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.

Extended Epilogue

7 years later

Scotland

Eleanor giggled, stumbling slightly as Sebastian’s broad hands covered her eyes, guiding her forward with exaggerated care.

“How much longer?” she asked.  

 “Patience, my love,” he murmured against her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “You’ve waited this long, surely a few more steps won’t kill you.” His tone was laced with mirth, and she could hear the quiet laughter of their children beside them—soft, delighted sounds that only made her heart fuller.

“Papa, you’re doing it all wrong,” their eldest, Henry, declared with the self-assurance of a child convinced of his own wisdom. “Mama doesn’t like surprises. She likes to be prepared.”

His little sister, Marianne, giggled beside him, ever the instigator, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “I like surprises.”

Sebastian scoffed. “Is that so? Well, my dear wife, do you require preparation for a simple surprise?” His hands remained firm over her eyes. Eleanor sighed, long-suffering but smiling all the same.

“You forget, husband,” she said, “that the moment you asked for my hand in my stepmother’s drawing room, my entire life has been one prolonged surprise.”

Sebastian chuckled low in his throat, and just before unveiling her eyes, he pressed a lingering kiss to the back of her neck. “Then this shall be no different, my sweet.”

Eleanor gasped the moment Sebastian lifted his hands away, her eyes widening as she took in the sight before her. Her childhood vacation home stood tall and proud, its once-weathered façade now lovingly restored. The ivy that had once crept unchecked along the stone walls had been trimmed with care, allowing the warm honey-colored brick to shine in the afternoon light. The wooden shutters, freshly painted, stood open as though welcoming her back. A lump formed in her throat as she turned to Sebastian, her hands fluttering uselessly before she pressed them over her mouth.

“How—” she started, her voice breaking. “How did you know? You did this?”

Sebastian’s eyes softened as he reached for her, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her close. “For you. For us,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I wanted you to have a place that was wholly yours. A place you once cherished, and a place we can spend our summers together, where the children can make memories. Every year after this one, we will come here as a family.” His voice was low and warm, rich with affection, and it sent a fresh wave of emotion through her.

Henry and Marianne, oblivious to the moment their parents shared, squealed in delight as they ran past them toward the house, their laughter echoing through the small garden.

 “Slow down!” Eleanor called after them, though her voice was bright with laughter. She turned back to Sebastian, her hands cupping his face as she kissed him, long and lingering.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips, and she could feel the smile that spread across his face before he kissed her back.

As the pair remained wrapped in their embrace, a distant rumble of wheels on gravel caught their attention. Eleanor turned her head just as a carriage rolled into view, the Greycliff crest gleaming under the afternoon sun. Before the driver could even come to a full stop, the door burst open, and Olivia, radiant as ever, practically tumbled out, her enormous belly leading the way. “Eleanor! Sebastian!” she cried, throwing her arms wide as if she intended to embrace the entire estate. Behind her, Luke stepped out more cautiously, guiding his wife’s movements.

“Olivia!” Eleanor laughed, shaking her head as Olivia waddled toward them. “Should you be moving so quickly in your condition?”

“I hardly think so—“ Luke began.

“Nonsense, I am perfectly capable!” Olivia interrupted, then promptly pressed a dramatic hand to her lower back. “I am merely carrying a small army, that’s all.” She turned to Sebastian with a smirk. “And what of you, Your Grace? Has married life softened you yet?”

Sebastian huffed. “If anything, I’ve been under siege since the moment I wed.” But his voice held no real bite, especially when Eleanor gave him a knowing smile. Luke clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d say you look rather content for a man under siege, old friend.”

As they made their way toward the house, Olivia suddenly clapped her hands together.

“Where are my favorite little mischief-makers? Henry! Marianne! Come out, my dears, I have something for you!” At her call, the children came clamoring to the front, their eager faces lighting up as Olivia produced a small parcel from her reticule. “I brought you the finest chocolates in all of London,” she declared.

 “Aunt Olivia! Uncle Greycliff! Thank you,” they said in unison. The children squealed in delight as they took their prizes.

“Uncle Luke—” Luke tried to put in, but alas, it was too late.

Sebastian clapped him on the back. “I am sure they’ll get there someday, old boy,” he chuckled. “For now, perhaps learn to take it as a compliment, until you can invest in satiating their appetite as your wife so wisely does?”

Luke gave a wry smile. “Of course, Ravenscroft.”

As soon as the children darted off, their laughter trailing behind them, the rest of the group made their way inside. The grand foyer of the estate was awash in golden light, the scent of fresh bread and roasted meats drifting from the dining room. The staff, smiling and efficient, greeted them warmly, already preparing for the midday meal. Eleanor slipped her hand into Sebastian’s, sharing a quiet smile with him as they stepped toward the long, inviting table. Brunch was laid out in an elegant yet comfortably informal spread—fluffy scones, thick slices of ham, and an assortment of jams and preserves that Henry and Marianne immediately set upon as they returned, breathless from their running about.

