Epilogue
Happiness
In the year that followed, Georgiana learned all the charming little nuances about her duke.
That Ren drank chamomile tea, not brandy, when he was tired.
That the right corner of his mouth twitched when he was holding back a smile.
That he tapped his boot when he’d lost patience with a conversation.
That he softened, almost imperceptibly, whenever Henry came into the room.
He loved strawberries, lemon scones, and the scent of lavender on her skin.
He played a mean game of chess, almost more impressive than his archery skills.
He was an excellent fiscal manager, and the tenants on his various estates adored him.
(He’d needed not a penny of her meager dowry; they’d married for love and love alone.) He preferred charcoal to paints and had a growing love of sculpture.
Georgiana turned to watch him across the lawn, stepping back to give Henry room as he demonstrated the proper swing, guiding the boy’s hands on the croquet mallet before letting him try on his own.
The flex of her husband’s forearm beneath linen, the subtle pull of muscle across his shoulders as he bent, the line of his hips shifting with easy, assured strength she knew all too well, made her think wicked things.
She knew how he liked to be stroked. How he held her at the edge of pleasure, almost a game, before finally letting her release consume her. That he loved to watch her touch herself in the muted darkness of their bedchamber. That they shared a tenderness for her being on top.
She knew all these things and more.
As if he heard her carnal thoughts, Ren glanced up, his broad chest rising on a sharp exhalation.
He said something to Henry, gave him a gentle pat on the head, then jogged over to her.
Dropping down beside her on the plaid woolen blanket, he scrubbed a hand across his chin, trying to appear unaffected for the sake of their son. “Henry naps in one hour.”
Georgiana laughed and leaned back. “I’m aware, as I’m usually the one who tucks him in.”
Ren rolled to his side, his arm tucked beneath his head to cushion him. His gaze had gone a deep, fiery blue. “Pregnancy is doing wonders for my life, my darling duchess. I am, in turns, exhausted to the bone and the happiest man alive.”
Georgiana swatted his chest, her cheeks heating. When he continued to grin, his dimple flaring, the rest of her heated, head to toe. “I’m not that bad.”
“Ah, Gia, you’re that good.”
She wasn’t going to argue; they were amazing.
His hand found hers without ceremony, the other going to the rounded curve of her belly, his touch careful, almost reverent.
The playfulness in him quieted as something steadier took hold.
“I don’t know how I’ll manage it,” he said, softer now.
“All of it. You, Henry, this one—” his thumb brushed a slow arc “—and still keep my head about me.”
Georgiana turned toward him, fitting closer along his side, anchoring him with the ease they’d grown into. “You will. You always do.” He was the most caring man she’d ever known.
His gaze held hers a moment longer than necessary, something unguarded passing through it—pride, yes, and a thread of worry he didn’t bother to hide from her anymore. He still seemed to fear happiness could be taken away in an instant.
“Henry is insufferably pleased with himself,” he finally said, a ghost of his grin returning. “He’s taken to informing anyone who will listen that he’s to be a brother.”
“I heard him tell his nurse he’s to be the finest in England.”
Ren’s hand lingered, a tender claim, promise more than touch. The future wasn’t distant, but warm and immediate beneath his palm.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, gentler now, for his sake.
“I know,” he answered. But his hand didn’t move.
“Rosamund arrives tomorrow, along with Cece and Oliver. Brace yourself for an incorrigible set of twins and another duke. As if one wasn’t enough.”
He laid back alongside her, his gaze going to the eggshell-blue sky. “How goes your father’s tasks for his daughters?”
Georgiana brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “A red envelope arrived last week to my brother’s home. Rosamund won’t tell me her task. She can be mysterious and entirely unhelpful.”
“Your task brought us together,” he said with solemn reverence.
Georgiana’s smile softened. “Then I shall never question my father’s methods.”
“Nor I,” Ren murmured.
A shout broke across the lawn.
“Mama! Mama, did you see?”
Henry came racing toward them, mallet abandoned somewhere behind him, all loose limbs and triumph. Ren pushed up at once, bracing as the boy collided into him, catching him easily and hauling him close.
“I struck it true,” Henry declared, breathless. “All the way across.”
“Did you?” Ren said, his voice threaded with pride. “Then you’ll have me beaten before the week is out.”
Henry beamed, then turned immediately to Georgiana, climbing half into her lap with reckless attachment. “Mama, you must watch next time.”
“I always watch,” she said, smoothing his hair, her gaze lifting briefly to Ren’s.
Always.
Ren’s gaze found hers and lingered, quiet and sure, as Henry’s chatter filled the space between them. And Georgiana, with her husband beside her and their son held close, knew she would not trade a single piece of it—the life they had made, imperfect and full, and wholly their own.
Thank you for coming along with Ren and Gia as they fell—hard!