Epilogue
Three weeks later, Roman stood at the altar of the estate chapel, his hands clasped firmly behind his back to keep them from shaking. The afternoon sunlight poured through the ancient stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor in brilliant geometric patterns of ruby and gold.
Beside him, Orson adjusted his pristine white cravat for the fourth time in two minutes. "She is late," Orson whispered, leaning in slightly. "Do you think she packed her canvas bag again?" Thelma had relayed that little bit to the men at dinner one night, causing everyone to chuckle.
"She is not running," Roman replied, his voice entirely steady, though his heart hammered a frantic, heavy rhythm against his ribs. "She is likely arguing with the baby."
As if summoned by his words, the heavy iron hinges of the chapel doors groaned open. The music, played softly by a string quartet in the corner, swelled to fill the high vaulted ceiling.
Roman stopped breathing.
Thelma stood framed in the arched doorway, illuminated by the bright afternoon sun.
She wore a gown of heavy ivory silk, completely devoid of the excessive lace and pearls favored by London society.
It was simple, elegant, and breathtaking.
Her exquisite auburn hair was pinned up, woven with tiny white blossoms from the estate’s gardens.
And resting firmly on her left hip, wearing a miniature dress of matching ivory silk, was Liliana.
The baby had one chubby fist tangled in the delicate tulle of Thelma's short veil, happily chewing on the fabric. Thelma did not look embarrassed. She did not look flustered. She caught Roman’s eye from down the long aisle, offered a helpless, brilliant smile, and began to walk toward him.
"She is bringing the infant down the aisle," Orson murmured, sounding profoundly scandalized. "Patricia was supposed to hold her."
"Liliana seems to have refused to be put down," Roman said, his chest expanding with an overwhelming, absolute adoration. "And it appears Thelma refused to argue with her on her wedding day. It is perfectly right."
Roman stepped forward as they reached the altar.
He took Thelma’s free hand, his long fingers wrapping securely around hers.
Her palm was warm, her pulse beating rapidly against his thumb.
He looked down into her brown eyes, seeing the exact same desperate, wonderful relief that he felt mirroring back at him.
The ceremony was mercifully short. The vicar spoke the traditional words of the liturgy, but Roman barely heard them. He kept his gaze locked on Thelma, his thumb tracing the smooth ridge of her knuckles.
Directly beside him, a loud, distinct sniff echoed in the quiet chapel.
Roman cut his eyes to the right. Orson was aggressively dabbing at his nose with a square of white linen. The Viscount’s pale blue eyes were entirely red.
Orson caught Roman looking. "It is the dust," Orson hissed quietly. "These ancient stone buildings are practically held together by mildew and centuries of airborne debris."
Roman wisely chose not to comment.
Halfway through the exchanging of the rings, Liliana grew bored. She wiggled forcefully in Thelma’s grip, making a small, high-pitched noise of protest. Thelma gently set the baby down on the stone floor, smoothing the skirts of the ivory dress.
Liliana immediately turned and waddled toward the pews. She stopped at the second row, where her grandmother sat in a high-collared dress of dark plum velvet. Liliana patted his mother’s knee, demanding attention.
The Dowager Duchess of Langley did not hesitate. She did not look around for a nursemaid. She reached down, placing her hands firmly under Liliana’s arms, and lifted her grandchild onto her lap.
She arranged the baby comfortably, her movements slow, carrying the heavy deliberateness of a woman who fully intended to execute this simple action perfectly, every single time, from that day forward.
Roman watched his mother wrap her arms securely around Liliana’s waist. She looked up and caught his eye across the short distance.
There was no defiance in her expression.
There was no cold aristocratic pride. A quiet, fragile understanding passed between them in the colored light of the chapel.
It was not a complete forgiveness yet, but as Roman looked at his mother holding his sister’s child, he recognized it as the very first paving stone on the long road toward it.
In the row directly behind his mother sat Albert Preston. The magistrate’s hands rested heavily on his knees, gripping the fabric of his trousers.
His eyes were bloodshot long before the music ever started. As Roman watched, Thelma turned to hand her small bouquet to Nicolette Upperton. Mr. Preston stared at his daughter's profile. His lips moved, forming a single, silent word. Roman read the shape of the syllables.