Olivia, ever the center of attention, sighed dramatically as she lowered herself into a chair, patting her rounded belly with exaggerated suffering. “Oh, the trials I endure,” she proclaimed, earning an indulgent chuckle from Luke. “I swear, my dear husband is utterly useless when it comes to managing me. You’d think after years of marriage, he would have learned to anticipate my every need, but alas! He is a slow learner.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and Luke, shaking his head in mock exasperation, leaned forward to pour her a cup of tea.

“I believe I manage just fine, dearest,” he countered smoothly, lifting the cup toward her with a knowing smirk. “Though it does appear that your greatest need at present is simply to be indulged.” Olivia grinned, accepting the tea with an air of regal satisfaction, while Eleanor and Sebastian exchanged amused glances.

After taking a dramatic bite of her scone, she sighed, as if the sheer weight of her burdened existence could only be mitigated by flaky pastry and clotted cream. “Do you know, I’ve decided something very important,” she declared, wiping a crumb delicately from the corner of her mouth.

Eleanor humored her with a raised brow. “Oh? And what great revelation has befallen you this time?”

Olivia set her teacup down with an emphatic clink. “That after this child is born, I am never enduring this again.”

Luke, mid-sip of his own tea, nearly choked. “You told me just last month you wanted at least five children.”

“That was before I became the size of a small carriage!” Olivia said flatly, gesturing toward her belly. “I refuse to do this again unless it is by some divine miracle in which I am unaware I am pregnant until the child simply appears in my arms.”

Sebastian, looking far too entertained, leaned back in his chair. “That seems a rather ambitious condition.”

“Oh, hush, you’re not the one whose ankles have declared war against you,” Olivia shot back, then turned to Eleanor with pleading eyes. “Tell me, dearest, did you suffer like this when you were carrying Henry and Marianne?”

Eleanor smiled, stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea. “Not terribly, though I do recall a certain Duke losing all sense of reason the moment I so much as sighed in discomfort.”

Sebastian scoffed, though the tips of his ears reddened—a sure sign that he had, in fact, been the most fretful of husbands. “You were carrying my child. Forgive me for wanting to ensure you were well.”

“Oh, I assure you, he was insufferable,” Eleanor said with a wink, earning a chorus of laughter around the table. “Though I will admit, I did find it rather sweet. He was so determined to anticipate my every need before I even knew I had them.”

Luke exhaled long-sufferingly. “Sebastian, my friend, you have set an impossible standard.”

Sebastian smirked. “A husband should be attentive, Greycliff.”

Luke arched a brow. “Yes, well, attentiveness does not mean having the nursery redecorated four times because you were suddenly convinced yellow was too stimulating for a newborn.”

Henry, who had been very focused on his pile of jam-slathered scones, perked up. “I like yellow.”

Sebastian pointedly ignored his son’s contribution. “I seem to recall a certain Viscount ordering an entire shipment of French lace because his wife once offhandedly remarked she liked the draperies at a particular inn.”

Luke waved a hand. “That was different.”

“How so?”

“…It was good lace.”

The entire table erupted into laughter, Olivia shaking her head as she rested a hand over her belly. “Honestly, if nothing else, I shall be pleased to give birth simply so I don’t have to listen to any more debates over nursery decor.”

“Speaking of which,” Eleanor interjected, “when is the midwife expecting your little one to make an appearance?”

Olivia huffed. “Any week now, apparently, though I think it is a cruel lie to keep my spirits up. I feel as though I shall be pregnant forever.”

Henry, ever curious, tilted his head. “Can babies stay inside forever?”

Sebastian, recognizing the dangerous territory of the conversation, swiftly stood. “Who would like to go see the stables?”

Henry and Marianne shot up instantly, their interest diverted. “Yes!” Marianne clapped her hands excitedly. “I want to see the new foal!”

Sebastian sent Eleanor a knowing look—crisis averted—before ushering the children outside. Luke followed with a grin, while Olivia groaned and dramatically laid her head against the back of her chair.

“I should have had a nursemaid explain that,” she muttered.

Eleanor laughed, reaching for her friend’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “You are going to be a wonderful mother, Olivia.”

Olivia exhaled, her expression softening. “I certainly hope so.”

Eleanor smiled. “You already are.”

As the afternoon sun bathed the estate in golden light, the group eventually dispersed to their respective rooms, for tomorrow was to be a busy day indeed, leaving Eleanor and Sebastian alone at last.

With a sigh of contentment, Eleanor turned into her husband’s arms by the hearth in their private drawing room, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Finally,” she murmured, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “I was beginning to think we’d never have a moment to ourselves.”

Sebastian chuckled, tucking a stray curl behind her ear before capturing her mouth in a lingering kiss, slow and indulgent, as if savoring the taste of her. The warmth of his embrace, the solid strength of him, sent a familiar shiver down her spine—a sensation she would never tire of.

