Epilogue
“Well,” drawled Rourke, leaning on his silver-tipped cane as he kept a watchful eye on his twin children cavorting in the center of the dance floor.
As the Duke of Exingham these last two decades, he was stern and serious, which was better than the icy and imperious arse he used to be.
“Ye’re married. Ye. I never thought I’d see it happen. ”
Someone had handed Bull a glass of whisky when he’d entered the room, but he didn’t need to sip from it to feel as if he were flying high. He grinned, watching the gathered crowd—friends and family—celebrating with him and his Rose. “Aye, I never expected it to happen.”
“They never do.” His brother-in-law, Crowe, Laird MacLeod, the first man to really raise him and teach him how to be a good man, sent him a smirk. “We never do. Honoria and I used to talk about what kind of woman would pin ye down, make ye grow up.”
“I resent the implications that I havenae grown up in the last twenty-odd years.” Bull’s attempt at a scowl fell to his smile. “And if I didnae, whose fault is that? After all, ye did yer best.”
“We all did, laddie,” sighed Rourke, which was as close to teasing as the somber man ever got.
Sebastian, the Duke of Morningwood, who had married Bull’s sister Althea a million years ago and kicked off the tradition of half these arseholes becoming dukes by surprise, leaned forward to catch Bull’s eye and toasted him.
“No’ me. I always enjoyed having ye around, ye little shite. Made me look positively angelic.”
Bull gave a flourishing bow. “I live to serve, Yer Grace.”
Beside him, Maxwell ‘Hawk’ Hawthorne jabbed his elbow in his side.
“I think there’s a rule about mocking dukes.
” Hawk had been his best friend for years, and had known the rest of Bull’s brothers and brothers-in-law since school.
Since marrying Bull’s sister Marcia last year, he’d become a true brother.
“And no’ the one ye’re likely thinking right now, which is aye, do it as often as possible. ”
“Aye, do it as often as—oh, ye’ve heard that one?” Bull pretended surprise. “Am I becoming predictable?”
“Aye!” chorused his brothers, most of whom then chuckled.
Bull made a show of sighing as he grinned across the room at his bride. “Then it’s just as well I’m settling down and marrying, gentlemen. I need someone to keep me on my toes.”
Or preferably, off them.
“Aye, Rosie will do that,” drawled Hawk.
Rourke shook his head. “It’s Demon who’ll chop those toes off if ye’re no’ careful. Did ye really agree to visit every Sunday? He was bragging about that.”
Crowe slapped Rourke on the shoulder. “Dinnae mock him. Ye’ll feel the same way when yer Lizzie falls in love.”
It was difficult to tell, but the solemn duke paled slightly. “Dinnae be stupid. She’s only a bairn—barely a lassie. She’s no’ getting married.”
“Anytime soon, ye mean?” offered Sebastian, whose own daughters were whirling around the dancefloor with Thorne’s twin sons and Rose’s younger brother, who had returned from school for the occasion. “No’ getting married anytime soon?”
“No’ getting married at all,” growled Rourke with an expression that Bull had seen before. “Ever. She’ll live happily at Exingham and paint doilies, or whatever, and no’ think about how disgusting men are.”
As the rest of them laughed, Bull felt someone clap him on his shoulders, and turned to see Thorne beaming at him.
Grinning, he accepted the older man’s hug and congratulations.
The Duke of Stroken had always been one of his favorite people—Thorne had been the one to teach him sleight-of-hand, all those years ago, and they’d long shared an affinity for fashion and flirtation.
“What are ye wearing laddie?” Thorne demanded, holding Bull at arms’ length. “Today is the most important day of yer life, and I would’ve thought ye’d wear some outrageous color combination. Chartreuse and magenta?”
“Remember that peacock get-up he used to be so proud of?” Rourke asked reminiscently. “Teal and…purple? With stripes?”
“First of all…” Bull scowled at the chuckling men. “That was a brilliant combination, very on-trend with the European fashions none of ye dobbers ever paid attention to.”
“I do trust him when it comes to cuts and colors,” interrupted Hawk faithfully.
“Thank ye.” Bull nodded regally. “And second of all, chartreuse and magenta dinnae coordinate, and I cannae believe ye think they do.”
“Is chartreuse no’ a pinky-purple?” Thorne muttered to Crowe. “It has the mouth-feel of a pinky-purple.”
“It’s a green, ye complete cabbagepatch,” Crowe scowled in return.
“Green?” Thorne blinked. “Are ye certain? And have ye been taking lessons from Demon on cursing?”
