Extended Epilogue
5 years later
Westvale Manor
“Elias! Do not disturb your father when he is working!” Georgia called out as her four-year-old son raced ahead of her along the hallway.
Elias came to a halt before the door to Keaton’s studio room.
“Come in!” Keaton shouted from within.
Elias grinned and stuck a teasing tongue out at his mother. At that moment, Georgia could see her brother in miniature. She always could when Elias laughed or teased—it was an emotion common to his late uncle. Elias opened the door and bounded towards his father, who scooped him from the ground.
“His clothes are clean!” Georgia protested, “And you are covered in clay!”
Keaton grinned back, his face also smudged with the clay that was his medium when sculpting. “I love you too, dear. So… what do you think? It is finished and ready for firing.”
Georgia saw the clay bust of a man and gasped. She raised her hands to her mouth, eyes filling with tears.
“What does her face tell you, Eli?” Keaton whispered.
“She’s crying, but I think they’re happy tears. Are they happy tears, Mama?” Elias asked, frowning.
Georgia nodded wordlessly as she approached Keaton’s latest work.
“How did you manage it?” she gasped.
“I knew the shape of your face, none knows it better. I ascertained that your brother must have a similar bone structure, but broader and more masculine. And I had your descriptions of him. Is it a close enough likeness?”
Georgia stared into the eyes of the clay bust. The face was that of her brother’s. Undoubtedly.
“You depicted him smiling…” she breathed shakily.
“A difficult emotion to capture, but you did claim that was his customary expression.”
“It was. Just as it is for our Elias. It is like looking at my brother. It is remarkable.”
“After firing, it will need to be painted, something I am unqualified to do for obvious reasons, but I have the very artist for that task.”
Georgia pinched her brows. “And who is that?”
“A young man who has proved himself at the academy I founded last year. One of our first students, in fact, but I am told his work with portraiture is exceptional,” Keaton beamed.
“Do I detect a bit of pride in your voice?” Georgia said with a faint chuckle. “I am glad you learned to embrace this side of yourself, anyhow. When I first met you, it was locked away up here with no one allowed to see it.”
She looked around the room. Every surface was filled with sculpture. Some were landscapes that Keaton knew. Others were people, busts, or statuary in clay, stone, or bronze. Now there was the Deverall Academy in a house designed for Keaton by famed architect Decimus Burton. It had put the Deverall name on the lips of the London elite, and the artists who trained there were sought after.
“It is part of me. As is my blindness. I never tried to deny being blind—I adapted to it, made it part of who I am. I never learned to do the same with my art. Until you came along.”
“It was not easy,” she groused playfully. “You would not even allow me to have the bust you made of me.”
“It was not of you but inspired by you,” he reminded gently.
“Still, I am glad that now everyone appreciates how talented my Duke of Westvale is. I will give him all the portraits I can find, those which my uncle did not allow to rot away in Roseton. This will take pride of place in the entrance hall at Roseton, so that all who go there know who was the lord of that place too,” Georgia said, fervently.
Keaton released their son, who scampered over, taking Georgia’s hand. He gazed up at the sculpture of the man for whom he was named.
“Who is he, mama?”
“My older brother, Lord of Roseton Hall,” she smiled wistfully.
“And the man who gave his life for mine. Without him, I might not be here, and neither would you,” Keaton said, standing with his family.
He reached for Georgia, putting his arm about her waist as she wrapped an arm around their son, their treasure. He kissed her, his hand stroking her stomach.
“I think you will be starting to show soon,” he whispered.
Georgia smiled, lacing her fingers through her husband’s atop her belly where their second child was growing.
“Would you like a brother or a sister, Eli?” Keaton asked suddenly.
The little boy thought for a moment. “A sister. So, I can be like a knight and protect her,” he said with the seriousness that only an earnest child can manage.
“I say! Are we permitted up here!” Amelia’s voice reached the hallway outside.
“Yes!” Keaton cried out, “The more the merrier! And for once, I am not being sarcastic when I say it!”
Georgia laughed, going to the door to greet her cousin. Geoffrey was holding her arm, and Amelia was waddling into the room slowly due to her own unborn child.
“We set off up the stairs last week,” Amelia sighed, “that is how long it takes me to get anywhere these days.”
Elias rushed to greet Aunt Amelia and Uncle Geoffrey, which was how he had always known them. Geoffrey crouched from his wife’s side to greet the boy with the typical rambunctiousness of a son of the land. He set the boy back on his feet, ruffling his hair. Keaton made his way to the couple unerringly, and neither seemed phased when he addressed them eye to eye. Georgia barely noticed his feats any longer; she was so used to them now.
“How goes the planting at Roseton, old boy?” Keaton asked, slamming a hand against Geoffrey’s shoulder.
“The rose beds around the front of the house will be spectacular when they are in bloom. I have been instructing the head groundsman on the particulars of what I am calling the Roseton cultivar. It is a new breed of my own devising. A yellow double flower,” Geoffrey explained.
