Epilogue
“My turn! My turn!”
Elena Howard, Lady Bickham, bit back a laugh as her wild, curly-haired daughter stood toe to toe with her much larger father.
Her small feet were tucked into work boots, and while she was wearing a frock, she was also wearing thin trousers beneath.
Her hair had long fallen from its plait, her dark tresses splaying out like some woodland creature, and her hands were propped on her hips in utter defiance.
West, however, was unmoved, looking down at his pride and joy with a stoic expression, his arms folded, the sparkle in his eye never completely gone where she was concerned. “No, Lottie.”
Lottie huffed and stomped her foot. “You said I have a turn after East! My turn!”
Easton, barely a year older than his sister, looked between the stubborn two with a sense of awe and entertainment, having spent far too much time with his godfather, Cousin Fred. “Lottie, you’re too little for a scythe. I can barely hold it by myself, and it’s the smallest one.”
She turned to glare at her brother. “I know dat! Papa help me.”
West growled an exhale, rubbing a hand down his face. “You didn’t say that, pumpkin.”
“I meaned it doe!” she whined. “I not big yet!” She sniffed and jutted her lower lip out, her eyes going wide and watery as she looked up into her father’s face. “You help me, Papa?”
West’s expression went slack and he looked over at Elena, sitting in the shade of the tree nearby at his insistence. “This is your fault,” he insisted, pointing at their daughter like she was some mythical creature he had been cursed with.
“You are so welcome, husband!” she called back with a grin.
His eyes narrowed, but his lips quirked into a smile. He crouched down to his daughter’s level, taking her hands. “Very well, Lottie. You and Papa next with the scythe. But it is very sharp, so you must do everything Papa says to be safe, yes?”
Lottie nodded so strongly, her curls bounced. “Yes, Papa.”
He returned her nod, then kissed her brow. “Let me go greet Mama, and then we will.” He rose, ruffling her hair, and walked over to Elena.
She always thought of herself as Elena now, under his influence. Ellie was perfectly fine in the village, as she had never corrected anyone who called her Miss Ellie after six years of marriage, but in private, at home, in her heart, she was Elena.
West’s Elena.
Always his.
West’s smile curled deliciously as he approached her, almost as though he could read her thoughts. “What brings such delightful color to your cheeks, my sweet wife?”
Elena returned his smile, raising a brow. “Thoughts of my husband, sir. Is that not scandalous?”
“Indeed.” He crouched down, running his fingers through the curls of the little girl sleeping in her mother’s lap. She was the twin of her mother, though she had the reserve and shyness of her father. She was never more comfortable than in the lap or arms of one of her parents.
It was so unlike her siblings, but it endeared her to both parents deeply.
The fact that her head was leaning against Elena’s rounded belly and unperturbed by the frequent kicks and rolls therein was only sweeter.
“She’s so tired,” West murmured, brushing his fingers over her lashes and brows. “Sweet little lamb.”
Elena smiled down at her, then took her husband’s hand and laced her fingers with his, pulling it to her stomach, letting him feel their fourth child’s antics. “Don’t worry; this one will be like East and Lottie. A right terror of opinions.”
“Wherever did that trait come from?” he asked her dryly.
“No idea,” she whispered.
He leaned in and kissed her, long and slow, sweet and lingering, and just the tiniest bit suggestive, even after all this time. “Mmm,” he hummed against her lips. “It is a good thing Thalia is asleep, sweet girl. She’d never let me kiss you like this if she were awake.”
Elena laughed softly, kissing him again. “No, but she does not let me cuddle her at night. Only Papa can put her to sleep. Papa is the special one.”
He shook his head, now running his hand over his wife’s hair, exactly like his daughters’. “You are the special one, my love. You are the one who makes this home for all of us. You have my heart, and my life. Only you. Always you.”
Tears welled in Elena’s eyes, and she gave him a hard kiss as a sob rose in her throat. “Stop that,” she told him when she broke off. “You know how prone I am to tears now.”
He laughed and swiped them from her face, kissing one cheek, then the other. “I know. I won’t tell anyone where your soft spots are. Those are just for me.” He stood and groaned, arching his back into a stretch. “Did you plan this child to come at this time to avoid helping with the harvest?”
Elena shrugged, sniffing back her tears and fighting a laugh. “Possibly.”
West glared playfully at her. “You devious woman.”
“You can sit out, you know. You are the baron.”
He coughed in surprise. “And have my wife remind the world every year thereafter? I think not. This is the year I catch up to your number of years in the harvest fields. Next year, we will be even at last. No one will be able to mock me for working less than my wife ever again.”
Elena shook her head as she leaned it back against the tree. “We’ll just have to find another challenge, then.”
He smiled, exhaling a gentle breath. “We always do, my love. We always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your little stubborn clone is demanding more work be done.”
“I’ll treat your aches and pains later if she pushes too hard,” Elena called as he backed away.
His smile turned crooked. “Just love me, Elena Howard. That soothes me sufficiently.”
Everything within Elena melted at his vow. “I do love you, Weston Howard. And you know it.”
“I do,” he confirmed with a nod. “And it brings me life.” He blew her a kiss, then turned and clapped his hands for his two oldest children, who raced to his side and walked with him to their little harvest patch.
Elena sighed, running her hand through Thalia’s curls while her other hand rested atop their unruly unborn child.
She had never imagined this horizon for herself, and every day seemed a dream.
But no dream could compare with the joyous work of her life, day in and day out. Her husband, her children, her estate . . .
Her home.
It was perfectly imperfect, and it was hers.
That was enough.