When he pulled away, his lips barely parted from hers, he murmured, “I did warn you from the start, Duchess. Marrying me meant surrendering any expectation of peace.”

Eleanor sighed dramatically, though she made no move to leave his arms. “And here I had foolishly assumed marriage to you would be a sedate affair. Books by the fire, embroidery in the afternoon, a husband who never disturbs my peace.”

Sebastian let out a rich laugh. “As I recall, it was not I who made it my life-long quest to disturb the peace in our house.”

“Only to disturb my peace,” Eleanor chided gently.

“My love, you do not even like embroidery.”

“No, but I like to imagine an alternate version of myself, one who exists in perfect tranquility, unbothered by an overattentive husband who insists on whisking me away to private rooms only to thoroughly ruin me!”

His grin was positively wolfish. “I do take a certain amount of pride in that, yes.”

Eleanor swatted his chest lightly, though she remained smiling. She rested her head against him, her cheek pressed to the soft linen of his shirt, breathing him in. The faint scent of sandalwood and something purely him surrounded her, and she sighed again, though this time, there was no drama in it—only a quiet sort of happiness.

She let her gaze drift toward the large windows, moonlight spilling across the room, bathing the walls in silver. Beyond the glass, her childhood home stretched out before her, the gardens still vibrant even in the dim glow of evening.

“I still don’t know how you knew,” she murmured, trailing a finger idly along the lapel of his waistcoat. “I don’t remember ever speaking of this place to you.”

Sebastian stroked a hand down her back, slow and soothing. “You did not. Not specifically to me at least.”

Eleanor tilted her head up, curiosity dancing in her gaze. “Then how?”

He exhaled softly, his fingers absently playing with the ends of her hair. “I listen, Eleanor. Always have.” His voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it, a reverence that made something in her chest tighten.

She swallowed. “But this house… it was so long ago. A place from before everything changed. Before my father died, before my stepmother’s cruelties. I hardly think of it myself, let alone speak of it.” She let her gaze drift toward the fire, the flames flickering, casting a warm glow over them. “And yet, I do remember being happy here. Running through the gardens with my father, reading on the window seat in my old room, sneaking biscuits from the kitchen when Cook wasn’t looking.” She let out a soft laugh, almost to herself. “It was just a few weeks out of a year when Papa would bring me. I suppose I had forgotten what it felt like. Until now.”

Sebastian tipped her chin back toward him, his gray eyes steady on hers. “I never forget a thing when it comes to you.”

A warmth spread through her, deeper than mere affection, something richer, weightier.

“You speak as though I am terribly interesting.”

Sebastian’s lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. “You are terribly interesting. Particularly when you think no one is paying attention. You have a habit of murmuring in your sleep, you know.”

Eleanor blinked. “I do not!”

“Oh, you do. And one evening, early in our marriage, you spoke of this place. I don’t think you even knew it. Just a whisper of a memory—a name, a feeling. But it was enough.” He brushed his thumb along her jaw. “So I found it. I suppose I could have taken the simpler route and merely asked. But my wife deserved a novel surprise in her long life of surprises. And now it is ours.”

Eleanor felt her throat tighten, emotion rising swift and unexpected. “Sebastian…”

“I want every part of you to be cherished, Ellie,” he murmured, his hands framing her face, his voice softer now. “Even the parts you think you’ve forgotten.”

Her heart was full, too full, and she surged up onto her toes, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was not just grateful but homecoming.

His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, deepening the kiss with the sort of hunger that spoke not just of desire but of devotion—of years spent together, of a love that had only grown stronger with time.

She melted into him, into the warmth of his body, into the unshakable certainty of him.

But just as their kiss deepened, the sound of hurried footsteps and excited giggles shattered the quiet moment.

Eleanor scarcely had time to pull back before Henry and Marianne barreled into the room, their small hands cupped together in a careful but excited display.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Henry declared, his chest puffed with importance. “We found a mouse in the stables!” Marianne, her curls bouncing wildly, grinned up at them. “Can we keep it? We’ll take very good care of him. We were thinking… we should call him Scrunch Junior!” The children beamed at their parents, utterly oblivious to the bemused expressions exchanged between Eleanor and Sebastian.

For a moment, Eleanor could only blink, torn between laughter and sentiment. Scrunch had been her steadfast companion in the days before her life had changed forever, and hearing the name again after all this time brought a bittersweet warmth to her heart. She glanced at Sebastian, who sighed dramatically.

“Another mouse?” he drawled, tightening his arm around Eleanor’s waist as if bracing himself for the inevitable. “Must we, my love?”

Eleanor, pressing a hand to his chest, laughed softly. “Oh, you know we must.”

With identical squeals of delight, Henry and Marianne spun on their heels and dashed away, eager to share their new pet with Olivia and Luke. As their laughter echoed through the halls, Eleanor leaned her forehead against Sebastian’s, her heart so full it felt near to bursting.

“A new generation of mischief,” she whispered, and Sebastian groaned playfully, pulling her closer.

