Epilogue #2
“Say that you will consider it,” Dorothea replied. “We are not going anywhere, and neither are you. Time is no longer his to command.”
Cordelia’s gaze dropped. “There is William.”
“Your son may visit Rosewood,” Dorothea suggested briskly. “He will find no shortage of trees to climb, I am certain. And his sister has already informed me that she intends to smother him with attention.”
Gwen smiled. “After our honeymoon, I would be delighted to have him for a time. He can torment Victor’s dogs and terrorize the stable boys. It will be very healthy for him.”
Victor, hearing his name, turned from his conversation with Roderick and another gentleman. “Who is going to torment whom?”
“William will visit us,” Gwen announced. “I am planning his mischief already.”
Victor’s mouth curved. “I see my hounds have an uncertain future.”
“They will adore him,” Gwen assured him. “Children and dogs always do well together. Better than children and fathers, in some cases.”
Dorothea’s eyes softened as she watched them.
Before Gwen could say more, Arabella came bouncing toward them like a particularly enthusiastic songbird, with Eleanor hot on her heels.
“Gwen!” she cried. “I have just met the most delightful man.”
“Of course you have,” Gwen said fondly. “You cannot be left unattended for more than ten minutes.”
“It was not my fault,” Arabella protested. “The Dowager Duchess introduced him. It would have been rude not to be delightful in return.”
Roderick followed a few steps behind, smiling with the easy charm that had always made Gwen slightly wary on other women’s behalf. He bowed to Gwen and Cordelia, then to Dorothea.
“Duchesses. Lady Cordelia,” he greeted. “I feel outnumbered.”
“Duke,” Gwen returned. “You have met my friends, I see.”
“Miss Barker and Miss Arabella,” he acknowledged. “A pleasure. Roderick Hales, devoted friend to your new brother in misery.”
“Misery,” Gwen repeated, amused.
“He is married now.” Roderick shrugged. “No more late nights in taverns, no more reckless wagers, no more opportunities to be a bad influence.”
“Do not let him fool you,” Victor said dryly. “He requires no assistance in that regard.”
Arabella laughed, her eyes shining. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. Gwen has mentioned you often.”
“All falsehoods, I trust?” Roderick asked.
“On the contrary,” Arabella said. “She has described you as charming, irresponsible, and entirely incorrigible.”
He pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “I am wounded. So much honesty.”
Eleanor watched the exchange with a cool, assessing gaze. Her lips curved just enough to be polite, but her posture remained stiff.
“And you must be Miss Eleanor Barker,” Roderick added. “The sensible one.”
“I do not know that I would claim the title,” Eleanor answered. “It is simply that I have had more practice frowning at my sister’s choices.”
Arabella poked her. “Rude.”
Roderick smiled faintly. “A family desperately in need of more chaos, I see. I should fit in nicely.”
Gwen suppressed a smile. Arabella already glowed under his attention, absorbing every word as if it were a compliment. Eleanor’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, catching the rake beneath the charm.
Gwen could practically sense Eleanor’s mind scheming to keep Arabella well out of Roderick’s orbit. It would be interesting to watch.
Dorothea cleared her throat. “You will all have time enough to argue over Wycliffe’s virtues or lack thereof in the coming months. For now, perhaps we should allow the bride and groom to escape.”
“Escape?” Gwen echoed. “We are not prisoners.”
“You are about to be trapped in a carriage together for hours,” Arabella said. “It is nearly the same thing.”
“Only if one of them snores,” Roderick chimed in.
“I do not snore,” Victor scoffed.
Gwen smiled up at him. “So you say.”
The others laughed. Cordelia’s eyes shone with pride and lingering sorrow. Dorothea looked oddly content, as if witnessing something she had not believed she would ever see.
For a moment, with her friends bickering and her mother smiling and Victor’s hand steady on her back, Gwen felt a sense of home that had nothing to do with walls or titles. It had to do with people.
She would build something new with them. Far from Howard. Far from fear.
Rosewood greeted them with open arms.
The drive wound through ancient trees, their branches laced overhead like a cathedral of green. The house itself rose beyond, all mellow stone and tall windows, beautiful without ostentation. It looked like something sturdy and enduring, built to withstand storms and seasons.
Gwen watched it from the carriage window, her hand tucked into Victor’s.
“This is yours now,” he said quietly. “Yours as much as it is mine.”
“It feels like stepping into a story,” she breathed. “One I never thought I would be allowed to read.”
“The story is yours to write,” he answered. “I will merely provide footnotes.”
She laughed, nerves fluttering beneath the sound.
Servants lined the steps as they alighted. Mrs. Hardwick, the housekeeper, curtsied deeply, her eyes kind. The butler bowed. Footmen moved with practiced efficiency. There were smiles, murmured welcomes, and genuine warmth.
