Epilogue
The Duke and Duchess’s first month of being married had been a whirlwind, encompassing all aspects of life.
There had been a delayed introduction of a child to his father—a gorgeous little boy, who filled their days with hope and wonder.
They had had a funeral where the residents at Longwood Hall had celebrated and mourned the Duke in equal measure, and finally, they’d let go of him and their grief.
Many people from the ton turned up to pay their respects, and Edward thought his father would have been proud to know that he’d touched so many lives.
Bea embraced her new identity as Duchess with ease and a newfound confidence that came from being true to herself.
She had never forgotten where she came from—it gave her life context, a different perspective, and her kindness and generosity to all those she encountered made her a beloved duchess to look up to.
She was loved by all her staff. All their friends. But most of all, her husband and son.
Edward had encouraged his wife to submit some of her artwork to the Royal Academy and she was waiting with bated breath to see if it would be accepted for the next exhibition.
She had sent in the erotic sketch of Edward, the one she’d drawn the morning after they’d made their marriage official.
She had been unsure of sending it, worried it would cause yet another controversy, but Edward had insisted, saying it was her best work.
If it was, it was because every stroke had been made with love.
She asked how he would feel if it was accepted, if the sketch was put on display for all to see, and he didn’t mind.
He had nothing to hide. Not anymore. He was ready to lay himself bare.
Edward didn’t mind becoming Duke as much as he thought he would.
Bea at his side made him feel as if he could do the role, and enjoy it, especially as they had determined to live by their own values.
Bea offered him a sense of freedom he’d never felt before.
His wife was helping him with the running of the estate and the decorating of the hall, using prints from his mill.
She had a real eye for it. And he was still enjoying his work at the mill—it was a passion that gave him a purpose, knowing he was building something, providing people with jobs and a means to live.
Yet no matter how much he relished his days, he looked forward to coming home to his wife and his son at night.
Bea was at his side the instant he walked through the door.
It was her favourite place to be. That, or under or on top of him.
Every night, every morning and any moments in between…
She could not get enough of her husband, or he her.
Then, one day, an invitation arrived. It was a sign—a sign the scandal was finally lifting. The ton was softening. The Duke and Duchess’s presence had been missed. And tonight, they had been invited back to Almack’s.
They were travelling along the country road in the coach, dressed in their finery, when Edward suddenly knocked on the roof for George to stop. When they came to a halt, Bea looked at her husband expectantly.
‘Where are we?’
Looking out of the window, she saw they had stopped outside the inn where they had first met.
‘Shall we step inside a moment, for old time’s sake?’ He pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. ‘We have time.’
She smiled. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
Stepping through the door together was like stepping back in time. The place hadn’t changed, only they had. They were far more content than the people they had been back then.
When the landlady saw Bea, she became emotional, pulling her into an embrace before holding her hands and standing back to look her up and down. ‘I was so worried about you after you left. I always felt terrible for letting you go.’
‘I harbour no ill will,’ Bea said.
‘Is the little attic room upstairs available?’ Edward asked. ‘Could we take a look at it?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ she uttered, passing Bea the key. ‘You know your way up.’
Bea led him up the rickety stairs and when she held the door open for him, he stepped inside, ducking his head so as not to hit the ceiling.
She looked around, as she had done back then, and when she heard the door click to, she spun round to face him.
‘To think this is where it all began,’ he said, taking in the old bed, the rug.
She followed his gaze to the floor, remembering it all so vividly. Suddenly, she felt achy. Needy. And as if his mind had gone to the same place, he groaned. ‘Bea, make love to me here, for the sake of tradition.’
She laughed. ‘I should have known your wicked intentions.’ Still, she nodded, and he began to shrug off his coat, unfastening his cravat.
She began to peel off her gown, drawing it off her body and over her head. She cast it aside and did the same with her chemise, so she stood naked before him.
This was her, as she truly was, and he wanted her. He loved her. She basked in the knowledge of it.
His eyes darkened as they raked all over her, his chest bare now, as he reached for the buttons on his breeches.
She came towards him, trying to help him, a muddle of fingers and thumbs, and they laughed together, at their desperation.
When the buttons finally came free, he pushed the material down, stepping out of the breeches, and he took her hands in his.
He pulled her down onto the rug, and he kissed her, stretching her out beneath him, as he curled his hand around her breast. He dipped his head to kiss her one nipple, then the other, tugging the taut peaks into his mouth.
His hand moved between her legs, and she gasped at the sensations rushing through her. How he made her feel.
His mouth to her breast, while touching her so intimately, it made her bones melt.
She let out a little whimper and tugged at his shoulders, wanting to feel his weight on her, pressing her down.
He came over her, parting her thighs with his own, offering her no mercy. She didn’t want any. Not from him.
He brought his hand down between their bodies and guided himself to her entrance. He pressed the tip inside her gently, filling her up, torturously slowly, enjoying taking his time with her, his thrusts slow and long and steady, his movements proprietorial.
He moved so deep inside her body, it was as if he was trying to reach her heart, and her orgasm took hold so suddenly, shocking her, beautiful wave after wave crashing through her.
For a moment, she wondered how much more of this sweet torture she could take—it felt too much, too overwhelming, she couldn’t cope—and then Edward was roaring out her name, losing all restraint too.
He exploded inside her body, branding her with his burning seed and her contented tears finally came.
She sobbed into the curve of his shoulder as he gathered her close, stroking her hair, whispering how much he loved her.
They lay like that, their bodies entwined together on the rug for a long while, neither of them ready to move, to be parted.
‘Will it be strange going tonight aware people probably know the truth? That my mother was a streetwalker and I draw scandalous pictures?’
He lifted his head and grinned down at her. ‘That I work alongside the men in my mill not because I have to, but because I enjoy it?’ he said.
She brought her hands up to wrap around his neck.
‘It will be a relief to have no more secrets,’ he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, her cheek.
She smiled. ‘About that…’
He raised his head again, his eyes narrowing on her.
She bit her lip. ‘I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I don’t want to keep it from you any longer.’
‘Bea…’ he growled sternly.
‘I think I’m with child.’
He stared at her in surprise, studying her face, before he kissed her so fiercely, it left her breathless.
When he finally broke away, she laughed. ‘I take it you’re happy about that too?’
‘Very. In fact, I think we should celebrate.’
He swept away her hair and leaned in to kiss the curve of her neck, and lower.
‘Edward! We will be late for the ball.’
He roamed down further, covering her breasts in kisses. But she realised she wasn’t putting up much resistance.
‘People will talk about our tardiness. It could damage our reputation…’
But he wasn’t listening. He was moving down her body, his mouth heading for a better destination than Almack’s. He parted her thighs, getting ready to worship his wife.
‘Edward,’ she warned, trying to bring back some control to the situation. ‘We will be struck off the guest list again.’
‘Ah well, it will be worth it…’ he said.
And it was.
Keep reading for an excerpt from RUINED BY THE WRONG EARL by Tina Gabrielle.