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.
