Epilogue
Niall presided over his own ruin with the calm of a lord and the satisfaction of a cat with cream.
The summer day was bright, and the Foxmere gardens were vibrant with color.
Roses climbed eagerly, competing with delphiniums and foxglove for space on every trellis and hedge.
Nearby, a pair of bickering blackbirds attempted to drown out the string quartet with their incessant chatter.
From beneath a wooden gazebo, partially concealed by wisteria, he surveyed the scene.
The air, rich with the scents of cut grass, roasted almonds, and Mrs. Berkeley's “Kiss of Lazarus” lemonade, tantalized his senses.
Rumored to revive even the most reluctant guests and responsible for half the infatuations in Kent, the drink flowed from silver pitchers, poured by servants aware of the French brandy hidden within.
Six months ago, Niall had wagered his reputation and much of his fortune on a woman who had, upon their first meeting, despised.
He had believed himself in control, at the mercy of nothing but his own mischief.
Now, as laughter rolled over the lawn, he recognized his mistake.
This was not defeat. It was something closer to conquest.
The day's entertainment was unusual, a lawn battledore-and-shuttlecock tournament with only one rule, no fatalities.
Wagers were placed openly—coin, snuff, the occasional glove kept in a velvet-lined box at the edge of the pitch.
Beyond, an outdoor poetry reading unfolded, with guests drifting between the two like bees.
Louisa, his wife, held court near the poetry dais, glass in hand, surrounded by the ton’s most formidable cynics.
The blue of her summer dress was striking, her bonnet, a blend of silk and net, shielded her from the sun, casting a shadow over the witty exchanges she conducted.
Beside her, a group of debutantes entertained themselves, and at least one dowager had fainted at the mention of Byron.
Louisa kept them engaged with a steady stream of sharp remarks and compliments so indirect they required translation.
Watching her, Niall felt the warmth of a man witnessing not his legacy, but his ongoing mischief. No greater pleasure existed than observing his countess create social chaos while the world admired the spectacle.
He adjusted his cravat, not out of necessity but for effect, before turning his attention to the badminton pitch.
Lady Alexandra, Countess of Langley, judged the semifinals with a commentary that blended croquet rules, war strategies, and the attractiveness of the male competitors.
Alexandra sat on a rickety garden bench, one boot resting on the rail, her posture suggesting trouble if not immediate disqualification.
The whistle around her neck had already silenced two quarrels and, at one point, a small dog.
Niall admired her technique. She had a knack for stealing the show while maintaining plausible deniability. At that moment, she chastised a viscount for conduct unbecoming a gentleman after he cleverly spiked his own shuttlecock with lemon zest to distract the other team.
In the center of the scene, servants glided, neither hurried nor idle, carrying platters of sugared fruit, salted nuts, and Mrs. Berkeley’s lemonade.
Their uniforms gleamed in gold, yet their expressions remained impassive, regardless of how often Lady Honoria Worthington summoned one for a top-off or how frequently Lord Bertram tried to hide a stolen bottle of gin.
Some scandal sheets had dubbed the gathering the most improper of the Season, a phrase Foxmere wore like a badge.
He had always considered scandal his element, but this—Louisa, this laughter, this unruly peace—was what he would choose, again and again.
The old Niall might have used such an event to orchestrate a coup of debauchery, but as he leaned against the warm wood of the gazebo, he found himself content to simply watch. The scandal would unfold on its own.
A shriek from the pitch. Lady Sophia Peregrine had just intercepted a serve meant for her partner, pirouetted, and returned it so fiercely that it left a welt on Lord Bertram’s ear.
The crowd cheered. Alexandra’s whistle sounded.
Bertram collapsed in the grass with exaggerated agony.
Sophia, triumphant, curtsied to her audience, her auburn hair wild around her cheeks.
Niall grinned. Six months ago, Louisa had wagered that no gathering could survive Lady Sophia, Lady Alexandra, and Lady Honoria in the same place for more than an hour without at least one of them leaving in disgrace.
Today’s evidence suggested she would lose, but only because no one present had any shame worth mentioning.
His gaze returned to Louisa. He noted how she tilted her head when listening and the subtle flex of her fingers on her glass while preparing a retort.
Her slightly crooked smile seemed to anticipate the next joke at the world’s expense.
Even from a distance, he could tell she was aware of his gaze.
Her senses were too keen for anything else.
The way she glanced his way and quickly looked away indicated she was planning a counterstrike.
He braced himself.
At the edge of the dais, Lady Honoria, in a bright canary yellow gown, had taken the stage and was reciting a sonnet she claimed to have written.
Niall thought it technically impressive, with every rhyme executed precisely and every metaphor blunt.
He could see Louisa’s circle struggling to maintain composure, a few stifled giggles breaking ranks before being silenced.
Niall let the music wash over him. All of this was theater, and he no longer wished to direct, only to enjoy the spectacle.
The afternoon’s warmth deepened, bringing a languor that threatened to subdue even the most energetic guests.
In the shadows between the trellises, couples slipped away for whispered conversations.
In the open, Lady Alexandra crowned the new badminton champions with basil wreaths and led a parade of children and several grown men to the lemonade station for victory toasts.
He caught Louisa’s eye again. This time she held his gaze, her mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. He saluted her with his glass, and she responded with a slight, improper raise of her eyebrow.
If this was what it meant to be tamed, he thought, then the world had entirely misrepresented the process.
He moved through the sun-dappled crowd with just enough of his old grace to remind everyone, himself included, of the man he had once been.