“Heaven help us,” he murmured, before kissing her once more—this time, undisturbed.

He pulled away for a moment with a smirk. “Two perfect children. A home filled with love. And you—” He tilted her chin up with a gentle touch, brushing his lips lightly over hers. “My greatest fortune.”

Eleanor’s heart swelled at the words, at the way he looked at her as though she was his entire world. “It wasn’t luck,” she whispered, her fingers grazing his jaw. “It was us. We chose this. We fought for it. And we will keep choosing it, every single day.”

Sebastian exhaled, a sound of deep contentment, before pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Then I suppose I must ensure you never regret that choice.” His hands skimmed over her waist, his voice turning husky. “Beginning now.”

“Only now?” Eleanor laughed softly, threading her fingers through his dark hair as she leaned up to kiss him once more, lingering and sweet. Outside their room, the sounds of children’s laughter and Olivia’s exasperated—but equally amused—voice drifted back toward them. Life was never quiet, never dull. But it was theirs.

And in this moment, wrapped in the arms of the man she loved, Eleanor knew with certainty—there was no greater happiness than this.

The End. 

Extended Epilogue

8 months later

Ravenscourt Castle

“We shall be late for Edith’s grand opening!” Juliet cried as she tried to hurry to the coach. Horatio held her arm because walking was an effort for her. The weight of the baby she carried, Horatio’s child, made it difficult for Juliet to move quickly, but still, she tried.

“Edith will understand,” Horatio assured her, “you cannot help the sickness our son causes you.”

“We do not know that it is a son,” Juliet reminded him.

Horatio grinned. He knew. He had known since she had first revealed her pregnancy to him. An instinct told him that their first child would be his son and heir. He had never experienced such a thrill of excitement before.

Juliet paused, breathing hard, the coach still a dozen yards away. She was large and round but radiantly beautiful in a way that Horatio had not believed possible. He did not think he could love her more. So what would his love for the child growing inside her be like?

“Edith is nervous enough about this enterprise,” Juliet continued, “she has not had the support of her family. In fact, I think they have actively been informing against her!”

“Thankfully, I think the social capital of the Godwin family is spent,” Horatio said.

That family had been hoisted on their own petard. After attempting to threaten the honor and reputation of the Templeton name, they had found themselves on the wrong end of gossip. Servants had whispered of attempts by Lord Gilbert to imprison his niece, now Duchess of Ravenscourt. The household of Ravenscourt had been incensed at the knowledge that Lady Margaret had tried to drug their master.

It was ironic that the whole affair had ended with the Godwins and Matthew Ainsworth being the ones whose names were besmirched, after they had worked to do the same to him.

“Edith has Henrietta,” Horatio reminded his wife, “Henrietta has not left her side since they became close, and is a great support to her.”

Juliet nodded, resuming her waddle to the coach.

“I know, I know. Edith would probably be more glad that Henrietta is with her than whether I am there. But I still do not want to be late!”

Horatio decided to let his wife have her way. When she had the bit between her teeth, she was difficult to sway. Impossible to sway, rather.

“Nigel and Nathan are also there. They would not miss it,” Horatio said as they finally reached the coach.

He helped Juliet up and then entered the coach himself. Finally, he leaned out of the door.

“Let’s be on our way,” he said to the driver.

“Pardon, Your Grace, but Graeme took sick today, so I thought I might try my hand as the coachman,” Hall’s voice came from ahead of the carriage.

Horatio and Juliet shared a smile between them.

“All speed, Hall,” he said to his butler, “but safely.”

“Right you are, Your Grace. Precious cargo,” Hall replied.

The coach rolled away from Ravenscourt. Horatio rested a hand on Juliet’s stomach. She smiled and put her hand atop his. Her cheeks were red from the effort of walking to the coach but it simply made her look more beautiful. She glowed.

“I did not have a chance to tell you before. I received a letter from Malcolm,” Horatio began.

Juliet’s eyes widened.

“How is he?”

“Excited beyond words. I could barely make out his scrawl. It seemed to get worse as he wrote. He has reached the region his father wrote of and has made contact with a native tribe in the area to find the tree whose bark provides this miraculous ingredient he seeks. He found that they seemed to be worshipping an effigy they had made. It looked, according to Malcolm, a lot like his father.”

Juliet laughed at the notion. “Malcolm will be in his element. He will probably be trying to dissuade them.”

“He says he did, but was talked out of it by his companions who would rather be revered than eaten.”

“Eaten?” Juliet exclaimed.

“This tribe is supposedly cannibalistic,” Horatio grimaced.

Juliet paled. Her hand went to her mouth.

“I think I need to stop,” she gasped.

Horatio banged on the roof and the coach came to a halt. He regretted sharing that particular piece of information, deciding to keep the rest of Malcolm’s account to himself. He helped Juliet down and calmly gathered her long, red hair as she became quite ill into a hedgerow. Horatio’s son did, in fact, leave his parents to arrive at their appointment very late indeed.

