Epilogue
A utumn, Oakford Park
The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, catching in the dust motes and painting the bedchamber in soft gold. Crispin Hallworth, Lord Oakford, lay on his back, one arm slung over his eyes, the other curled loosely around the warm, sleeping weight beside him.
Clara.
Her breath stirred against his bare shoulder, the steady rhythm a gentle reminder that the world was, for once, in no hurry.
He should rise. There were estate matters to tend to. But this morning, his body resisted the call of duty, lulled by the quiet contentment of being exactly where he wanted to be.
Beside her.
Clara shifted slightly, her leg brushing his.
She burrowed closer with a sleepy sound that stirred warmth deep in his chest. A kind of affection he had never known he was capable of.
Not lust. Not even desire, though that still hummed under his skin every time she touched him.
No, this was something else. Something steadier, and yet wilder, in its own way.
He opened his eyes just as she blinked hers open, the pale gray-blue of them still hazy with sleep.
“You are staring,” she murmured, her voice husky with dreams.
“I am.” He slid his hand up her back, fingers splaying over her spine. “It has become a habit I have no intention of breaking.”
Clara smiled, slow and soft, and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “You are shameless.”
“And yours,” he replied, turning to kiss the crown of her head.
She hummed in agreement and laid her cheek against his chest. For several minutes, they remained like that, listening to the creak of the old house warming to life, to the birds calling from the hedgerow just outside their window.
Eventually, Clara pushed up on her elbow. “We should get up.”
“We absolutely should not,” he said, reaching for her.
She laughed and rolled onto her side, propping her chin on her hand. Her hair spilled down one shoulder in a tumble of dark curls, and Crispin found himself utterly undone once more.
“What are we neglecting this morning?” she asked, tracing a finger along the edge of his jaw. “Estate reports? Tenant meetings? Did Lady Armitage send another letter expressing dismay over your unruly sheep?”
He groaned. “She did. Claims they are too spirited and ungovernable. I suspect she means me, as always.”
“You are rather spirited,” Clara said thoughtfully, pressing a kiss to his chin. “And occasionally ungovernable.”
“That is what you love about me.”
“One of many things.”
She sat up then, drawing the sheet around her bare body, and glanced toward the window. A gust of wind rustled the trees, sending a cascade of amber and russet leaves tumbling across the lawn below.
“I adore this time of year,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It feels like everything is shedding the unnecessary.”
He sat up beside her, resting his hand on the small of her back. “That sounds suspiciously like you are about to suggest cleaning out the attic.”
She tilted her head. “Not the attics. Just... us. What we’ve built. It is quieter than I imagined married life would be.”
“Disappointed?”
Clara turned to face him fully, her expression achingly sincere. “Never. I just did not know it would feel so safe.”
He kissed her, slow and reverently. “You make it safe, Clara. You made a home out of my chaos.”
“You were not chaos,” she said. “Just... unmoored.”
“And now?”
She brushed her thumb over his lips. “Now you are mine.”
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Never has a man been so content to surrender.”
“Indeed.” Clara laughed.
They dressed slowly, neither of them willing to let the morning slip through their fingers too quickly.
Clara chose a soft wool gown the color of twilight and pinned her hair up in a loose knot.
Crispin, ever reluctant to return to starched cravats and polished boots, dragged a comb through his hair and shrugged into his shirt, then stopped to watch her adjust the pearl-drop earring at her lobe.
“I love watching you prepare to rule the household,” he said.
Clara arched a brow. “Rule?”
“Command with grace,” he amended, stepping behind her to press a kiss just below her ear. “You make it look effortless.”
“That is because I learned from the very best,” she murmured, “and decided to do the opposite of everything my mother advised. Though I suspect she would be secretly pleased.”
They made their way downstairs, pausing at the landing window to admire the golden spill of morning light across the garden. Outside, the groundskeeper’s boy was chasing a runaway hen with more enthusiasm than effectiveness, and the old gardener waved cheerfully when he spotted them watching.
In the breakfast room, tea waited. So did freshly baked bread, honey from their hives, and a small stack of letters tied in twine—estate business, most likely. Clara poured the tea, Crispin buttered her bread, and neither of them spoke for several minutes.
Finally, Clara leaned back and surveyed him with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“I am thinking of inviting your mother to stay next week.”
Crispin sputtered mid-sip, setting his cup down with a startled cough. “As in under this roof?”
“She said she would like to see the new rose garden.”
“She hates roses.”
“She says she hates roses,” Clara corrected. “But she had a blush-pink variety named after herself last spring.”
Crispin groaned. “You are plotting something.”
Clara’s smile was all innocence. “Only family harmony.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You terrify me.”
“And yet you married me.”
“I would do it again tomorrow,” he said softly, and meant it.
Her teasing faded, replaced by a look that struck him square in the chest—gentle, fierce, and entirely hers.
“I would too,” she whispered.
A knock interrupted the moment. The butler entered with a letter marked with the seal of St. George’s. Clara opened it, eyes scanning the contents before she passed it to Crispin with a grin.
“It is from the vicar.”
He read aloud: “I believe I still owe you a copy of your official marriage certificate, Lord and Lady Oakford. And if I may be so bold—your wedding was the most talked-about event of the season, surpassed only by the scandal of it being so unequivocally romantic.”
Clara laughed. “You have ruined your reputation forever, my lord.”
Crispin folded the certificate into the letter and stood. “Then let us continue ruining it together.”
He offered his hand. She took it without hesitation.
The day stretched ahead, golden and quiet. Meetings, letters, a walk through the rose garden or a quiet hour in the library—small rituals that now felt sacred. Ordinary things. Simple, shared things.
And beneath them all, something unshakable.
Love.