Epilogue
Mayfair - London, England
There were far too many feathers. Oliver sipped his champagne and watched as one particularly enthusiastic peacock of a gentleman bowed so deeply to a young debutante that he nearly toppled into her.
Every year was the same—the first ball of the Season was where every eligible heir and eager mother came out of hibernation with fresh gowns, sharp smiles, and the quiet desperation of people who were determined to marry off their children before the first spring flower pushed through the frozen ground.
And Oliver Blackburn, newly returned from the country and properly seated in the House of Lords, was expected to behave. Unfortunately, Oliver lived to defy expectations.
“Stop glaring at that poor man,” came a soft voice at his side. Oliver turned to find Grace—the greatest delight and disruption of his life—threading her arm through his with the kind of casual affection that still made his heart skip a beat.
“I was not glaring,” he said. “I was scrutinizing. There is a difference.”
Grace gave him a look that would have tempered most men. “And here I thought the House of Lords would temper you.”
“Oh no,” he said cheerfully, sipping his champagne again. “It has only sharpened my skills. Now I’m insufferable with influence.”
Grace sighed, but her smile betrayed her amusement.
Over a year into their marriage, and she still left him breathless.
She was beautiful, fierce, and undeniably his.
She was the grounding force he had never known he needed until she appeared in his life.
And if occasionally that grounding involved a firm squeeze of his hand whenever he veered towards mischief—well, love demanded sacrifice.
They moved together through the crowd, stopping to greet the familiar faces. Oliver charmed, Grace enchanted, and together, they wove through the glittering ballroom like two stars who had finally found their place in orbit.
“Blackburn!” A familiar voice called from behind them.
“Kenswick!” Oliver straightened, resisting the urge to pull his oldest friend into a public embrace. The Duke of Kenswick, dark-haired and impeccably poised, was the picture of inherited grace. Oliver’s tongue, however, lost the battle with restraint.
“Tell me your Grace,” he drawled. “Is that frown your new permanent expression, or are we simply getting a preview of the speech you are going to bore the House with at our next session?”
“Ollie.” Oliver smiled through the sharp jab his wife delivered to his ribs.
“Do not worry,” Nathaniel smiled, not missing a beat. “If I ever write a speech on the moral decay of society, I will be sure to quote you.”
Oliver clapped him on the shoulder. “Be sure to mention the lace gloves and the lemon tarts. Both are critical to understanding modern depravity.”
Nathaniel laughed, and Oliver felt the tension ease from his chest. He had hardly seen The Duke since Sarah had broken off their engagement, and while he knew Nathaniel held no bitterness, the memory was still tender.
Oliver hadn’t faulted him for not attending their wedding, but two years was a long time for two people who had grown up like brothers.
Grace’s hand tightened around his arm, rolling her eyes at the gentle ribbing. “Do not let him rile you, Your Grace. He has been perfectly intolerable all evening.”
“I expect nothing less,” Nathaniel said, offering her a polite smile. “Lady Blackburn, you are as radiant as ever.”
“You are far too kind,” she replied warmly, before looking at Oliver with a knowing smile. “Ollie was hoping to see you this season.” Oliver’s heart surged at her obvious attempt to aid in a reunion. It still amazed him how clearly she could see him.
“I nearly didn’t come,” Nathaniel admitted. “But my youngest sister made her desires very clear.”
“Charlotte is here?” Oliver’s head snapped back towards Nathaniel in surprise. His friend must have truly gone mad to set his youngest sister lose on society so soon.
Just as Nathaniel opened his mouth to reply, his attention was pulled by a flicker of movement on the opposite side of the room. “If you will excuse me,” he said, offering Grace a quick bow. “I believe the hellion in question has just escaped.”
Oliver chuckled as they watched Nathaniel disappear into the sea of silk. “Poor man. First a broken engagement, now a wayward sister.”
They moved to a quieter alcove just off the ballroom, where the music was softer and the night pressed cool against the windows. Grace leaned against the wall, resting her head lightly against his shoulder as they watched the world dance by.
Nearly two years had passed since the summer their entire world changed.
Matthew and Sarah’s son, Benjamin, already had them all wrapped around his little finger, and Oliver found himself dreaming of the possibilities that the future held for him and Grace.
It was impossible not to marvel at the way new life had settled among them, weaving joy into the places that once felt marked only by loss.
“Do you ever think that this is exactly where we were always meant to end up?” Grace’s sweet voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“No,” he whispered softly into her hair. “But I thank God every day that we did.”
She smiled as he leaned in close, brushing a kiss just above her ear. “I love you more now than the day I married you.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” she said, lifting her brow. “Because I find you marginally less intolerable than I did then.”
Oliver laughed, drawing the attention of a few couples standing nearby. “Thank you for keeping me humble, my love.”
Oliver looked back toward the hall where Nathaniel had vanished, hoping he would find Charlotte before the girl got herself wrapped up in a scandal not even The Duke of Kenswick could untangle.
“Remind me to keep the study locked whenever we host,” he murmured against Grace’s ear.
“Or at the very least, hide the brandy,” she laughed. He grinned, drawing her closer as the music swelled around them. The glitter and chatter of London faded into a blur, and Oliver remained perfectly content to stay in this moment forever.