“Yellow was Elias’ favorite color in flowers,” Georgia smiled.
“Well, when they are in bloom, I shall have to see them, with my nose anyway,” Keaton laughed.
“Their scent will be as spectacular as their appearance, Your Grace. So much so that my staff are already calling it the Blind Man’s Rose.”
Geoffrey immediately blanched, thinking that he had said too much. But Keaton threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, let it be called that, I implore you. For a flower with such a scent as you describe, it is the perfect moniker.”
Georgia breathed a small sigh of relief and saw her husband take notice. There were few expressions that he did not notice, so attuned was he to her emotions.
“Shall we take tea?” Keaton suggested.
“How is your mother?” Georgia asked Amelia as they all went downstairs.
“I was hoping to break her walls down by now, but she still refuses to see Geoffrey because he does not bear a title. And I think she blames me for Papa’s death. Marrying a farmer apparently sent Papa to his early grave,” Amelia murmured.
“Nonsense!” Keaton barked, “We are all descended from farmers eventually. That’s what our earliest ancestors were. Not lords or princes.”
“Well said, Your Grace,” Geoffrey echoed with pride.
“You mustn’t believe her. It is simply bitterness,” Georgia reassured.
“I know. It took me a long time to see the truth of my parents,” Amelia sighed, “after Papa passed, I went back to Silverton for the first time since… well, since you and Keaton saved me from Lord Emsworth. I looked at the room in which you used to live. It was so small, even for a servant. I do not know how you could bear it, Georgie!”
“I did because I had hope,” Georgia managed. “I hoped that Elias would return and save me someday. Then I hoped Keaton might be my savior.”
“The truth was somewhere in between. Elias saved me so that I could save you,” Keaton smiled warmly.
“And now that the restoration of Roseton is almost complete, we will save a great deal more. When the poor and the destitute are brought to Roseton, they will have a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and the opportunity to receive an education and help find gainful employment. That must all be laid at your door, Keaton. It would not have been possible without you.”
Keaton shifted, visibly uneasy with the praise—as he always was.
“Everything we have now,” he said at last, his voice low with the quiet weight he carried these days, “we owe to one man. Elias Roseton.” He paused. “So let us raise a cup to him.”
Georgia’s gaze lingered on her husband with pride, then on their child. Then to her cousin.
Her family. Small. Imperfect. Undeniably hers.
They each lifted their glass.
“To Elias,” they all said together.
As they lowered their glasses, Amelia winced and pressed a hand to her lower back. “I do believe this little one has decided to practice their acrobatics again.”
Geoffrey was at her side instantly. “Perhaps we should return home, my dear. You need your rest.”
“Nonsense, we’ve only just arrived!” Amelia protested, though Georgia noticed her cousin’s face had gone rather pale.
“Actually,” Georgia interjected gently, “the physician did say you should not overtax yourself. And we are dining at Roseton tomorrow evening, are we not? All of us together for the unveiling of the new wing.”
“The dedication ceremony is at six o’clock sharp,” Keaton reminded them. “The tenants are quite eager to see the transformation.”
Elias looked up from his wooden blocks. “Are we going somewhere, Mama?”
“Aunt Amelia and Uncle Geoffrey must return home, darling.”
The process of seeing their guests to the carriage took longer than expected. Amelia kept remembering things she’d forgotten to mention about tomorrow’s arrangements, and Geoffrey patiently helped her up and down the carriage steps each time. The afternoon sun was warm on Georgia’s face as she waved them off, aware of Keaton standing close behind her, his hand finding the small of her back with practiced ease.
“Mrs. Pembridge,” Keaton called as they returned inside, “perhaps Master Elias would enjoy his afternoon lessons in the garden today? The weather is so fine.”
The governess appeared, understanding immediately. “Of course, Your Grace. Come along, Master Elias. We’ll take our knights outside for an adventure.”
“But Papa promised to show me the new horses in the stables!” Elias protested.
“And I shall,” Keaton laughed, ruffling his son’s hair. “But not until you have rescued Sir Galahad from that dragon. I believe you left him in quite the predicament.”
Once the house had settled into quiet, Georgia felt Keaton’s hand slide from her back to her waist, pulling her against him.
“You planned this,” she accused.
“I seized an opportunity.” His breath was warm against her neck. “Come upstairs. I want to show you something.”
“Your mysterious project?”
“…Among other things.”
He led her to his private studio, the one he’d kept locked for months. Inside, afternoon light poured through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that floated like tiny stars. The familiar scents of marble dust and linseed oil filled her lungs as her eyes adjusted to find the draped sculpture at the room’s center.
“Lock the door,” Keaton said softly.
The click of the key seemed to echo in the silence. When she turned back, he had moved to the sculpture, one hand resting on the sheet that covered it.
“I have been working on this for the last few months…” he rasped in that voice that always spelled doom—in all the right ways of course—for Georgia. “For you.”
He heaved the covering away in one smooth motion.