Lord Hemsworth greeted them outside the house on the outskirts of London that had been converted into the second branch of the Saint Columba’s School. Sir Nathan accompanied him, smiling in welcome.

“My wife was quite concerned but the Lord Mayor of London would not wait,” Hemsworth said, “we simply had to proceed with the grand opening without you.”

“Oh dear,” Juliet frowned, “is Edith very angry?”

“Not at all, dear lady,” Nathan said, taking Juliet’s hand and kissing it gallantly, “Henrietta was there to calm her. She was merely worried that you had crashed in a ditch somewhere.”

“Been sick into one, actually,” Juliet said, sheepishly.

“You are certainly a lot bigger than the last time we saw you,” Hemsworth noted.

“The last time we saw you was at our wedding. That was five months ago,” Horatio chided gently.

Their wedding had been an affair to remember, an intimate affair, held in the sun-dappled gardens of Ravenscourt with only their closest friends and family in attendance. Juliet had been a vision of elegance, her radiance rivaled only by the joy in Horatio’s eyes as they exchanged their vows.

Edith was Juliet’s maid of honor, and it was here she first met Henrietta, a distant relative of Horatio’s who had arrived from the Continent, and the two women had formed an instant bond over their shared love of literature and independence.

Meanwhile, Lord Hemsworth had quietly secured a marriage of convenience with a pragmatic baroness a month later, who carried her own secret: a lover in the form of a charming lady’s companion. Together, Hemsworth and his wife had become masters of discretion, their unspoken pact shielding each of their forbidden loves from scandal.

In private, among a select few, the truth was known. Horatio didn’t care a jot who his friends truly loved. They had become his closest allies and he would gladly lay down his life to protect them.

“Come inside and see what your money has made,” Sir Nathan enthused.

He offered his arm to Juliet and led the way inside with her. Hemsworth followed beside Horatio.

“Any news on your intrepid doctor?” he asked.

“He has reached his goal and expects to harvest the material he needs and be back by the end of the year. That will be six months before Juliet’s supply of the medicine runs out. Not to mention, he seems to have made a potential breakthrough on an all-out panacea for the disease.”

“Hallelujah!” Hemsworth said, fervently, “we have been praying for her.”

“I have been praying and threatening the almighty in equal measure,” Horatio confessed.

“He has indeed,” Juliet smiled secretly.

They entered through a tall, stone arch that housed a pair of wooden doors adorned with bright, brass door knockers. Within, a wide hallway led to a large high-ceilinged room. Desks had been set up in rows, with child-sized chairs for each. A blackboard stood on an easel at the front of the room.

Juliet had stopped at the door and was watching Edith talking to the children who sat at the desks. She had written her name on the blackboard and was slowly explaining the letters. A beautiful young woman with jet black hair was moving amongst the desks, helping the children to copy the letters onto tiles of slate on their desks.

Juliet watched Edith and Henrietta begin their new profession, teaching the children of the poor.

Horatio watched Juliet. She had an expression of awed wonder on her face. As though she could not believe the good that had come from the work she had put in alongside Edith and Henrietta. Not to mention the school’s ultimate founder, Jane Bonel.

Horatio had provided the money and gloried in his wife’s happiness. He had changed a lot since the evening that scandal had brought them together. He now lived for the happiness of his family, not the legacy of his name.

Juliet, in her turn, had begun to live for the same thing, not worrying about illness or even death. She had not expected to live long enough to bear a child. Had feared destroying Horatio with grief, as her father had been destroyed.

She no longer lived according to fear. She lived to hope and to love.

One day, she would make a fine mother. And the country’s first female veterinarian surgeon. She could achieve anything.

The End. 

Extended Epilogue

Chapter 1

3 Weeks Later

Chester Cathedral served as the venue for the marriage of the infamous Duke of Windermere to Miss Ester Fairchild, heir to Lord Percival Fairchild of Kendrick Priory. It was majestic, towering over them as they stood before the bishop. Sunlight streamed through elaborate stained glass to cascade across them like heavenly radiance. Ester could hardly keep the bishop’s words in her mind and give the correct responses…

For her gaze was irresistibly drawn to Julian, resplendent in a rich dark blue that suited him far better than his customary black. His hair, glossy and tied at the nape of his neck, gave him the air of an erotic, princely figure from a distant land. Between them lay a veil. A thin gauze to prevent the groom from setting eyes on his wife until the fateful moment she was pronounced to be so. Dress and veil together were a wall between them that Ester wished torn down. Ripped away. She would have willingly cast aside all trappings of decorum and stood naked before Julian, were it not for the guests surrounding them.

The moment of conclusion came after an interminable ceremony. Ester wanted it to last forever so that she could savor each moment, impress it on her memory. But she also wanted it over with. Done. She wanted to be married. Wanted to be alone with her beloved husband. To be touched by him, taken by him. The bishop intoned the final words and pronounced them man and wife.

Julian lifted the delicate veil and kissed his bride.

