wilkins, and cast a bemused glance toward his son. James stood ankle-deep in mud at the pond’s edge, sleeves rolled high, hair a tousled mess of fiery curls. Beside him, Harold’s daughters—Louisa and Marianne—hid grins behind grass-stained palms.

Damien raised a brow at Harry, who was idly sipping tea beneath a sprawling apple tree. “Really, Harry? Frogs?”

Harry offered a mild shrug. “Desperate measures, brother. He was threatening my last scone.”

Elsie emerged from behind the tree. “Damien, your brother is inciting rebellion again.”

“Elsie, my dear,” Harry drawled affectionately, “it seems you have forgotten, they inherited all rebellion from your side of the family.”

Elsie arched a brow. “Clearly. After all, the Fitzgerald men are renowned for their gentle temperament.”

Damien half-coughed into his hand. “She has you there, brother.”

He watched Harold and Elsie beneath the apple tree, hands occasionally brushing like they hadn’t been married half a decade. It suited them—this quiet domesticity. The village near Epping still thought of Harold as soft-spoken Harry, the bookish recluse with a surprisingly pretty wife and an even more surprising fondness for jam-making.

He’d worried, at first—spent a year half-expecting someone to recognize him. But Harold disappeared beautifully into quiet life. Elsie kept him grounded, and the villagers adored them both. Damien and Emma had been there when Louisa arrived, and again when Marianne came, red-faced and furious and unmistakably hers.

Damien glanced toward James now, who eyed the last scone with fierce determination. His son had inherited Emma’s tenacity, certainly—though Damien suspected stubbornness was as much Fitzgerald blood as Montrose.

James had come early in their marriage, just as Emma predicted the night of the fire. Yet Emma had taken motherhood with the same determination and responsibility she did everything, filling the manor with warmth and laughter that had seemed impossible during Damien’s childhood years.

Marianne took the quiet moment to triumphantly claim the last scone from Harold, who laughed as her father feigned mortal injury.

“Betrayal most foul!” he lamented theatrically.

Before Damien could respond, James barreled toward him again, muddy footprints in his wake. “Papa,” he panted again, clutching Damien’s coat sleeve, “I demand justice. Louisa stole my wooden sword while I wasn’t looking!”

“I borrowed it,” Louisa corrected primly, stepping up behind him. She brandished the toy proudly. “He never listens, so I had to defeat him for it.”

Damien fought back a chuckle. “It appears your honor hangs by a thread, James.”

His son’s expression shifted from earnest distress to determination. “Then we must duel for it properly. Papa, will you be referee?”

Harry smirked into his teacup. “Careful, brother. One step toward officiating children’s duels and next you’ll be dancing attendance on your wife’s every whim.”

Damien’s lips twitched. “A fate long since sealed, I fear.”

Harry chuckled quietly. “True enough.”

As James and Louisa resumed their cheerful battle across the lawn, Damien glanced toward the house, where Emma stood silhouetted at the window, arranging flowers with easy grace. Her figure was slender, poised—every inch the duchess. Yet Damien knew intimately the stubborn woman beneath.

Harry’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You are staring again.”

Damien adjusted his cuffs coolly. “I never stare.”

“Of course not. You merely gaze with ducal intent.”

“Subtlely is not your strong suit, is it, brother?”

“No. But candor is,” Harry said briskly, setting down his cup and rising. “Well, I promised Elsie a stroll. She claims my legs have forgotten how to move.”

“Do try not to frighten the frogs,” Damien murmured dryly.

The older brother’s smile widened. “No promises.”

As Harry offered Elsie his arm, Damien turned toward Wilkins, who had lingered respectfully at a distance. “Everything prepared for tonight?”

“Precisely as you instructed, Your Grace,” Wilkins replied crisply. “Musicians stationed, paths illuminated. Your… item,” he paused meaningfully, lowering his voice, “is safely hidden beneath the rose statue.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Wilkins.”

