Epilogue
“Exile by month’s end,” Lord Lempster declared from his place beside the roaring fireplace, brandy sloshing perilously close to the rim of his glass. “Transportation if the blackguard ever dares show his face again. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving scoundrel.”
Margaret raised her glass with a wicked, satisfied grin. “To magistrates finally discovering that Montague lied more often than he drew breath.”
“And to Raph discovering that solicitors are considerably cheaper than coffins,” Iris added nonchalantly.
Raph leaned against the carved marble balustrade at the foot of the grand staircase and lifted his champagne glass in silent salute.
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since he walked away from the duel and chose life instead of vengeance. And two weeks since the courts had torn Montague apart.
“You never told us how you pulled that off,” Margaret reminded him with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s simple. I pulled it off with evidence.”
Raph had gathered witnesses and reports in silence. And when he was done presenting his case, Montague’s frantic shriek, “Lady Pamela is my daughter!” had been met with nothing but laughter.
“Montague committed too many forgeries. He ruined countless families and spoke too many lies,” Iris spat.
“That is why no one believed a word he said, and he was exiled by month’s end,” Raph said.
He was grateful that throughout it all, the Brentmere name stood taller than ever.
The orchestra in the gallery above suddenly shifted without warning. Strings soared into a single, brilliant chord that rang through the vaulted hall like a fanfare, and every head turned as if pulled by the same invisible thread.
At the top of the grand staircase, framed by candlelight and drifting winter roses, stood Camelia and Pamela.
Raph’s breath caught hard enough to bruise.
Camelia had appeared in a thousand gowns since their marriage, but nothing had ever struck him speechless until this moment.
Her gown was the palest blush pink, almost silver in the shifting light, cut daringly low across her shoulders and nipped impossibly tight at the waist, before spilling into a cascade of silk that shimmered with every breath.
Ribbons adorned her hair, and he imagined all the binding he could do with that.
Tiny crystals had been sewn along the neckline and hem so that she caught the chandelier light and scattered it like dawn across water. The color made her skin glow like a warm pearl, and the way the fabric clung to her every curve before falling away made his mouth go dry.
Beside her, Pamela looked radiant in the blue lace dress she had dreamt about.
All Raph could see was his wife and niece descending the staircase like something out of a fairytale.
Margaret gasped next to him. “She’s stunning!”
“They both are,” he agreed and made his way to the bottom of the staircase.
Pamela was sixteen tonight, and the dress she wore had been sewn in absolute secrecy in London for this single moment. Her raven hair was swept up with jeweled combs, and a few deliberate curls escaped to frame her face.
She paused at the bottom of the grand staircase, with one gloved hand on the balustrade, her chin high, her cheeks flushed with a mix of anxiety and triumph.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the hall as their family admired her. Then, a quiet applause erupted.
Good God. She looks exactly like Josephine.
Raph’s throat closed. He could not have spoken if his life depended on it.
Camelia appeared at the bottom of the stairs as if conjured. He took her hand, which slipped easily into his.
“Breathe, Camelia,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “You’re perfect. And she’s perfect.”
“And you are holding the wrong woman’s hand.” She eyed him with a raised eyebrow.
Pamela descended the staircase with the careful poise of someone counting every step in her head. When she reached the bottom, she bobbed a curtsy so flawless that Lord Lempster and his daughters dabbed at their eyes. Then, she spun straight into Raph’s arms.
“Did you see?” she whispered against his waistcoat, her voice trembling with excitement. “I didn’t trip. Not even once.”
“You were magnificent,” he managed, his voice rough. “Happy birthday, Pamela.”
She pulled back, her cheeks scarlet as they swayed to the music.
“Do I really look all right? The lace isn’t too much?”
“Pamela, you are perfect.” Raph spun her around. “Just like your mother.”
Pamela’s smile could have lit the chandeliers.
Raph’s heart swelled even when he thought about how she took the news about her true parents. Every morning, as if it were a ritual, she would take a few minutes to stand in front of Josephine’s portrait and admire her.
Margaret swooped in like a hawk. “Come along, birthday queen. Although there are few of us, we have all formed a disorderly queue to meet with you.”
Pamela giggled, then caught Raph’s sleeve. “May I dance with my father before I go?”
“Of course! Do you remember the steps I taught you?” Margaret asked her excitedly.
“Yes, I would love to show them off tonight.”
“Oh, you will be absolutely wonderful! I will leave you to it, then. Good luck!” Margaret squeezed Pamela’s hands before she sashayed towards her family, a wide grin plastered on her face.
Raph shook his head and turned his attention back to Pamela.
“What dance did you have in mind?” he asked.
“A proper waltz?”
Raph swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “It would be the greatest honor of my life.”
He led her onto the dance floor as the orchestra began the sweeping strains of a waltz. Pamela placed her gloved hand in his, the other on his shoulder, and for the first time in sixteen years, Raph felt the past finally loosen its grip.
“You’re not stepping on my toes at all,” he teased softly.
“That’s because Lady Margaret threatened to make me practice with a book on my head for a month if I embarrassed the family,” Pamela whispered back, her eyes sparkling. “I practiced until the book fell.”
He laughed in the middle of a ballroom. Across the floor, Camelia watched them, teary-eyed.
When the Lempster family had departed with hugs and promises to return before the week’s end, Camelia slipped away and found Raph in the small morning room. She closed the door softly behind her.
“Young ladies of sixteen,” he said without preamble, loosening his cravat, “are incomprehensible creatures. Pamela spent twenty minutes arguing that blue lace is not childish, another ten insisting she is far too grown-up for birthday kisses, and then demanded I promise to buy her a horse that can jump the moon.”
