Epilogue
The week had passed in a blur of fittings, flowers, and family.
And now, standing in the grand ballroom of the ducal residence, Isabella could scarcely believe it was done—she was a married woman.
Lady Isabella Ravensmere no more. The title still echoed through her mind like a bell she wasn’t yet used to hearing.
The Marchioness of Whitmore.
She looked down at her wedding gown, the light-blue silk gleaming like a beautiful summer’s day.
Her sisters surrounded her, all smiles and laughter—Rosalind radiant as ever, Evangeline with tears in her eyes, Angelica and Cordelia ensuring everything went to their plan, and dear Clementine, newly arrived from the country and much improved after her heath scare from the winter before.
The sound of their chatter filled the room, a melody of love and teasing that warmed Isabella’s heart.
“Do you think the cake is too extravagant?” Rosalind whispered, leaning close. “The baker swore the sugar roses would not droop, but they look perilously close to it.”
“They’re perfect,” Isabella said, smiling. “Though I might never look at cake again without thinking of the trouble it caused.”
Rosalind chuckled and gave her hand a squeeze. “You look beautiful, my darling. Mama would be so proud.”
The words caught in Isabella’s throat. She blinked back tears and looked across the ballroom to where Hartley stood with Ravensmere, both men laughing over some remark.
The sunlight gilded his hair, catching the hint of gold at his temples.
His gaze, when it found hers, softened in that way that made her heart turn over every single time.
It was still strange to think how close she had come to losing him—and how easily she might have hardened her heart against him forever. But love, she now understood, wasn’t about perfection. It was about forgiveness, trust, and the courage to begin again.
When the violinists struck up another tune, she murmured her excuses to her sisters and crossed the floor toward him. The sight of her husband—her husband—standing there waiting for her made her stomach flutter like a debutante’s.
“Are you enjoying your wedding breakfast, my lord?” she teased, taking his arm.
“Immensely,” he replied, eyes glinting with mischief. “Though I confess, I’m rather tired of sharing you with our family. A moment’s peace, Bells.”
“I cannot imagine why,” she said, smiling despite herself.
He bent his head close enough that only she could hear. “Because, my love, I married you to have you to myself.”
Her cheeks warmed, her pulse tripping at the intimacy in his tone. The scent of him—deliciously familiar—wrapped around her like a secret. A secret only she knew of.
He glanced toward their wedding cake that waited on the sideboard. “Come with me.”
“Hartley,” she whispered, laughing softly. “We cannot leave now.”
“Why not?”
“Because our family will notice.”
“Let them. I have a sudden and desperate craving for dessert…alone.”
Before she could protest further, he had procured a slice of the wedding cake and led her through a side door and into the quieter corridors of the house. Her heart raced, half-scandalized and wholly delighted as he tugged her along, their footsteps muffled by the thick Aubusson rugs.
They started up the stairs until he stopped before her old room. His grin was wicked. “Fitting, don’t you think?”
She rolled her eyes, but laughter bubbled from her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Entirely.” He guided her inside and closed the door behind them.
The quiet of the room wrapped around them, broken only by the faint sound of the celebration below—the hum of music, the echo of distant laughter. It felt as though the world had narrowed to the two of them alone, suspended in a perfect moment.
“For the bride and groom,” he said, lifting the plate of cake between them. “Shall we partake in a bite?”
“Of course.”
They shared a bite each, laughter mingling with sweetness, crumbs on fingers and lips. Hartley set the plate down, moving to cup her face. “You have a little cake on your top lip.” He did not move to remove it, instead he kissed her there, his tongue teasing her mouth with wicked intention.
She groaned, wanting him in an instant. “Tell me you did not bring me upstairs to seduce me.”
He shrugged, walking backward until his knees hit one of the settees that sat before her fireplace. He slumped into the chair, watching her as his fingers nimbly ripped his falls open, exposing his rigid, sizeable cock.
Moisture pooled between her legs, and she straddled his lap without another word, desperate to have him.
He shuffled her gown out of the way with a recklessness and desperation that left them without sense.
Isabella took Hartley into her, wrapping her arms about his neck, riding him without shame, needing him to soothe the sweet ache between her thighs.
“God yes,” he groaned, his hands a vise on her hips, working her upon him.
Isabella lost all sense. She took him, enjoyed the naughtiness of their situation, relished the feel only he evoked.
Her body convulsed, trembled and tumbled into bliss far too quickly than she would have liked.
Hartley’s cry of pleasure mingled with hers and she kissed him, deep and long, knowing that she would never tire of him, would always want him this way.
That he was hers and she was his and nothing would ever change that fact.
“I adore you,” he said, brushing his mouth against hers. “I will remember this day for the rest of my life, whether it be long or short, you are my everything.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she cupped his face. “I love you too.”
When at last they returned downstairs, arm in arm, Rosalind’s gaze found them immediately—suspicious, knowing—and Isabella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Hartley bent close. “Do you suppose they guessed where we went?” he whispered.
“Undoubtedly,” she said, unable to keep the smile from her face. “Rosalind will never forgive us.”
“Then we shall give her something else to talk about,” he said, drawing her toward the dance floor.
She laughed softly as he led her into the impromptu waltz. Around them, their family stood, the air rich with music, the day full of celebration.
She lifted her gaze to his, her heart full.
Whatever lay ahead, she knew one thing with certainty.
They would face it together. And as he spun her beneath the glittering morning light basking the drawing room this day, Isabella smiled.
For the first time in her life, it was her time to shine, and she was exactly where she was meant to be.
In Lord Hartley Whitmore’s arms.
Who would have guessed…