With a courteous nod, the steward withdrew, leaving Damien to briefly wander toward the east wing terrace alone. He paused, hand resting lightly on the stone balustrade worn smooth by countless seasons. His gaze traced the familiar path below, now alive with blooms and color, so different from the cold shadows the night he had first pursued Emma here.

“Fond memories?” a familiar voice came from behind him.

Damien turned, warmth blooming instantly at his wife’s presence—though concern shadowed her eyes. She came toward him, breathless, her auburn hair catching the sun in brilliant hues as she rapidly scanned the garden.

“Has Wilkins sorted the musicians for tonight?” she asked.

“He has,” Damien reassured gently.

“And the flowers at the veranda?”

“Are in fresh bloom.”

“And the lanterns along the walkway—”

“All precisely as you instructed,” Damien finished sweetly.

Emma’s shoulders relaxed only slightly. “Thank heavens. Charles and Rosie arrive tonight, and Josie’s condition—well, I want everything perfect. It has been over a year since everyone has got together.”

Damien caught her anxious hands, pressing them reassuringly. “You have managed far greater feats than a garden party, my sweet. Everything will be perfect.”

She hesitated, biting her lower lip gently. “You are sure we are not missing anything?”

His eyes softened. “Utterly.”

Emma exhaled slowly, finally noticing James, who had paused his campaign to wave cheerfully at her, scone in hand that Marianne had so kindly split with him.

“He has ruined his clothes again,” she smirked.

“He is our son,” Damien teased gently. “Expect rebellion.”

Emma laughed softly. “Impossible man.”

He took her hand in his, fingers entwined, savoring the quiet intimacy. Around them, summer whispered through leaves, carrying laughter from the gardens.

She glanced down at their joined hands, her tone softening. “You seem rather pleased with yourself this afternoon. What mischief are you plotting now?”

Damien smiled mildly, not betraying a hint of his true intent. “You wound me, dear. Must I always be plotting something?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “With you, always.”

 “Then perhaps, dear wife, you should brace yourself for tonight.”

Emma’s eyes flashed curiosity, tempered by her usual caution. “Should I be… worried?”

“Not in the slightest.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “But you may be very surprised.”

 “Surprised or scandalized?”

“Knowing you, probably both,” he chuckled.

Her eyes drifted to the terrace doors, suddenly anxious again. “I must double-check with Marshall about the seating. But tonight, I promise—I am all yours.”

Damien kissed his wife’s forehead tenderly. “I shall hold you to it then, dear.”

          ***

Redmane Manor, Later That Evening

Emma paused at the garden’s edge, her breath catching slightly. Twilight transformed the manor lawns into a dreamscape: paper lanterns bathed the paths in amber warmth, their delicate glow dancing among the white tents and silk-draped pavilions. Music from a string quartet floated gracefully through the evening air, mingling with bubbling laughter and the delighted shrieks of children darting in and out of tables laden with cakes and summer fruits.

She adjusted the ribbon on James’s collar absently, drawing his attention away from the jam tarts he’d been eying eagerly. “Mind your shirt tonight, please. We have important company.”

James sighed dramatically. “Mama, you say that every time. And every time, I forget.”

Elsie, standing beside Emma with quiet amusement, gave a soft laugh. “At least he’s honest.”

Emma smiled ruefully. “Frighteningly so. Too much like his father, I fear.”

Elsie’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Not exclusively.”

Emma touched Elsie’s arm affectionately, feeling a rush of nostalgia as she surveyed the restored gardens. She nodded gently toward the vine-covered archway just outside the south garden room. “Do you remember, Elsie? That night I met Damien in those shadows.”

Elsie’s lips twitched into a mischievous smile. “You mean the night the gossip we spread came to fruition?”

Emma shook her head, laughing softly. “He never stood a chance.”

“Nor did you,” her sister-in-law murmured warmly.