Camelia bit her lip, but her laughter crept through. “That is why I am here. To translate the mysterious language of teenage girls.”
He crossed the room in three strides, caught her waist, and backed her gently against the wall beside the cold fireplace.
“Raph,” she gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Did you forget?”
“Forget what?”
“I promised you a lesson tonight.”
Her breath hitched as he planted gentle kisses on her neck.
“You are here for many reasons, Duchess,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Translating Pamela is only one of them.”
“Oh?” She laughed, breathless as his hand traveled the length of her body. “Raph, I’m worried that Pamela—”
“Pamela is currently sulking magnificently because I refused to let her stay up until dawn. We have the rest of the night to ourselves.”
He dipped his head and trailed kisses along her jaw while his fingers found the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her gown.
Camelia laughed against his throat. “And what do you have planned for us tonight, Your Grace?”
“You’ll see.”
Raph lifted her as though she weighed nothing while his hands slipped beneath the layers of silk and petticoats. Camelia gasped when his warm palms glided up the back of her thighs.
Her breath caught as he carried her the few steps to the wide velvet settee beside the tall windows that overlooked the gardens.
He set her down only long enough to strip her bare. Gown, corset, chemise, stockings—each garment fell away with whispered laughter and the soft rustle of expensive fabric.
“I’ve been waiting all day to do this to you,” he whispered.
“I’m ready for you, Your Grace,” she purred.
When the last scrap of lace fell to the carpet, Camelia stood naked in the flickering light, her skin prickling under the heat of his gaze.
Raph’s eyes darkened, roaming over her as though memorizing every curve and dip.
He reached for the pale-pink satin ribbon in her hair, tugging it free so the heavy mass spilled down her back. His fingers lingered on the nape of her neck.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Camelia obeyed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He pushed her down until she was bent over the rolled arm of the settee. The velvet was cool against her breasts and belly. Behind her, Raph gathered her wrists gently but firmly, crossing them at the small of her back. She felt the ribbon whisper over her skin as he bound her.
“Is it all right, my Duchess?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
A shiver raced through her at the restraint and the way it arched her back, offering her to him completely.
Raph leaned over her, chest to her spine, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
She shook her head, breathless. “I need more.”
A dark, approving sound rumbled in his chest. Then, his mouth was on her neck and shoulders, tracing a slow, burning path down the line of her spine while one large hand slid between her thighs.
Raph never rushed with her. He knew when she was already aching and ready for him.
She moaned when his fingers parted her and stroked her in lazy circles that made her knees buckle. She whimpered, pushing back against his hand, and he gave her another slow, deliberate glide that left her slick and trembling.
“Raph, please…”
“Please what, love?” His voice was velvet sin against her skin.
“Please, fill me now.”
She felt the heat of him as he stepped closer. His hot member nudged her entrance, sliding through her wet folds but not entering her.
He was tormenting her.
Moonlight filtered into the room, bathing them in a silvery glow, and she caught their reflection in the dark window. The sight made her nipples harden against the velvet cushion.
“My little flower,” Raph groaned.
In one long, steady thrust, he filled her so completely that her breath fractured.
They both stilled, savoring the exquisite stretch, the perfect fit, and the way her bound wrists forced her to arch further, making him slide deeper inside her. His forehead dropped to her shoulder, and she felt the shudder that ran through him.
“Camelia,” he murmured reverently.
“Faster, Your Grace,” she pleaded.
Her walls clenched around him deliberately, and he cursed, low and ragged. Then, he moved inside her. Hard, deliberate strokes that rocked the settee against the floor, each one driving the air from her lungs in soft, broken cries.
The ribbon held her wrists fast. She could do nothing but take him, take every thrust that sent her pleasure spiraling higher and hotter. His hand slipped around to circle that aching bundle of nerves. His fingers were slick and merciless, and she shattered almost instantly.
Raph followed moments later, his hips snapping forward one last time. He buried himself deep inside her and spilled his seed with a guttural groan that was half her name, half surrender.
For a long heartbeat, they stayed locked together, trembling, the only sounds their ragged breaths fading into the silence.
Slowly, gently, he untied the ribbon and brought her wrists to his lips, kissing the faint pink marks.
Then, he turned her, gathered her close, and lowered them both to the thick Aubusson rug so they could lie tangled and spent beneath the glow of the moon, their hearts hammering in perfect, exhausted unison.
“I love you,” he said against her lips, the words rough with wonder, as though he still could not believe he was allowed to say them out loud.
“I love you, too,” she answered, snuggling beneath him. “And I love that you are terrible at understanding sixteen-year-old girls. It means you will always need me.”
“I need you for everything,” he whispered. “Always.”
They lay together, limbs entwined, undressed, her head on his chest, and his fingers tracing idle patterns along her spine.
Camelia pressed a kiss over the bullet wound on his shoulder. “You know, Pamela only argued with you because she finally feels safe enough to be difficult.”
Raph exhaled, a half-laugh, half-groan. “Remind me of that when she’s eighteen and running away from every possible suitor.”
“I will remind you every single day,” Camelia promised, smiling against his skin. “That is, after all, why I’m here.”
He tilted her chin up and kissed her slowly, thoroughly, until they were both breathless again.
“No,” he murmured against her lips. “You are here because I cannot imagine a single day of my life without you in it. The rest is merely a fortunate coincidence.”
Wrapped in each other’s arms, the Duke and Duchess of Brentmere celebrated the first night of the rest of their lives.
The End?