He refilled his glass, never wanting to be caught empty-handed at his own party, and paused near the poetry dais, where Louisa was now engaged in a spirited critique of Honoria’s verse.
“It’s not that I object to rhyming ‘soul’ with ‘bowl,’” Louisa said, “but I do think the ‘bowl’ ought to be filled with something more interesting than tears.”
Lady Sophia clapped her hands in delight. “Brandy,” she suggested. “Or laudanum.”
“Or both,” Lady Alexandra chimed in, collapsing onto the settee, a basil wreath slipping down her brow. “I hear Lady Honoria’s preferred breakfast is a medicinal cordial and the tears of her rivals.”
“I’d be happy to provide both,” Louisa said, and the three erupted into laughter.
Niall found himself on the periphery, a spectator in his own play. Louisa, noticing him, patted the seat beside her. “Come, husband,” she said, loud enough for the nearest gossip to hear. “We’re taking bets on who will be the first to faint from Mrs. Berkeley’s lemonade.”
He took the seat, careful not to spill. “My money is on Lord Bertram. He’s already on his third glass and has lost feeling in his left arm.”
Sophia leaned in. “There’s an apothecary’s bet too. How many of us will need ‘revivifying salts’ before supper?”
He chuckled. “Lady Louisa makes her own.”
Louisa shrugged, feigning modesty. “It’s mostly vinegar and a pinch of Latin. The key is in the labeling.”
Lady Alexandra snapped her fingers. “This is what I missed during my own debut. Parties where the only danger is to one’s sobriety or pride.”
He lifted his glass. “To pride, then.”
They drank, and for a moment the entire garden seemed to lean toward their laughter. Beyond, the party continued, but Niall wanted nothing more than to sit on this battered settee, watching his wife outmaneuver the world.
The afternoon waned, the sun slipping behind clouds, the music softening as the quartet adjusted.
Lanterns were lit, their paper shells casting pale ovals over the grass. Sophia, was teaching a group of children and the Bishop of Rochester how to play Dead Man’s Shuffle, a card game so cheerfully depraved that Louisa had to pretend to be shocked for the benefit of the more delicate guests.
In the golden haze, he reached for Louisa’s hand and felt her fingers interlace with his, cool and certain as dusk.
It had been an excellent party, precisely the kind of day he had once thought impossible.
He pressed her hand to his mouth, kissed the knuckles, and was rewarded with the smallest, most private of smiles.
Yes, he thought. He could spend the rest of his life like this.
They stood together as the lanterns flickered and the music resumed.
He had once been the scandal. Now he was simply and irrevocably hers.
If the devil ever needed redemption, Niall was content to find it in Louisa’s unwavering gaze.
Niall slipped his hand around Louisa’s waist, and she welcomed the closeness, resting her palm on the back of his hand. It felt comfortable, the culmination of the evening.
“It is in moments like this that I am reminded why I feel in love with you,” he said.
“Sentiment, Lord Foxmere?” she whispered, eyebrow arched as they watched the crowd regroup around the punch bowl. “Next, you’ll be composing sonnets to the moon or writing me love letters.”
“I would,” he murmured, “but you’d only edit them for grammar.”
She considered this. “True. I’ve always preferred a man with a command of the subjunctive.”
He laughed, a little more recklessly than intended. “You’re a menace.”
“And you,” she said, “are a very well-behaved devil.”
“Only for you, Primrose.” The pet name, once a jab, now felt like a blessing.
Before she could reply, Lady Honoria approached with a glass of Kiss of Lazarus in hand. Her dress had grass stains and a streak of lemon custard, but she was undeterred, energized by the prospect of a new scandal.
“Well,” she said, raising her glass in salute, “if there’s a party to be remembered, this must be it. My compliments, Lord and Lady Foxmere. You’ve rewritten the rules of impropriety, and I admit defeat.”
Niall inclined his head. “High praise, Lady Honoria. We shall quote you in next year’s invitations.”
Louisa's smile turned sly. “Only if you promise to attend.”
Honoria lifted her glass, her eyes glinting in the lantern light. “Well then, to the happy couple who have rendered the rest of us irrelevant.”
Louisa met her gaze and raised her glass, a gesture of both tribute and challenge. “To Lady Honoria Worthington, who predicted we wouldn’t last a fortnight, and who now, with the world watching, must admit her error.”
A ripple of laughter went through the nearest group of guests. Even Lady Honoria joined in, bowing her head. “Touché, Lady Louisa. It is a rare pleasure to be outmaneuvered with such style.”
The string quartet had abandoned Bach and segued into a jig. Lady Sophia was teaching the debutantes how to cheat at cards, while Lord Bertram, for reasons known only to him, had donned a second laurel wreath and was making speeches to the shrubbery.
The night was perfect, and it was theirs.
Niall pulled Louisa a shade closer, his lips brushing her ear. “You know,” he said, “there are still wagers on us. Some believe we’ll survive the season. Others say we’ll burn the house down before Christmas.”
She tipped her head back, letting the moonlight catch her face. “Let’s prove them both right.”
He kissed her, soft and quick, just above the pulse. Then he straightened, content to stand beside her, both watching as their guests—every wit, rake, and rebel of the ton—celebrated in the ruin of all expectation.
For the first time in his life, Niall Fairmont, Earl of Foxmere, had nothing left to chase. He need only hold on to an impossible woman, a scandalous happiness, and a love worthy of any price.