Before Emma could reply, a carriage rolled to a halt at the gravel drive, interrupting her reverie. Josie emerged first, her face flushed, one hand supporting the pronounced swell beneath her gown. Thomas hovered protectively, his attentiveness both endearing and faintly amusing. Josie had bloomed wonderfully these past years, her once timid nature tempered by confidence and joy. Marriage to Sir Thomas had given her a steadiness, an elegance Emma admired deeply—though tonight, Josie’s mischievous grin promised trouble.

“Sister!” Josie called cheerfully, embracing her gently, mindful of her condition. “You look entirely too composed for a woman raising a boy with Redmane blood. How do you do it!”

“Careful,” Emma teased affectionately, “You shall tempt fate. Your own is soon to arrive.”

Josie laughed brightly, pressing a fond hand against Emma’s cheek. “I live in hopeful denial.” She curtsied primly for Elsie. “I hope you are well too, Elsie. I may be asking some favors of you too. Louisa and Marianne are truly the two most well-behaved children among all of the ton.”

Elsie snorted. “Dear, you don’t know the half of it.”

Another arrival cut across their conversation—Rosie’s voice preceded her through the gathering twilight, her tone breathless and vividly theatrical. “Sisters! Disaster has struck—well, almost struck.”

Josie rolled her eyes as Rosie swept toward them in vibrant silk, her face a mixture of excitement and exaggerated despair. She had changed remarkably little; scandal still trailed her as stubbornly as her shadow, mostly because Rosie herself ensured it never lost sight of her. Her novels—half sensation, half thinly veiled family histories—had become society’s guilty pleasure.

Emma raised an amused eyebrow. “And what calamity brings you so swiftly tonight?”

“My publisher,” Rosie declared breathlessly, eyes widening with mock horror. “Claims the Duke of Flamebrook is too obviously Damien. Tell me honestly—is it so apparent?”

Emma’s lips twitched. “Considering Flamebrook broods in a ruined castle, wears a cravat resembling a funeral shroud—”

“And has the name Dorian,” Josie added, rolling her eyes once more.

Emma affected a subdued smile. “Yes, perhaps it is.”

Rosie gave a huff of exasperation. “Art imitates life! But do reassure Damien I shall change Flamebrook’s hair color. I am nothing if not accommodating.”

Emma laughed at that. “I am sure my husband will be deeply grateful.”

Just as Emma moved to guide her sisters toward the refreshments, she caught sight of another familiar figure arriving, and she paused, suddenly wary.

Charles Montrose stepped confidently from his carriage, helping a slender woman down with notable care. Emma studied her brother’s face carefully—he wore that familiar look of reckless pride, the one he’d sport every morning after Emma and their father settled his gambling debts years ago.

She sighed softly, shaking her head as Charles approached, proudly guiding the mysterious woman toward them.

He offered a breezy smile. “Sisters, may I present Lady Catherine Davenport. My fiancée.”

Rosie gasped theatrically, Josie blinked in surprise, and Emma struggled to maintain composure. Catherine Davenport was striking, certainly, with quiet grace in her poise and warmth in her intelligent eyes, but the delicate dignity about her only heightened Emma’s suspicions of Charles’s good fortune.

“Catherine?” Rosie exclaimed.

“He truly was Mama’s boy,” Josie snorted quietly before being shot a stern look by her elder brother.

“It seems your fortunes have swayed rather dramatically, brother,” Emma assuaged.

Charles grinned again, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “But this time, dear Emma, I am gambling for keeps.”

Emma laughed despite herself, taking Catherine’s hand warmly. “Then welcome to the family, Lady Catherine. God help you.”

The lady’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Thank you. And yes, your brother has warned me extensively about his… history.”

Emma began to relax, feeling the knot of anxiety from earlier slowly unravel. The gathering thrived around them, the music swelling softly as guests moved gently onto the lawn to dance beneath the twilight. Warmth settled gently around her shoulders, and for the first time all day, she allowed herself to breathe.