Ester was transported. She felt his fingers on her cheeks, lifted herself on tiptoes. She remembered their first kiss. Remembered all the kisses. Amid fear and confusion. Amid curses and darkness. Now they stood in the light. They walked down the aisle towards the cathedral’s arched entrance, bells ringing and rose petals being thrown by the congregation. Percival Fairchild had lived long enough to give his daughter away, beaming proudly as he walked her to her husband to be.

But as they left and boarded the waiting carriage, Ester could think only of Julian. Of her husband. The carriage was open and she remembered to hurl her bouquet over her shoulder as the driver shook his reins and started the horses into motion. Looking back she saw the flowers fall into the hands of her sister, attended by her handsome, dark Welshman.

Ester fell back into Julian’s arms as the city of Chester rolled by them. The carriage wheels rattled over cobbled streets with their Tudor buildings of black timber and white walls. Beyond the city, lying alongside the River Dee and close to the Welsh border was the estate of Kendrick Priory but that was not where they were headed. Julian had rented a cottage for the summer, south of the city, amid the sleepy Cheshire countryside. It was to be a hideaway for the newly married couple before they traveled to Windermere and Julian’s ancestral seat.

Julian’s arms went tightly around her, holding her close as though experiencing the sensation for the very first time. He pressed his face against her hair and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes, feeling a thrill at being so savored by him. So desired. She wanted the driver to go faster, wanted the distance to melt away to nothing and for their destination to be before them at that very moment.

***

Cheshire

The bedroom door closed with a crash. Ester spun in the middle of the room to face her husband. Sunlight spilled through the window which looked out on a lawn and a rambling garden of wild color. Ester was radiant in white, a dress that seemed to be too fragile to be worn. It clung to her figure, revealing and yet hiding at the same time. She was smiling and blushing, the flush in her cheeks a testament to the racy thoughts going through her mind. Those same thoughts also occurred to Julian. In fact, he could think of little else.

“Will you require some assistance in removing your dress?” Julian asked.

Ester shook her head wordlessly.

“I asked Molly to give the seamstress very specific instructions,” she giggled. 

Reaching to her side, she unfastened a panel of fabric that had looked to be a seamless part of the dress. Then, she deftly undid a row of buttons that ran from her hip to her arm. She did the same on the other side, pulling her arms from the dress and holding it in place over her bosom.

Julian had already seen that her arms and shoulders were bare. His ardor increased at the thought that she wore no undergarments. Finally, Ester let the bodice fall. Her round, pert breasts were revealed, then her stomach, before, with a wriggle of her hips, she let the dress fall into a heap at her feet.

Julian opened his mouth to speak, but found no words to say.

He took in the sight of his beautiful wife. They had defied custom by delaying their wedding celebration until the day after the ceremony. Their guests would gather at Kendrick and only then would Ester and Julian appear. This day was theirs alone. Julian let his coat fall to the floor, undid his cravat, and tossed it aside. Ester moved towards him gracefully, staying his hands as she reached for the laces of his shirt. She undid them slowly, knowing that the sight and proximity of her naked body would be driving him to distraction. Julian stood with hands by his sides, waiting to be released.

The shirt was lifted over his head and tossed aside. Ester slowly undid the fastening of his breeches, reached in, and then around to Julian’s hips, pushing the garment down along with his undergarments. The tightness of his breeches required her to kneel to pull them over his thighs and to the floor.

Now, Julian stood before her in every sense of the word. She looked at him and then up to his face, reaching out as she did. Julian shuddered, whispered her name at the touch of her hand. Then moaned aloud as he felt his lips upon him. It only took a moment before his desire overcame him. Stooping, he picked Ester up under her arms, caught her beneath her buttocks as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Then, he carried her to the large bed in the center of the room.

***

A bee buzzed lazily in amongst the prolific flowers. Julian reclined on a chair before a table at the edge of the lawn. A tall willow cast shade across the table without obstructing the view of the garden and fields beyond. A ridge of hills in the distance ended in a ragged edge with a castle on top, Beeston, Julian thought. It looked antique and picturesque.

Ester sat atop his lap. Both were barefoot and, though none but they knew it, naked under their outer clothes. Julian wore a shirt and breeches, Ester, a simple dress of white linen. As husband and wife, they had exhausted each other’s bodies and now savored the feel of warm sun and cool breeze on their skin. Julian reached across her waist and his fingers found Ester’s. She smiled.

“It is still a novelty… holding your naked hand. I hope it always will be,” she whispered.

Julian smiled affectionately. “It will not. It will become mundane, but I look forward to that day. I could never hope to dream of the day when a touch would be mundane for me. And it shall only ever be yours, and that will be enough to satiate me for the next fifty lifetimes.”

There came a knock at the front door of their little cottage. It was clearly audible from their position around the back of the house. There were no servants in the property, and Julian was disinclined to give up Ester’s presence.

“Ignore them,” he whispered.

Ester gave him a tolerant look, then raised her voice. “We are in the garden. Follow the path around the house,” she called out.

