Epilogue
Two Months Later
The carriage rattled to a stop and Madeline jolted awake.
She was curled under Warren’s arm, her face pressed against the warm wool of his great coat.
Charles sat across from them, his nose buried in a book.
He’s been reading for the whole six-hour journey from Finchley to London.
Madeline tried to read as well, but she was too distracted.
This was her first time back in London since her daring escape two months ago.
Now she was returning married, her husband and their secret husband in tow.
The news broke just after Christmas, splashed across every society paper.
Madeline knew because her mother meticulously cut out and sent each one.
‘Lady Madeline Blaire Weds Curate’
Not only did the papers fail to get his title right, most of them also misprinted his name.
She saw a Charlie Bray, a Chauncey Bray, even a Charoo Braley.
One magazine included a rather unflattering sketch of Charles that had Warren snorting with laughter for two days.
That they kept, framing it and placing it on a shelf in the study.
Life at the parsonage was good. Better than good.
The village adjusted seamlessly to Charles in his new role.
He worked well with James, and Warren worked well with Burke.
The duke had promoted him after the tragic fire that claimed his cottage.
They barely made it two weeks without him before that little act of duplicity had become necessary.
Madeline lit the torch herself with no regrets.
“And you’re quite sure you want us both there tomorrow night?” muttered Warren.
She sighed. He’d been trying to get out of dinner with her parents since they first received her mother’s letter a week ago.
“They just want to be seen as being in with the Corbin’s again,” said Charles, closing his book with a soft snap.
Madeline was sure he was right. Aside from her mother’s news clippings, she’d heard not a word from her parents about her marriage, the dowry, or her new fortune.
And yet, the moment it made the papers that Lady Madeline Corbin, daughter of the Duke of Norland, was to be christened, and that Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bray and Mr. John Warren were named godparents, her mother couldn’t write fast enough, inviting them all to dinner.
Apparently, the whole ton was trying to get invited to the christening. Even now, Rosalie and her gentlemen rode with the children and their nannies in another pair of carriages. They would stay at Corbin House. Meanwhile, Madeline was going home . . . her new home.
Leary House.
The carriage was moving again, the wheels creaking as they rolled over the cobblestones.
That sound was imprinted in her memory. How often had she traversed these Mayfair streets?
How many hours spent being shipped from this party to that, readying herself for yet another night of slow torture?
How many times had she all but run, fleeing a glittering party, desperate to escape?
She closed her eyes, leaning back against the velvet seat.
“Alright there, lovely?” Warren brushed his gloved finger against her cheek.
She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. “Please, let’s not stay an hour longer than we need to.”
He huffed. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
“Of course,” Charles replied. “As soon as the christening is over, we will go home.”
She let out a breath, opening her eyes. Glancing from Charles to Warren, she leaned forward, reaching for their hands. She gave each a quick kiss across the knuckles, not caring that they wore gloves. “You are my home,” she replied. “Wherever we three are together, that is home for me.”
* * *
“Well . . . shit,” Warren muttered, his neck craning as he gazed up at the high ceiling, turning in a small circle. “This is Leary House then?”
Madeline, smiled, watching both men take in the drawing room.
It was nothing near so grand as the opulence of Alcott Hall, but it was still imposing.
Leary House was all ornately polished dark wood and black marble fireplaces.
The paintings leaned towards landscapes over portraits, which Madeline had always appreciated.
There was nothing more discomfiting than sitting in a room and feeling a dozen pairs of dead eyes watching you eat your breakfast and tie your laces.
“Just wait until you see the library,” she said at Charles, who was busy inspecting a colorful set of butterflies on mounted display. They sat in glass cases on a table stretched along the back of the sofa.
“Of course, the staff will have to be rebuilt, my lady,” said Mrs. Henkins, the wizened old housekeeper who was currently pouring them all tea.
“Lady Maude made do with little more than a cook, a housekeeper, two maids, and a footman. Now that you and Mr. Bray will be in residence, you’ll need additional staff. ”
Madeline turned quickly away from the window, tossing an anxious look at Charles before saying, “I’m afraid we will not be in residence long, Mrs. Henkins. Mr. Bray and I mean to make our primary home the parsonage in Finchley. I do not imagine we will be here more than a few times a year.”