As dusk painted the skies in shades of violet and gold, Emma’s gaze fell on a solitary figure lingering quietly near the garden’s edge.

Isaac Fitzgerald stood watching, noticeably changed from the arrogant, troubled young man she’d once known. There was no trace of bravado now; he was quiet, dignified, humbled by the years and experiences.

Emma knew from Damien’s brief mentions that Isaac had spent the last two years rebuilding his reputation piece by careful piece, far from Jacob’s influence—Jacob, who now resided somewhere in the wilds of America after their spectacular family disgrace had cost him everything, even the Regent’s favor.

As Emma approached, Isaac inclined his head politely. “Lady Emma,” he greeted softly, genuine respect in his voice.

“Isaac,” Emma returned gently. “You are very welcome here tonight. Please, mingle with the rest of the guests.”

He glanced away briefly toward Harold, whose figure was just visible among the guests, engaged in quiet conversation with Elsie. “I hope you don’t mind,” Isaac said hesitantly, his voice lowered. “I wanted to see him—Harold, that is. He is the only person who still speaks my name with any dignity.”

Emma studied him, touched by the quiet sincerity in his words. “You deserve that dignity, Isaac. It takes courage to face one’s mistakes.”

Damien appeared at her side, his hand settling warmly against the small of her back. Emma leaned subtly into his touch, feeling the familiar comfort in his presence.

Isaac gave Damien a small, respectful nod. “Your Grace.”

Damien offered a firm handshake. “I am glad you could join us all the way from York, cousin.”

The three stood in quiet ease, the tensions of old bitterness smoothed by years and softened by time. Emma felt a quiet satisfaction witnessing it, sensing closure—hard-won but deserved.

As Isaac quietly withdrew to join Harold, Damien’s hand lingered gently on her waist. Emma exhaled softly, gazing out at the twinkling garden filled with life, laughter, and love she had not dared dream possible once.

***

The garden had fallen quiet.

The kind of quiet that came after laughter and lanterns and children darting through hedges with sticky fingers and muddy knees. The fête had dissolved into flickering windows and soft footsteps along polished corridors. Their guests had retired — some tucked into the east wing’s refurbished suites, others asleep in the smaller guesthouse nearby, all preparing for the promised seaside outing at dawn.

Emma stepped into the night air, her slippers whispering over the flagstone. The breeze was warm and gentle against her neck. She could still hear faint laughter—Rosie’s, almost certainly—drifting through an open window. She smiled to herself and wrapped her arms loosely around her waist.

A familiar figure approached from the shadows between two trimmed box hedges. Damien, without his coat, sleeves cuffed back, cravat abandoned somewhere—probably sacrificed to one of James’s more spirited tug-of-war games earlier. He looked at ease, which was saying something. He looked like home.

“You are out late,” he noted, his voice low and steady as he fell into step beside her.

She glanced sideways. “I could say the same.”

He offered her his arm. She took it.

They walked in silence for a moment. Not awkward. Comfortable. The way they always did when the weight of the day slipped off and it was just the two of them, back in step again.

“I saw Charles trying to bribe the cook with a bottle of brandy,” she said mildly. “Something about midnight pigeon pies.”

Damien made a soft sound of amusement. “And here I thought it was Rosie who’d test the staff’s limits first.”

“She did,” Emma replied. “She’s holding an informal court in the east drawing room. I believe she’s planning a novel about the events of this very evening.”

“I dread it already,” he said dryly. “Though I suppose I can’t be named something as deeply unflattering as the Duke of Flamestone this time.”

“Flamebrook.” Emma tilted her head up to look at him. “And Flamebrook might be generous.”

He arched a brow. “Careful, dear. I still outrank you.”

“I outrank you in sheer competence,” she replied primly.

“You always have.”