Julian groaned and righted himself where he had been slumped lazily in his chair. Ester smiled and took the seat opposite his.

“We cannot live as savages. Nor as farm folk, much as we would like to be back in Penmon. You are a Duke,” she chided gently.

“Duty above all,” Julian replied in a flat, measured voice, before his gaze landed on the figure coming around the corner—and instantly, he shot to his feet. “What in the devil’s name are you doing here?”

In a moment, he stood between the Viscount Kingsley and Ester. In another moment, he was halfway to the other man, face set and hands clenched into fists. There was no conscious thought of revenge but only that this man had been paid well to remove himself from their lives. That he had returned spoke volumes about his intentions.

“Julian, wait!” Ester called out.

Julian hesitated for a heartbeat, and in that fragile moment, he saw Kingsley for the first time. Truly saw him. Kingsley’s clothes were fraying and patched, bearing the signs of hard-wear. His face was haggard with dark circles around his eyes and his hair had been raked with fingers, barely tamed. This was not a sneering villain intent on further blackmail. Not a greedy man seeking to further enhance his wealth. This was a desperate man, who had lost all.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he mumbled to Ester. “I am not going to intrude for long. There will be no need to remove me. I will go of my own volition. If you intend to beat me… well, I deserve no less for what I have done.”

“If it is forgiveness you seek, you would sooner find three holes in your chest,” Julian spat, his veins aflame with disdain at the man’s self-pitying, as if he were worthy of anything more.

“I know. And I do not want it. I do not deserve it. But I do wish to make amends. Or to go some way to making amends.”

Julian scoffed. Ester stood beside him, took his arm, and squeezed it.

“You did me a grievous injury, sir. One that almost took me to my death. How can one make amends for such a thing?”

Kingsley hung his head and Julian thought that he had never seen the other man so humble and contrite. What was his motive here?

“How did you find us?” Julian demanded.

“Luck? I have been living in Chester in a small garret room outside the city walls. I heard of the wedding of the Duke of Windermere. It is common knowledge that you took this house. I wanted to take the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Well? Quick, and out with it then, you wretched knave,” Julian snapped.

“I… I wanted to tell you that Harper has been apprehended. He escaped Anglesey, swimming the Menai Straits. He made his way to Chester where I received my first piece of good fortune for a long, long time. He happened into a tavern which I had taken to… frequenting. I knew him at once. The rogue who had been recommended to me for a manservant but who inveigled his way into my confidence and manipulated me. It was he who suggested the blackmail in order to generate funds. It was he who introduced me to the proprietors of certain gaming hells in the east end of London. Presided over my increasing indebtedness. When I saw him so reduced, I knew my opportunity had come. For some kind of redemption. He resides now at the city jail and I believe the magistrate has already received word from Wales of his status as a wanted man. I knew nothing of his further crimes after I left him. I believe he will hang.”

Ester exchanged looks with Julian who begrudgingly nodded.

“He must have had the devil’s own luck to swim those treacherous waters. He would have had the blood of many on his hands before his plans were complete. He is a dangerous man.”

“He denied his culpability. Tried to claim that it was the cursed Duke who was responsible for the death which he was accused of. But I gather that he is a poisoner. I realized that he must be trying to convince you of the curse by poisoning those whom you come into contact with.”

“Very astute. That was indeed his plan,” Ester said.

Kingsley nodded. “For myself, I must also face my fate. I am in debt and penniless. I wanted to tell you of Harper’s arrest, and now I go to that same jail, to confess to being a debtor and guilty of assault against a gentlewoman. I will plead guilty and take the punishment that comes.”

“They will transport you, in all likelihood,” Julian said.

“That will not be too bad,” Kingsley replied, “to spend the rest of my life building a new society in a far-off land. To have some meaning to my existence. Yes, I shall pray for that. Goodbye, Your Graces. I offer my apologies, my felicitations, but do not wish forgiveness.”

He turned to depart, but Ester stepped forward.

“You may not wish for it, but you may have it. Though I can’t say I will ever forget, I do forgive you.”

Tears glistened in Kingsley’s eyes as he nodded silently.

“The best you can hope for from me is the sparing of your life. Go in peace; there is no more vengefulness toward you here,” Julian muttered.

And with that, Kingsley was gone.

Ester buried her face in her hands, weeping. Julian held her close, and the sun shone on them both. He felt as though a long, dark chapter of his life was finally drawing to a close.

The next promised to be brighter.

 Chapter 2

1 year later

Windermere Castle

“Dear Lord. What a dark and dreary place. Are you sure we should not simply raze it to the ground? I feel nothing for it,” Julian remarked with a grimace.

They stood in the great hall of Windermere Castle. It was a frozen moment in time. A goblet lay on its side beside a dark stain that had once been wine. A large mahogany table dominated the room with a throne-like chair at its head. A stone fireplace surrounded by leering gargoyles stood to one side. Rows of tall, curtained windows to the other. Ester strode to the nearest. It was stiff with dust and brittle to the touch. As she tugged at it, the curtain broke free of its rings and fell to the floor with a soft thump. Dust rose in choking clouds but sunlight also flooded in.