No one here had ever seen Howard sneer at her. No one had ever seen her flinch.
For the first time, she entered a house not as a guest, not as a burden, but as its mistress.
They toured the main rooms briefly. The grand hall. The library, which made her heart leap. The music room, where she paused, her fingers brushing the polished edge of the pianoforte.
“We will come back,” Victor said softly. “I have plans for you and that instrument.”
Color rose in her cheeks at the memory of his hands over hers on the keys, the way music and touch had intertwined.
By the time Mrs. Hardwick left them at the door to the master suite, Gwen’s nerves had returned in earnest.
The bedchamber was large and airy, with tall windows and heavy curtains, a grand bed dressed in crisp linen, and a hearth already lit to chase away the evening chill. Someone had placed a bowl of roses on the table, their scent soft and sweet.
The door closed behind them with a quiet click.
Silence fell.
Gwen stood in the middle of the room, suddenly very aware of the weight of her gown, the tightness of her stays, the rapid beat of her heart.
Victor watched her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then his mouth curved.
“Well,” he said, “it seems we are going to have our seventh night, after all.”
Her lips parted. “You are counting.”
“I have been counting since the moment you barged into my study with your ridiculous threats,” he drawled. “We owe one more to the ledger.”
She found herself smiling despite her nerves. “I thought you had decided ledgers were a poor comparison to me.”
“True,” he acknowledged. “You are far more troublesome than a series of numbers. Far more likely to keep me awake at night.” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Fortunately, I no longer have to pretend I dislike being awake because of you.”
She swallowed. “We will have more than seven nights now.”
His gaze softened. “Yes. Every night. For as long as you will allow me.”
Emotion rose so abruptly that it stung her eyes. “You are stuck with me, Greystone. I am terribly opinionated. I cry at sentimental books. I will fill your house with music and your study with interruptions.”
He reached up and brushed a stray curl from her cheek, his touch tender. “I look forward to every vexing minute.”
Her breath hitched.
He lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist the same slow, reverent way he always had.
“Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And no. Not of you.”
“Of what, then?” he murmured.
“Of how much I want this,” she said. “Of how much I feel. It makes everything seem fragile.”
He gave a crooked smile. “I am frightened, too. We will be fragile together and see if that does not make us stronger.”
His fingers moved to the fastenings of her gown. Then he paused, giving her time to step away if she wished.
She did not.
“May I?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He began to undo the tiny buttons with careful fingers, each one a little surrender. The bodice loosened. Air touched skin that had been enclosed all day. His knuckles grazed her collarbone, her shoulders, sending shivers through her.
He pulled the gown down her shoulders, letting it fall in a small pool at her feet. She stood in her chemise and stays, feeling very bare and very cherished all at once.
He shed his own coat and waistcoat, his fingers moving more quickly now.
Gwen watched, fascinated, as the man she had first met in immaculate control unwrapped himself piece by piece until he was only Victor.
He drew her to the bed, sitting first and then guiding her to sit on his knee, as if easing her into something rather than overwhelming her with it.
“Do you remember the first time I asked if I should stop?”
She nodded. “At the lodge.”
“I will ask it every time you need me to,” he vowed. “Even now. Especially now.”
She touched his jaw, the familiar firm line. “Do not stop.”
His mouth claimed hers, slow and deep, pouring everything they had said and not said into the kiss. Her hands slid over his shoulders, into his hair. He tasted of wine and vows and something uniquely him.
They lay back together, the mattress soft beneath them, the world narrowing to the heat of his body and the steady murmur of his voice when he paused to ask if she was still with him, still willing, still sure.
She was.
Each layer that came off made her feel more exposed, but his gaze never turned hungry in a way that frightened her. It warmed. Admired. Revered.
“You are beautiful,” he said more than once, as if the words were a prayer he had been waiting to speak.
She trembled under his hands and his mouth, under the newness of being entirely his, heart and body. There were moments of awkwardness, of laughter quickly swallowed, of tears that surprised her. He kissed them all away.
When he finally moved over her, and they joined fully for the first time as husband and wife, she clung to him, the slight discomfort overwhelmed by the sense of rightness, of belonging.
He whispered her name like a vow.
Later, when the fire had burned low and the sheets were tangled around their legs, she lay with her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“Seven nights,” she murmured sleepily. “Seven years. Seventy. I intend to be a very inconvenient duchess.”
He ran his fingers through her hair. “Good. I have had enough of neatness and silence. Stay inconvenient, Gwen. Keep me human.”
She smiled against his skin. “I will,” she said.
For the first time since she could remember, the future did not feel like a cage or a sentence. It felt like a promise.
The End?