Georgia’s breath caught. The marble figure was her, captured in a moment of complete abandon. Head thrown back, arms reaching skyward, every line of the body singing with ecstasy. The drapery clung to every curve, carved so delicately it seemed wet, transparent in places.
“Keaton,” she breathed. “This is…”
“Unfinished.” He moved behind the sculpture, fingers tracing the rough features of the face. “But I cannot make any further progress without you being present.” His unseeing eyes found her with uncanny accuracy. “Take down your hair.”
The command in his voice made her pulse jump. She reached up, pulling pins free one by one until copper curls tumbled down her back in heavy waves.
“The weight of it,” he murmured, moving toward her. “I need to remember exactly how it falls.”
His hands gathered the masses of her hair, letting the strands slip through his fingers slowly, memorizing. Then his palms framed her face, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with an artist’s precision.
“Open your mouth,” he said quietly. “Just slightly. The way you do when…”
She parted her lips, and his thumb swept across the lower one, pressing gently. “Yes. Like that. But the dress is wrong. The lines are all wrong.”
“Then remove it,” she whispered, surprising herself with her boldness.
His hands stilled. “Georgia…”
“You need to work, don’t you? And I am your model.”
“You have me there,” he chuckled roughly.
His fingers found her buttons, working them free with the same careful attention he gave his sculptures. The afternoon sun warmed her skin as silk pooled at her feet. She stood in her corset and chemise, watching his face transform with concentration and something darker.
“The statue wears less,” he observed, his palms settling on her waist.
“Then perhaps you should be thorough in your study…”
He made a sound low in his throat, his control visibly fraying. “You are going to be the death of me.”
“But what a way to go.”
His hands found her corset laces, loosening them with practiced ease until the garment fell away. Through the thin lawn of her chemise, his palms were hot as brands.
“The expression,” he said roughly. “I need to see if I’ve captured it correctly.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
Instead of answering, he lifted her onto the work table, tools scattering. His mouth found her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin until she gasped.
“There,” he murmured against her pulse. “That sound. That is precisely what I am trying to capture in stone.”
His hands gathered her chemise, pushing it up her thighs with deliberate slowness. “The way your breathing changes.” His fingers traced patterns on her inner thighs, making her squirm. “The way your body responds to mine—”
“Keaton, please…”
“Please what?” His touch grew bolder, more insistent. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. I want you.”
He groaned, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted of possession and promise. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him closer, not caring about the marble dust that covered them both like blessing.
A knock at the door made them freeze.
“Your Grace?” Mrs. Pembridge’s voice was carefully neutral. “Master Elias is most insistent about seeing his papa.”
“Tell him…” Keaton’s voice was rough. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Tell him I’ll come to the nursery in an hour. Papa needs to finish his… work first.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
They waited until the footsteps had completely faded before Georgia let out a shaky laugh. “An hour?”
“Optimistic, I know.” His hands hadn’t left her skin. “But I fully intend to make good use of the time.”
“The sculpture?”
“Can wait another moment.” He kissed her again, slower this time, thorough. “This is more important.”
“Your artistic study?”
“My wife. In my studio. Wearing almost nothing.” His hands skimmed her sides, making her shiver. “Art can wait.”
She drew back slightly to look at him, this man who still surprised her after five years. “Then what are you waiting for?”
“I want to savor this.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her throat, across her collarbone. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined you here? Like this?”
“Tell me.”
“Every day.” His voice had gone dark, intent. “Every time I worked on that sculpture, I imagined you here, just like this. Sunlight in your hair. Marble dust on your skin. The way you’re looking at me right now, even though I cannot see it.”
“How do you know how I am looking at you then?” she laughed softly.
“Because I can feel it. In how still you have gone. How your breathing has changed. The way your hands are clutching my shoulders…” He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear. “You are looking at me like you want to devour me.”
Georgia’s breath stilled. “Maybe I do.”
He made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “Then by all means, Your Grace. Devour away.”
She kissed him then, pouring five years of marriage, of trust, of desire into it. His hands tangled in her hair, and she could feel his control finally, fully snap.
When they eventually broke apart, both breathing hard, the light had shifted to deep gold. The sculpture stood witness to their dishevelment, its unfinished face seeming to smile.
“Now,” Georgia breathed, her voice unsteady. “About that face.”
Keaton’s hands returned to her skin, but his touch had changed. Artist and husband merged as he traced her features, memorizing each curve and hollow.
“Perfect,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to her throat. “Absolutely perfect.”
“The sculpture?” she asked.
“Everything.” His arms came around her, holding her close in the golden afternoon light. “Everything about this moment.”
And there, in his private studio with the door locked against the world, with marble dust in her hair and his hands relearning every inch of her, Georgia knew he was right.
This was perfect. This was theirs. This was worth every moment that had brought them here.
Tomorrow would come with its ceremonies and society’s scrutiny.
But right now, in this stolen hour, they were simply Keaton and Georgia, artist and muse, husband and wife, creating something beautiful from touch and trust and time…