Epilogue
EPILOGUE
MONTHS LATER
A lice woke to the rustle of sheets and quilts, the twitter of birds drifting through open windows. Judging by where sunlight fell across the far wall, she had slept far later than usual. She turned toward the form beside her, watching as Victor’s chest rose and fell with each steady breath. Even in sleep, that signature furrow remained between his brows. She reached out, running her fingers through his chestnut hair, and the wrinkle eased momentarily.
He stirred at her touch, eyes opening slowly as he rolled to face her. The intensity of his gaze still caught her off guard, as though he could pry open her chest and examine every corner of her heart. A smile played at his lips as he propped himself on one elbow, the movement causing the blanket to slip lower on his bare chest.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lacey.”
Before she could respond, he moved with the fluid grace she’d come to expect, gathering her into his arms. His lips found her face, pressing playful kisses across her skin until their shared laughter filled the air. When he pulled back to study her face, his expression held such contentment that it made her chest ache.
They had shared countless kisses in their many months of marriage, yet each one still felt like the first. As their lips met again, a breeze carried the scent of lavender and herbs from the garden through the open windows. The sounds of morning drifted up to their small cottage bedroom, reminding them that the day wouldn’t wait forever.
But perhaps an hour more would suffice.
Victor stood at the drawing-room window later that morning, wearing his robe, his hair still mussed from bed. He studied the newspapers spread before him with sharp attention, scanning for any mention of Montrose, Lacey, or Gainsbury.
“Come to tea,” Alice called from the breakfast table as she added two sugar cubes to his cup, stirring with care.
He released a long breath and joined her, spreading the papers across the table before reaching for the teapot to prepare her cup exactly as she preferred it.
“Anything of interest?” she asked.
“Nothing this week. We may have weathered the worst of it.”
He placed her steaming cup before her with gentleness, turning it so it was angled just so.
Though Victor had forbidden her from reading the society pages, she knew he ensured every gossip rag and newspaper arrived at their cottage. Each edition went directly into the fire after his careful scrutiny. Their story had caused quite the stir—first the broken engagement to a duke, then their own hasty marriage at Gretna Green. They’d retreated to this small cottage owned by Victor’s family, far from London’s prying eyes, but he remained vigilant about monitoring their reputation.
“I do not understand how you can read any of it,” she said.
He reached across the table to grasp her hand, his thumb tracing circles on her palm.
“Information gathering is the best part of any defense.”
She rolled her eyes, earning a cheeky grin. As he finished his tea and reached for a second cup, something seemed to occur to him. He rose suddenly, crossing to the entrance hall.
“Speaking of news, letters arrived.”
He returned with a small stack, passing one to Alice. Her stomach lurched as she recognized her mother’s handwriting. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing.
Though she had written frequently to Mrs. Montrose, replies had been scarce. Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal, and something fluttered to the table. Her breath caught as she lifted the object—her mother’s daylily pin glinted in the morning light. Victor watched her carefully as he opened his own correspondence, his protectiveness clear in the way he studied her reaction.
Alice read the letter twice, hardly daring to believe its contents.
“She’s invited us for Christmastide,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “At their residence.”
“Any mention of the elopement?”
She shook her head, scanning the words again. There was no reference to her disappointing choice, no comparison to her mother’s own indiscretions, no lecture. Mrs. Montrose wrote as though the scandal had never occurred. But the daylily pin said more than any letter could.
“I believe it is a peace offering,” Alice muttered.
“Thank heavens. I was not looking forward to writing a scathing reply to my mother-in-law.”
His attention returned to his own letter, his eyebrows rising sharply as he stood in shock. For a moment, Alice thought something was terribly wrong, that they had received bad news of the worst kind.
“What is it?”
“An invitation.” He passed the heavy cream-colored paper to her.
The elegant script announced the forthcoming nuptials of His Grace, Elias Yates, Duke of Gainsbury, to a Miss Eleanor Stanton. The wedding breakfast would be hosted at his sister’s London manor.
“Well,” Victor said, a knowing smile playing at his lips, “it seems your scandal did not hinder his pursuit of happiness.”
“I am glad,” Alice replied. “Though our presence at a London wedding will certainly cause quite the stir.”
Victor crossed to her chair, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“All will be well.”
And she believed him.
Months had taught her more about Victor than their fortnight at Fairfax Hall ever could. She’d learned that nightmares of the war still plagued him, sending him pacing their creaking floors in the darkest hours. She discovered his love of being read to—he would rest his head in her lap while she combed her fingers through his hair, her voice carrying them through histories, adventures, and poetry until well past midnight.
And she learned the true depth of his grief.
She gave him space when the darkness took him, when memories of Violet seemed to press against his chest until he could hardly breathe. He would always return to Alice, gathering her in his arms as though she might slip through his fingers like autumn mist. They would stand locked together, heartbeats gradually falling into rhythm, until the shadows receded.
He had learned her patterns too. When the unbidden thoughts grew too loud, threatening to drag her under, he would appear at her side as though summoned. His fingers would thread through hers, tugging her outside for long walks down empty country roads. Sometimes he would goad her into sparring matches that inevitably ended quite differently than they had at Fairfax Hall.
Life was not perfect. Victor still spoke with his mouth full and left his belongings strewn across the cottage. Some days, the darkness crept closer than others. But they had carved out their own paradise here—not the pristine garden of a grand estate, but something wilder and more rare.
As Alice studied him across the breakfast table, his attention already returned to the morning papers, she found herself smiling. She wouldn’t trade this—any of it—for all the duchy titles in England.
The gifted daylily pin caught the morning light, and Alice lifted it, turning it between her fingers. She was no Lady Rose, but Alice had found her own garden to bloom in, thorns and all.