Eight Hunting Lyons (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Epilogue

I t was October. The sky had taken on that vivid shade of blue that could only be found late in autumn. Megan, Viscountess Amberley, had just left. They’d enjoyed their tea in the garden given the unseasonable warmth of the day. Strolling back to the house, Madeline stopped to examine a very pretty rose. She had not developed the same passion for horticulture that her husband possessed, but she could appreciate the bountiful beauty of his efforts.

Suddenly, she heard a shout. A loud whoop of what could only be described as victory. It had come from the conservatory. Hastening her steps, she moved toward that room as quickly as her slippers would permit.

Entering through the doors that had been thrown wide open to the breeze, she saw Oliver grinning from ear to ear, hands on his hips as he surveyed the single lavender rose before him. The bud had appeared only days earlier and he’d had hope that perhaps it would hold some bit of that hue, though he had not anticipated that the bloom would be entirely comprised of petals in that unique shade.

“Oliver, you’ve done it! You’ve created your lavender rose!” she cried out. Moving deeper into the small space, she looped her arms easily about his lean waist and kissed him. “Congratulations, my darling!”

“One bloom,” he corrected. “It will take consistent blooms in this color before I will know that I have truly succeeded, but this is a remarkable first step. It’s also much sooner than I had anticipated.”

Madeline looked at the perfect flower. “Whatever will you call them when the horticultural society lets you name it?”

“Rosa Amareus,” he said. “The rose of love. Or perhaps, I could call it Rosa Madelineus. It would mean the same thing.”

Madeline leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Do you think she had any idea?”

“Who?” he asked, stroking her hair.

“Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Do you think she had any notion that when she paired us that we would fall in love? That we would be so impossibly happy together?”

Oliver leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips. “I’ve no doubt of it. I think Mrs. Dove-Lyon may well be the modern incarnation of Venus herself.”

Madeline laughed. “I think she’d like that. You should write her and tell her.”

“Perhaps I will,” he said. “But later. Much later. After you’ve had a nap.”

“I do not need a nap.”

“Give me time. I will change that,” he said, and then swooped her up into his arms.

“Put me down! Heavens! What will Mrs. Wilson think?” Madeline demanded in a scandalized tone that was utterly spoiled by a bubble of laughter.

“She will shake her head and mutter something about it being ‘about damned time’.”

“Mrs. Wilson would never curse,” she corrected him.

“I once thought she’d never drink brandy either, but you’ve ruined her,” he said, making for the stairs. “You’ve ruined us both. And we’re glad of it.”

Madeline was still laughing as he climbed the stairs with her now tossed over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “I thought you had work to do!” she protested.

“I do. My husbandly duties have been neglected.” Oliver stepped through the open door of her chamber and then kicked it closed behind him.

“They most certainly have not. You saw to them rather vigorously just last night,” Madeline stated.

“Yes, but I think I can do better.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought. “Well, I should never get in the way of anyone who wishes to strive for improvement.”

And then they were on the bed, clothing discarded one garment after the next, all landing on the floor in a pile that would have to be sorted later. All teasing faded. There was no more laughter. Only soft gasps and pleasured cries rang out in the room as they achieved perfection together.