There it was—that grin she rarely saw outside their bedchamber, the one that began in his mouth but finished in his eyes. It was soft, honest. For all his stoicism, Damien had never been closed off to her again. Not truly. He held the world at arm’s length, but never her.

They passed beneath a row of lanterns strung low between the trellises, the light shifting as it moved over their joined shadows. Emma felt his fingers flex slightly beneath hers. Not anxious. Just purposeful.

She realized, quite suddenly, that he was leading her toward the rose garden.

“I thought you hated this part of the estate,” she said, breaking the quiet again. “Something about the symmetry being an affront to natural chaos.”

“It has… grown on me.”

“I have that effect on things,” she giggled.

He didn’t look at her then, but she felt the curl of his fingers in answer. They moved past the hedgerows and the half-moon-shaped bench where she used to rest while James tried to build mud castles. A small pavilion waited ahead, nestled among the climbing roses. Lanterns had been hung carefully, their light warm and gentle, glowing like fireflies caught in a quiet waltz.

He stopped just outside the pavilion and faced her.

“I want to give you something.”

Emma blinked. “If you tell me you had another portrait commissioned, I daresay I shall burn it in front of the guests tomorrow.”

“No,” he said mildly, reaching toward the base of the old rose statue. “Just this.”

He pressed something at the pedestal’s base — a small catch — and pulled free a small box. He held it out to her without flourish.

When she took it and opened the lid, her breath caught.

A deep blue sapphire nestled in gold. Simple. Lovely. The sort of ring someone chose not to impress, but to mean something.

Damien’s voice came, quiet and sure. “I married you out of necessity. That day, I believed I was giving up the life I knew.”

He stepped closer, gently closing her fingers over the box. “But instead, I found something better. I found the woman who would outmaneuver me daily, steal my breath nightly, and make our son braver than I ever deserved.”

Emma looked up at him, her heart tightening in the way it sometimes still did when he surprised her with tenderness.

“Let me ask you properly this time,” he said. “Not because duty or circumstance demanded it. But because I love you. Because you are still the sharpest, most maddeningly magnificent thing to ever walk into my life.”

He paused. His voice dropped an inch deeper. “Lady Emmeline Montrose, will you marry me again?”

Emma didn’t speak. She closed the distance instead, pressing her hands to his chest, rising onto her toes, and kissing him with a hunger that had never dulled.

He responded without hesitation.

His hands slid to her waist, anchoring her, drawing her in so fully that her breath caught against his mouth. The kiss deepened — hot, slow, threaded with every inch of restraint he so often clung to and, with her, always lost. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck, pulling him down harder, until his sigh spilled into her mouth and he staggered them both back a step.

“You haven’t answered,” he murmured against her lips.

“I thought that was clear,” she whispered, dragging her mouth along his jaw.

His laugh was low, full of that heat she’d coaxed out of him so many times. She didn’t need candlelight to see how dark his eyes had gone.

“You will never be rid of me now,” he said.

“I should hope not,” she breathed.

They stood like that for a while. Bodies flush, breaths mingled, the scent of roses thick in the night air.

Eventually, they settled onto the garden bench, her legs draped across his lap, his coat wrapped around both of them. Petals swayed above in the breeze, and the moon cast its pale blessing over the quiet estate.

Emma rested her head on his shoulder. “You have given me a life I didn’t dare ask for.”

“You made the life,” he murmured into her hair. “I just… got lucky enough to live in it.”

She smiled, eyes drifting toward the upper windows of the manor — where James was almost certainly asleep with his boots on the wrong feet and his face still slightly sticky.

He was theirs. This life was theirs. Built from missteps, forged in laughter, stitched with arguments and apologies and late-night promises neither had ever intended to break.

The lanterns swayed. The garden breathed.

And Emma, Duchess of Redmane, kissed her husband again — not for ceremony, or duty, or spectacle — but because she could. Because she still wanted to.

Because joy, at long last, had been chosen on purpose. 

The End.