Epilogue
Arabella
Four months later . . .
Tugging Rowan’s arm, I weaved through the crush of the ballroom to have a better view of Elizabeth. “I see her! By the woman with the peacock feathers in her hair.”
Rowan tucked me in front of him so a couple could pass us. “I see her. Here comes the master of ceremonies with Samuel Pritchard right behind him.”
Mr. Pritchard was a school chum of Rowan’s—not one who had participated in the infamous bet, but a good friend just the same.
We had thought that a discreet introduction would feel more flattering to Elizabeth.
Both of us were sure that Mr. Pritchard would treat Elizabeth like a queen, but it would be up to her if she let him.
We watched as the introduction unfolded and Elizabeth’s countenance brightened. Her smile made the corners of my own mouth lift.
“I think she said yes,” I whispered. “Look, she’s taking his hand.” Mr. Pritchard led a beaming Elizabeth to the dance floor.
“Our work here is done,” Rowan said, guiding me away.
I glanced over and saw them standing in a long line of couples preparing for the next set to begin.
She laughed over something Mr. Pritchard said.
My heart sang at the warm sight. Violin music began, filling the walls of Mr. and Mrs. Burnett’s townhome with a lively reel.
“Look, there is Harriet in the dance line.” I stopped Rowan, motioning to the opposite end of the couples.
Rowan followed my gaze. “Good, her husband looks properly miserable.”
I bit back my laugh. “The poor man doesn’t dance very well, does he?”
“No, but he is a puppet to Society and would not miss being seen on the dance floor.”
I leaned against his arm. “It is a good thing you befriended him and cleared up some of his misguided thinking about the treatment of one’s wife.”
“If he had not learned that I was so well thought of in certain circles, thanks to my printed opinions, I do not think he would have listened.”
“Then I should be very glad that I have such a famous husband, and I will be sure to convince him to visit this side of Surrey often so we might continue to use your cultured influence to aid my friend.”
“If you insist,” Rowan said, leading me away once more.
“Are we to dance?” I asked, wondering where he was taking us.
“Not this set.” A moment later, he whisked me through the open doors to the veranda. A cool breeze greeted us. This particular garden was overly spacious, but it was larger than I had expected for a house in town.
“You’re always trying to get me alone,” I teased.
“That was only my second goal. I thought you could use some fresh air. Your cheeks are flushed.”
Rowan was always noticing things and acting before I could even voice a concern. But this time, I had concealed my secret well—with the exception of my flushed appearance. I kept waiting for the perfect opportunity to surprise him with my news, but the man was always surprising me instead.
I still could not believe how he’d presented his completed Folio collection as my wedding present.
He teased regularly that he had only afforded the last book because I had helped him win the bet against his friends by marrying him.
Another surprise came when, beside the prominent place in the Ashworth’s library where the Folios were shelved, he placed all the journals filled with my stories.
He had read every word of them with me while we picnicked on the lawn or strolled through the trees, and he hoped I would publish them when I was ready.
For so long I had thought of Rowan as my biggest critic, but now I saw him as my greatest support.
Everyone deserved a second chance, and I am grateful he gave me one.
A cool breeze encircled my neck and made me shiver. Rowan immediately had his arm around me. “Is it too cold out here for you?”
“Not at all. I find it refreshing.”
“Are you certain? Your lips look cold. Let me warm them for you.” He bent forward and covered my mouth with his.
I pulled back. “Rowan, we’re in company!”
He grinned. “But we are the only ones on the veranda. Besides, I must take every opportunity I can. If you ever write about kissing, I want to be your inspiration.”
I laughed and shook my head. Being married was even better than being engaged—and far better than being promised to one’s enemy. Although, I could never regret our journey, for it had led us here—to each other.
Rowan fingered the single pearl at my throat, the one his mother gifted me. When he’d first seen it again, sorrow had shadowed his gaze, but now he insisted I wear it often. He had said that the memory of his mother had been made sweeter by the manner of which I chose to honor her.
“I love you, Arabella Ashworth.”
And in that moment, I knew that it was time to share my news. Some surprises did not need all the fanfare. They simply needed to be shared. I removed his hand from the necklace and set it on my stomach. “And we love you, Rowan Ashworth.”
It turns out that Rowan is even better at celebratory kisses than apologetic ones.