“See? There is nowhere so dark that light cannot be shed on it,” Ester smiled.

Julian strode to the next curtain and ripped it down, then the next. Turning, he looked again at the hall in which his father had breathed his last. Dust swirled but bars of sunlight turned the stone from black to gray. Daylight did indeed change the character of the room. Or at least its outward appearance.

“I have never been inside such a grand place,” Rhys Morgan said, entering the room with Helen by his side.

“It is quite fantastic,” Helen enthused.

“I’ve seen the castle at Beaumaris and even been to the mainland and seen Caernarfon. But this place is…is…” Rhys floundered for the appropriate adjective.

“Brooding. Silent. Burdened by memory,” Julian muttered, “I hate it.”

“It is your birthright,” Ester added, “as Kendrick is mine.”

“Kendrick is a place I can be comfortable. Though it is my wife who is its mistress,” Julian replied, righting the goblet and running a finger along the thick dust on the tabletop.

“A building is nothing more than bricks and mortar. I have had about enough of superstition and mystery!” Ester chided gently. “This place can be as happy and light as it is made to be. In fact, I intend to see that happen.”

“Then it seems you have your work cut out for you, Ester,” Helen murmured, “I think I would rather be helping with the lambing in the middle of a snowstorm.”

Ester smiled indulgently at the idea of Helen helping her husband in a freezing barn, as he in turn helped a new life into the world. Helen had taken to the life of a Welsh farmer as though born to it. Gwyn Morgan had bequeathed land and a house to the newlyweds and one day, Rhys would inherit all of the Morgan landholdings. Just as she had inherited Kendrick from her father upon his death a year before. That still brought a tinge of sadness to her. Ever attentive and perceptive of her emotions, Julian saw it and looked around with renewed enthusiasm.

“You might have a point, Ester. Perhaps we could breathe life into this place yet.”

“You could have it blessed by a priest,” Rhys suggested.

Julian walked around the room, examining it critically. “Then there is the matter of the black library. The dark heart of this house,” he muttered.

“Throw the whole bloody lot on a bonfire,” Rhys offered with typical impulsiveness. Helen slapped his chest.

“That is barbarous. One does not burn books,” she chided.

Rhys shrugged. “Never had much time for them. The local priest beat literacy into me, but I was always happiest in the fields and the woods than in the schoolroom. Alright then, give them to someone who likes cursed books. A librarian, and have done with it.”

Julian narrowed his eyes for a moment.

“You might have something there, Rhys. The kernel of an idea.”

He led them out of the room and along passages dark and dank. The house felt like a medieval dungeon with windows often boarded over or with curtains pinned to the wood panel walls. Sitting rooms were shrouded in dust. A pianoforte stood in one corner of a drawing room, its sheet music still open from the last person to play it.

Finally, they reached tall, black doors set into a stone arch. Julian flung the doors wide. Within was row upon row of shelves, stuffed full of books, manuscripts, and scrolls. The walls were daubed with esoteric symbols and words in strange languages.

“Bloody hell,” Rhys whispered.

Julian turned a circle in the middle of the room. This was the heart of darkness. The place that his father had rarely stirred from. The place that exerted such a hold over the old man that his children and wife had been neglected. Ignored… Killed. It festered in the middle of the old building, exerting its malign influence.

“My life was cursed by ignorance. My father’s ignorance. I allowed it to be shrouded in darkness, and this is where the darkness came from. I used to think that this represented knowledge. But Rhys, you have the right of it. The knowledge we need is not in these dusty pages, promising power in exchange for your life and your soul. It’s out there in the daylight with people you love. It is bringing life into the world. This place should be made to serve that. I won’t give my father’s ghost the satisfaction of destroying it, of letting him haunt me anymore. I’m going to turn it all over to a man of learning. A man who never believed in the curse. As my brother never did. I couldn’t believe him because of the hold this place had over me.”

“You’re talking of Doctor Hakesmere, the man who took you in when your father rejected you?” Ester asked.

Julian nodded. “Let him study this and show it for what it is. Nonsense and superstition. Evidence of how far mankind has come since the dark ages.”

The idea was taking root. Let the enigmas and ghosts be burned away by the light of reason. Let the shadows evaporate under the daylight of the nineteenth century. Let the old days be left to memory, unable to touch the present any longer.

“Come on, Blod,” Rhys said, putting his arm about Helen’s shoulders. I need to get some fresh air. No offense, Jule. I’ll be glad to see some green again is all.”

Julian grinned. “As will I.”

He put out his hand and Ester took it, raising his to her lips and kissing it. Julian smiled in defiance of the curse. In defiance of his father’s baleful memory. In defiance of the dark.

Together, they all walked out of the black library into the sunlight of a new morning.

The End.