“Oh . . . well, that is . . . I guess I just assumed that you would take up residence here,” the housekeeper replied.
Madeline couldn’t miss the almost hopeful tone of her voice. She could only imagine how much more interesting life was for a house staff when the family was actually in residence to wait on. She gave Charles a pleading look.
With a sigh, he stepped forward, accepting his cup of tea. “Our plans are not yet firmly settled, Mrs. Henkins.”
“Are they not?” Warren muttered, glancing over his shoulder from his spot by the bookshelf.
Charles shot him a warning look, turning back to the housekeeper. “It may be that work will call us to London far more than anticipated. We may not grow the staff any larger, but we shall expect the house to be in readiness all the same.”
“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Henkins replied. “Just as soon as you are done with your tea, I can take you all on a tour of the house. And I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Warren. We’ve put him in the bachelor’s suite, my lady,” she said at Madeline. “I hope that is acceptable.”
Madeline stiffened, her cup of tea halfway to her lips. “Yes,” she murmured, taking a sip. “Yes, I’m sure that will be perfectly acceptable. Thank you, Mrs. Henkins.”
It was not acceptable. It was unthinkable. Warren was their husband, and he slept in their bed.
At the parsonage it was easy, for none of the staff actually lived in the house. Even dear Molly lived with her ailing mother a five-minute walk down the lane. Warren kept the appearance of a separate room, but as soon as the last servant left for the night, they were blissfully alone.
And Charles had quickly set a rule for the staff saying no one was to come above stairs before eight in the morning.
Even this was unnecessary, as Warren was an early riser and was typically out the door before seven.
They made a habit of dismissing the staff as soon as dinner was served, meaning they lived half of their lives enjoying only each other’s company. It was bliss.
Madeline had no idea how to manage a similar situation with live-in staff.
There must be a way, for Rosalie managed it with three men and a staff ten times that of Leary House.
She glanced over at Charles, but he just shook his head.
They obviously couldn’t discuss it now. One more reason for them to quit London as soon as possible.
* * *
“You’re worrying,” Charles muttered. “I can feel your mind humming from here.”
Madeline glanced up, meeting his eyes in the reflection of the mirror on her dressing table. It was late, the only light in the room coming from the crackling fire. She sat perched on a little pouf, dragging a boar’s hair brush through her long curls.
“I’ve reread the same page twice now,” he added.
He was sprawled out on the bed wearing nothing but his shirt, the buttons undone at cuffs and collar.
A book sat open on his lap, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.
“Can you tell me what’s bothering you? Is it just the dinner with your parents? ”
She glanced around the room. It was a cozy space, the dark wood-paneled walls accented with handsome pops of green in the curtains and chairs and cheery yellow in the cushions. “I . . . I don’t know what I expected in coming here,” she admitted. “I fought for it. I wanted it so badly.”
His mouth quirked into a smile. “Yes, I know . . . seeing as it was I with whom you fought.”
“We never really fought,” she replied, setting the brush aside and turning on her pouf to face him. “But I wanted this place to be mine. I imagined a whole life here. Reading by the hour in the library, walking my gardens, taking tea in my solarium. I have a solarium now, Charles.”
He set his book aside. “I know. I saw it this afternoon on our exceptionally long house tour.” He narrowed his eyes, slipping his glasses off his nose. “Is that what bothers you? That you have a solarium?”
She sighed, getting up from the dressing table.
Slipping the robe from her shoulders, she crawled in her side of the bed, feeling that first perfect chill as she slid her bare legs between the sheets.
She settled back against the pillows, stretching a hand out towards him.
He took it, turning it over and tracing mindless patterns up and down the soft skin of her forearm. She relaxed into his touch.
“Talk to me, my darling,” he murmured.
“I think I was so determined to escape one cage, that I had no idea I was dreaming of another,” she replied.
His hand stilled on her arm. “Go on . . .”