Demon…or Rose. Bull’s grin grew as he thought of his wife, who was ‘circulating’. He ought to be by her side. “It’s a yellow-green, doesnae go with magenta, and good God man, ye’ve lost yer touch.”
“No’ so much that I cannae admit I’m genuinely impressed to see ye in a kilt and formal togs.” Thorne announced with another squeeze of the shoulders. “Ye look magnificent. But the colors…”
Since now they were all frowning down at Bull’s crotch, he handed his full whisky to Thorne and stepped away from their group. With his arms out, he did a little spin to show off the kilt.
“I designed it. Lindsay colors.” He nodded to Rourke and Sebastian and Crowe, who were related to his father’s family.
“And the MacIver colors.” His mother’s new family name.
“Which just so happen to include the design of the Cummings and Hayles.” He nodded to Thorne, then jerked his head across the room to where Demon was lurking behind a fern.
“Good God, lad.” Thorne’s eyes were wide, his voice raspy. “Ye invented yer own plaid? That’s…remarkable.”
It had taken Bull a bloody long time to design the tartan, but it had been worth it. Worth it to combine all the colors of the people who had made him who he was today.
Worthy.
“Nay.” Rourke cleared his throat, and lifted his own glass. “Ye’re remarkable, Bull.”
“Hear, hear,” came the chorus from the throats of the men Bull held dearest, and he doubted his smile could grow anymore.
Then Hawk nudged him again. “Yer wife looks lonely. Go be remarkable with her, eh? I want yer brothers to tell me more stories about ye as a wee rascal.”
Laughing, Bull waved to the little group and turned to find his Rose. There. She was speaking with Griffin and Rupert.
Bull slid his arms around her, and smiled as she leaned back against his chest without pausing her conversation with his stepfather and stepbrother. She looked incredible in the green gown she’d eschewed tradition to wear, one he’d designed himself.
Another perfect day with his woman. And there would be plenty of perfect days to come.
The future wasn’t clear. He hadn’t exactly closed the doors of the Bull Lindsay Detective Group, but with only the two of them, he knew they would have to take fewer cases.
He also knew that he wouldn’t be taking a case without Rose; she was his other half, his better half, the woman who saw things he couldn’t see.
They made a brilliant team, and he would use that, going forward.
On the other hand, she’d helped him remember how much he’d always enjoyed designing clothing, and well over half of her wardrobe was now things he’d created for her. Could he one day start the trends in Society he’d always dreamed of?
And finally, they had Rosewood to consider. That place held their future as well…
As Rose continued to chat with Griffin, Bull glanced to the row of chairs along the wall.
If Thorne had been Bull’s mentor, then young Hunter Lindsay had been his mentee, and it made Bull’s heart light to see him sitting with his new wife, Helena, likely discussing their next plans for their distillery with Lady Mistree.
The old woman sat in her rolling bath chair near the window, clearly enjoying the sunlight and excitement.
She looked…even weaker than she’d been last month when Bull had found Rose sitting with her at Rosewood, surrounded by the portraits she’d painted. It was clear that, at long last, the Countess of Mistree was indeed dying.
But she was doing it on her terms.
She’d brought together so many couples in the last few years through her mischief and meddling and manipulations. She was clearly proud of her accomplishments, as well she should be. It made Bull proud of her as well; proud to call her friend.
Proud, now, to call her family.
As his Rose had told him, Bull’s talent was making friends, and that would serve him well no matter what the future brought: continuing the detective agency with Rose’s help, or starting a new fashion line, or helping to run Rosewood to the best of his ability.
Probably not the pickpocketing. He’d do whatever he needed to do with the backing of his family, his friends, and the memory of a remarkable countess.
He squeezed his new wife, and his eyes followed Lady Mistree’s gesture to where Gabby—Hunter’s twin—and her new husband and son stood chatting with the Duke of Effinghell and his wife.
Well, considering Alistair didn’t speak unless absolutely necessary, it was almost certain his wife Olivia was doing most of the chattering.
As Bull watched, their little group was joined by Alistair’s mother and sisters and their husbands.
Everyone was here. Everyone who mattered.
Here to celebrate Rose…and himself.
He glanced over his bride’s shoulder to see his stepfather smirking at him, and realized there was a lull in the conversation. His cue? “Gentlemen, if ye’d allow me to steal my wife away?”
Chuckling, Griffin stuck out his hand. “We’ve been waiting for ye to do so, laddie. Congratulations.”
When Bull accepted the handshake, Griffin pulled him into a hug, an action which surprised him from the man he’d once nicknamed Gruff.
“I’m proud of ye, son,” Griffin whispered—aye—gruffly, as he pounded Bull’s back. “Ye’ve grown into a good man.”