Epilogue #2
Amelia playfully swatted her husband’s arm. She didn’t used to be the sort of woman who playfully swatted men on the arm. And really, she still wasn’t—only Ripon could provoke her into such coquettish behavior.
“I believe your skills are still required on the backdrop, my sweet,” he continued.
As Ripon and Amelia stepped to their task, Archie slid into their place, taking his wife’s hand and delivering a quick kiss to the elegant curve of her neck.
Valentina understood Society’s expectation that she would chastise her husband for such overt and mildly carnal displays of affection.
But why should she when she loved every ounce of his ardor and exuberance—even when it strayed into scandalous territory?
“Time for the music to commence, my love,” he murmured into her ear.
Archie and Valentina had been gone not three seconds when Rory arrived, holding a…
Juliet’s brow crinkled. “Is that a wind chime, husband?”
Rory waved his arm so the tubes would knock against each other. “You know, for ambience.”
Juliet flashed her cousin a knowing smirk. “Delilah, is this your none-too-subtle way of keeping Rory and me as far from the stage as possible?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Delilah. “Your writing skills are unparalleled, my lovely Juliet, but leave the acting to the professionals.”
“I believe the actress who plays Uathach is requesting a few changes to her lines,” Rory cut in.
“No changing the lines,” said Delilah. She possessed more than a smidge of her mother’s purist outlook.
Juliet couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, Delilah, words and language are ever evolving, and I’m no Shakespeare.”
“True, you’re not,” said Rory, utterly serious. “You’re Lady Juliet Macbeth.”
A frisson of warmth stole through Juliet. Her husband often incited that feeling inside her.
Still, she wanted to hear what the actress had to say, so she took her protective husband’s large, masculine hand in hers, and led him—and his wind chime—away.
Sebastian took his place beside Delilah, so they stood quiet in their space of two within the frenetic hustle and bustle of backstage before a performance.
She felt a kick in her belly and placed his hand on the spot.
Together, they waited for another kick in stillness and silence.
Then it came, and they both smiled. “She will be like her mother, methinks,” he said.
“You cannot know we’re having a girl.” Delilah hoped her secret wish for her first child to be female didn’t show on her face—but she suspected it did. “I could be carrying your future heir.”
He shook his head. “You’ll have a girl first, my duchess.”
“Regardless,” she said, consulting her pocket watch yet again, “I’m fairly certain the ghost of Scáthach will haunt me for the remainder of my days for portraying her while heavily with child.”
“Scáthach had a daughter and was the mightiest warrior in Scotland.” Sebastian’s hand found the small of Delilah’s back and pulled her close.
He jutted his chin toward the stage, which sat ready and waiting for the performance.
“You’ll have the audience—and the ghost of Scáthach—sitting in the palm of your hand out there. ”
Delilah stared up at this improbable husband of hers and experienced such a strong surge of tenderness that the breath caught in her chest. “All this”—she swept her arm around—“none of it is possible without you.”
A demurring smile curved his mouth, and he gave his head a small shake. “Delilah—”
He would make light of what she was about to say.
And she wasn’t about to let him.
“It’s your vision, skill, and determination that saw Wimberley Hill go from dream to reality. These actors, painters, writers, musicians… They all have you to thank. And I, Sebastian,” she continued through the emotion clogging her throat, “I have you to thank for this life. Our life.”
She found that she had much to say to this husband of hers, and she couldn’t stop now, though she sensed everyone waiting for her. What she needed to say here, to him, was of much more vital importance than anything she would say on that stage tonight.
Oh, what a changed woman she was that that could be true.
“Without you, I would’ve lived a life of frustration. You freed me.” Delilah rubbed her rounded belly. “And this babe—be it boy or girl—will be the most fortunate child in the world to call you father.”
“I’d like her to call me Papa.”
Delilah wouldn’t be deterred by levity. Archie was her brother, after all, so she was well accustomed to such attempts—and how to sidestep them. “And I am the most fortunate wife in the world to call you husband.” Tears broke free and slipped down her cheeks. “I love our life, Seb. I love you.”
This tender and vulnerable Delilah in his arms, Sebastian couldn’t have predicted her a few years ago.
When he’d first fallen for her, he’d been drawn by the brilliance of her light, but he hadn’t suspected that another light lay behind it.
A softer light. A light warm and nurturing.
A light that invited growth and bloom. He cupped the back of her head and angled his own down for a kiss—a kiss that ever sparked kindling inside him.
Later, after the play was performed and the audience was on its feet in rapturous applause, Delilah rushed backstage as fast as her belly would allow and found Sebastian in the wings. She took his hand and said, “You’re coming with me.”
If Sebastian had known she was going to pull him onto the boards, he might’ve offered some resistance.
But now he stood in a line with all the Windermeres and their respective spouses, and he was glad as he scanned the crowd beyond the stage lights and found the figure he sought. A smile curved his mouth.
Oliver Quincy.
Delilah had been utterly confounded when he’d insisted on inviting the man. “But he’s an absolute twit.”
“True.”
“And he ruined my one night in a featured role with the Albion Players,” she said, the grudge she yet harbored understandably deep.
“Also true.”
Nothing his wife said ran counter to Sebastian’s feelings regarding Quincy, but he’d held firm in his determination to extend the man an invitation. For one simple reason: Sebastian would be forever indebted to Oliver Quincy.
He’d made Delilah run…
To him.
What Sebastian knew was that Oliver Quincy—absolute twit that he was—would always find good favor with the Duke of Ravensworth. He squeezed his wife’s hand and let her warmth—her fire—blaze through him as he met Quincy’s eye and nodded.
Oliver Quincy returned the Duke of Ravensworth’s nod, as he stood with the rest of the audience. Truly, he could hardly countenance his good fortune.
It was a moment of honesty and self-reflection that passed quickly.
Why wouldn’t a duke defer to him, really? And send him invitations to exclusive performances that had the rest of the ton gagging with envy?
No matter that this particular event—really, a duchess heavy with child waddling about a stage wielding a battle axe!—held not the slightest bit of interest for him. But it did confirm the man of quality he was. Others would have to take notice.
And yet…
He couldn’t help but squint against their reflected glory. Gads, those Windermeres were tall and striking…excessively tall and striking. Their height and good looks and general charm bordered on the garish.
It was simply that those Windermeres appeared so very and unapologetically…
In love.
More than a trifle gauche to be so very, unapologetically—excessively—in love.
But also, it had to be admitted, so very, unapologetically—excessively—Windermere.