Epilogue
Rule Seven:
Never Question a Happy Ending
A Dazzling Winter Night, Two Years Later
Laurence was lying on his stomach before a roaring hearthfire, pretending to sleep. The rumor about expectant wives being insatiable was one he’d found to be agreeably true.
Persephone was killing him in the best way possible.
“I know you’re awake,” she whispered into his ear, her plump breast pressing into his shoulder. “I can hear you thinking.”
With a laugh, he rolled to his back, snaked his arm around her waist, and pulled her atop him.
“You can’t blame a man for trying to catch his breath.
Sweetheart, it’s only six hours before we’re due at the church for Dare Montrose’s wedding.
Somehow, he swindled me into playing the pianoforte as everyone is arriving. How bloody dreadful.”
She kissed him, lingering, candlelight bathing her face in gold. “I hope his is as lovely as ours was.”
Laurence closed his eyes to the memory of Persephone in the charming little chapel, surrounded by orange blossom, white lilies, and friends, if not family. He’d wanted more for her, he wanted the lot, but she told him every day that he was all she needed.
“Now a duke’s son and daughter are officially members of the Rookery Rebels. Oh, Laurie, I’m thankful to not be the lone aristocrat in the bunch.”
“Dorsey has high hopes for society’s acceptance, or at least its tolerance,” Laurence murmured drowsily, delighted he didn’t have to court those dragons. His wife didn’t care. “You and Dare advance his cause, of which he has many.”
“Dorsey has four sisters,” his wife reminded him. “Responsibility, and then some. I understand his concern. They have substantial dowries but, unfortunately, few connections. Exactly what a reprobate prefers, meaning he has to be on constant guard.”
A jolt of terror raced along Laurence’s spine. He would someday have the responsibility of protecting a vulnerable young woman as she navigated life. A daughter, possibly, would arrive as soon as spring.
He was overjoyed and scared stiff.
“You’re going to be a wonderful father, darling,” Persephone said, taking his hand and placing it over her rounded belly.
He felt the movement, his heart beginning to race. “Did you—I think she—”
Persephone laughed and kissed his neck, snuggling against him. “It happened for the first time this morning. I wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m nervous, Perce,” he whispered.
Her fingers curled over his, holding him there as their baby moved again, small and astonishing beneath his palm. “So am I. But my happiness drowns out the fear.”
That helped. Of course it did. Persephone had a way of making terror feel like something he could carry, if she carried the other half.
He turned his face into her hair, breathing her in—the lavender soap she favored, the ink she always managed to smear on her fingers, the warm, beloved scent of her skin. The woman who had taken his worst fears, written them into rules, and then broken every single one.
“You should put that in your next book,” he murmured, the hearth emitting a pop that sent a flash of light sparking across them. “The soon-to-be-father, terrified of a babe no larger than a loaf of bread.”
“A very small loaf,” she said solemnly.
“A terrifying loaf.”
Her laughter moved through him, low and breathless, and he felt it everywhere.
Across the room, pages from her latest manuscript lay scattered over the desk, proof that scandal had not ended her.
It had made her a popular authoress. One whispered over in drawing rooms by the very people who pretended not to own a copy.
Laurence, for his part, had survived respectability better than expected. The Rookery Rebels were solvent, mostly legal, and dangerously close to admired. Dorsey complained about it daily.
Persephone’s hand tightened over his. “No more worrying tonight.”
“I’ll try.” And he would.
“Never argue with forever, Laurie,” she said, and kissed him softly.
He smiled against her mouth, one hand spread over the life they had made, the other drawing her closer. “I wouldn’t dare.”
The End