Mary. The name of his late wife.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the vicar concluded, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
Roman did not wait for the final blessing.
He pulled Thelma flush against his chest, his hands sliding to her waist, and kissed her.
It was a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of the clear Yorkshire air and the absolute, irrefutable end of their terrible month of hiding.
Thelma wrapped her free arm around his neck, kissing him back with a fierce, possessive heat that made the rest of the room completely vanish.
The reception was held on the manicured lawns of the southern gardens, beneath the shade of the ancient, sprawling oak trees.
Orson spent the entirety of the afternoon aggressively denying his tears to absolutely anyone who brought them up.
"It was a severe allergic reaction to the floral arrangements," Orson declared smoothly, taking a long sip of champagne from a crystal flute.
Nicolette stood beside him, wearing a dark green silk dress that caught the sunlight perfectly. She looked up at the Viscount, a wicked, delighted smile curving her lips. "Lord Ashmore, there were no floral arrangements in the chapel. There was only stone and glass."
"Then I am allergic to the vicar," Orson replied with total conviction, refusing to break eye contact. Nicolette laughed, a bright, lingering sound, and leaned her shoulder comfortably against his arm. Orson did not move away.
Near the stone terrace, Patricia stood behind a massive, three-tiered cake covered in pristine white icing and decorated with crystallized lemon slices. The cook had spent three entirely sleepless nights constructing the masterpiece without receiving a single order to do so.
"It is truly a marvel of culinary architecture, Patricia," the local magistrate complimented, holding out his plate.
Patricia did not smile. She did not offer a polite curtsy. She simply sliced a massive piece of the cake with a silver knife, shoved it onto his porcelain plate, and pushed it aggressively across the linen-covered table.
"It is flour, butter, and sugar, sir," Patricia said sternly. "It is meant to be eaten, not stared at like a museum exhibit. Move along before the icing melts."
The magistrate blinked, thoroughly intimidated, and hurried away. Thelma, standing nearby with Roman, pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle a completely unladylike snort of laughter.
As the sun began to lower toward the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the grass, Mr. Preston approached them.
The older man stopped in front of Thelma.
He did not say anything. He reached out and pulled her into a tight, desperate embrace.
He held onto her for a long, quiet minute, his chin resting against the top of her head.
When he finally stepped back, his eyes were shining with fresh moisture, but his face carried a profound, unburdened relief.
He turned to Roman. Mr. Preston held out his hand.
Roman took it, returning the firm, solid grip.
"Thank you," Mr. Preston said, his voice thick and rough. He held Roman’s gaze, entirely dropping the formal titles of the peerage. "Take care of them, Roman."
"I will," Roman promised, the two words holding the absolute weight of iron. Mr. Preston nodded once, turned, and walked toward his waiting carriage.
The past three weeks had moved with a brutal, efficient speed regarding the fallout of the Farnham abduction.
Daphne Vane had formally faced the magistrate's charges.
Rather than endure a highly public, ruinous trial, the Earl of Harworth had capitulated completely.
He had paid a massive, staggering sum of money in reparations to the Langley estate.
That was in conjunction with satisfying Roman’s absolute demand, that the earl send Daphne away.
And thankfully he was there to witness her departure as she was sent off to the obscure, impoverished relative in the far north of Scotland, a location practically devoid of the society ballrooms she prized.
Within a month, Lady Daphne’s name had been entirely erased from the London society pages.
The Morning Post, true to the fickle nature of the ton, had completely lost interest in the Langley birth record after merely two weeks, turning their aggressive focus toward a massive banking scandal in the city.
The storm had passed, leaving the estate standing stronger than before.
The most unexpected resolution, however, had come a week before the wedding.
Roman formally hired Miss Eliza Hartley. The real one.
Thelma had insisted on meeting the woman on her very first day. He followed Thelma as she walked into the nursery to find the pragmatic, sturdy woman unpacking a small trunk.
"Miss Hartley," Thelma had said, stopping in the doorway, her hands twisting nervously in the fabric of her skirt.
"I must apologize to you. I took your position.
I stole your name. I intercepted your travel funds and used them for my own carriage fare.
It was a terrible, desperate thing to do, and I am deeply sorry. "