Epilogue
Ravenglass Manor
Lake District, England
July 1821
L eaning back against the mighty oak with Matthew reclining on the mossy ground with his head in her lap, Fortuity struggled to keep her drooping eyelids open. Sunlight filtered down through the leaves, dappling the ground with mesmerizing patches of dancing brightness. The repetitious gurrumphing of bullfrogs in the nearby pond, the lilting lullaby of birds, and the lazy, droning buzz of bees floating from flower to flower made the warm summer day a study in pure relaxation. Ignatius the pug lounged beside them, belly up, his wheezing snores joining in on nature’s cacophony of song.
She idly combed her fingers through Matthew’s thick hair, finding the silky feel of it as comforting and sleep inducing as everything else about the day. She was so very happy.
Just today, she had received several letters forwarded to her by Minerva Press, her publisher, in London. Letters from those enraptured by her book—the book bearing Matthew’s name but turned into a tantalizing mystery that readers couldn’t resist. The brilliant marketing ploy: a dare for them to discover the real author of the scintillating romance, the lady hinted at in the flyers sent to every bookstore and library that had received copies of her precious book. Of course, they easily discovered it was her, but best of all, they adored her story and clamored for more—as did the publisher.
So, she had set to the task of polishing her backlog of manuscripts, bringing them as close to perfection as possible in order to send them to the editor well before next spring, when her priorities would realign because of a very precious matter.
A contented sigh slipped free of her.
With his hands resting on his chest, Matthew smiled but didn’t bother opening his eyes. “I do hope that was a happy sigh.”
“Indeed, it was. I am happier than happy could be.”
He chuckled. “Your brother is also happy you convinced Mr. Sutherland that our marriage satisfied the conditions of the will so his allowance could increase by another fourteen percent. That thoroughbred he gifted us is quite impressive. Mr. Turnmaster is delighted with the bloodline and eager to introduce him to a few select mares.”
“Chance is incorrigible and champing at the bit to come into the full of his inheritance.” With a lazy laugh, she shook her head. “Poor Gracie will be next on the marriage chopping block, I suppose. I think Chance has finally given up on marrying everyone off in the same Season.” She smoothed a fingertip along the sleek line of one of Matthew’s dark brows. “He means well, though. Deep down, he wants all of us happy.”
Matthew caught her bare hand in his and kissed it. “Still no gloves, my lady? And here we are outside and finished with our berry picking? Your Anne will be beside herself at the scandal.”
“Anne must accept that while we are in the country, I intend to enjoy a more relaxed following of proprieties.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“As do I.” She leaned forward and nibbled the lightest of kisses across his warm lips. “You taste of the berries we picked.”
“I had to sample them to ensure they were good.”
“They are indeed good.”
He pulled her down for another sampling, pausing just before her lips met his. “Then you should kiss me again, and again.”
She gave him a teasing shake of her head. “All in good time. There is something I want to discuss first.”
“Oh?” The leeriness in his tone matched the immediate wariness in his eyes.
“It is nothing serious. I merely noted that our home here in the country does not appear to have a nursery.”
He stared at her, going still as though turned to stone. “The townhouse in London does not have a nursery either,” he said ever so slowly.
“No, it does not. I had noticed that as well.” She gifted him with a thoughtful look, enjoying his torture immensely. “I suppose the townhouse’s floor plan needs to be updated first, since we shall require a nursery next spring. The nursery here would not be needed until we leave London for the summer.”
“You are certain?” He rose and crouched beside her as if ready to leap like a frog.
“Mrs. Greer assures me I am not imagining things. The Ravenglass line is expanding—as I will too. Although, hopefully, I will not enjoy the magnitude Blessing achieved when little Lady Aurora was on the way.”
“A baby,” he whispered, hesitantly touching her cheek, as if afraid she might shatter before his very eyes.
“ Our baby,” she gently corrected him, her heart soaring. “Little Quill Ravenglass until we are more formally introduced.”
Matthew took her into his arms and gently tilted her face up to his. “Quill Ravenglass. I rather like that. Perhaps we should consider keeping it once we meet our precious child.”
She touched his cheek, loving the way his day’s growth of stubble tickled her palm. “Quill is not a proper name for a lady. I think it sounds more male than female. Quill would be for a son. Do you not agree?”
“If we are blessed with a daughter,” he said, brushing his lips across hers as he spoke, “we could call her Seshat.”
“Seshat?” she whispered, lacing her fingers into his hair and tugging him closer for another kiss. “What does it mean?” she asked once their kiss ended.
“The one who writes. Seshat was the Egyptian goddess of libraries and written accounts, protector of books and knowledge. She was the scribe of the gods.”
The vastness of Matthew’s knowledge still astounded her even though she had always known him to be an insatiable reader. “How is it you are so brilliant?”
“I am a slow learner, actually,” he confessed with a sheepish grin. Ever so gently, he swept a stray curl off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Look how long it took me to realize that the other half of my soul was right in front of me, waiting to be joined with my heart.”
She pressed a finger to his lips and shook her head. “That was the past. What matters now is that we are joined.” An elated giggle bubbled free of her. “And our union is fruitful and growing.”
“A baby,” he said. “Quill Seshat Ravenglass, until we meet him or her, of course.”
Then all levity left him so quickly it filled her with concern. “My love? What is it?”
“I cannot bear the thought of possibly losing you,” he admitted in a rasping whisper. “What if—”
She silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips again. “No. We do not dabble in the dangers of what if. We consider ourselves blessed beyond our wildest imaginings and strive to teach our children the same.”
His smile returned. “ Children ? How many?”
As she pulled him down for another kiss, she decided it was high time to talk less and enjoy each other more. “I shall let you know when to stop. Trust me.”
“I trust you implicitly, my love. Do with me what you will.”
“I fully intend to.”
The End