Epilogue #2
“They called you the kindest couple in London,” Amelia said carefully.
Beatrice shook her head. “Ridiculous.”
Edward leaned in, his voice low. “I rather like it.”
Beatrice let out a quiet breath. “That’s rather more than we deserve.”
Amelia turned to her at once. “No, it isn’t.” Her voice held no doubt. “I’ve seen how you stay, even when it’s difficult. Especially then.”
Edward looked at Beatrice, something unspoken passing between them, and nodded once. “As have I.”
She smiled at him.
Several months ago, she had learned how fragile a reputation could be.
Now, she knew something better had taken its place.
The house laughed. The table was full. The work continued. And it was enough.
The fire had burned warmly by the time they reached their room, the coals glowing like something alive but resting. The curtains were already drawn, the bed turned down, the quiet of the house settling around them like a held breath.
Beatrice crossed to the dressing table and removed the pins from her hair one by one, putting them carefully in a porcelain dish. Her shoulders relaxed as the weight lifted off, her features softer now.
Edward watched from the chair near the hearth.
It still startled her how openly he looked at her, as though choosing her was something he did repeatedly, on purpose.
“You know,” he remarked, “at the rate you’re going, London will wake up one morning and discover you’ve quietly taken control of every charitable organization worth mentioning. You'll probably have Parliament trembling.”
She smiled at her own reflection. “You exaggerate. That sounds exhausting.”
“I am married to facts,” he replied. “And one of them is that you have not sat down properly in three days.”
She crossed the room and perched on the edge of their bed. “I sat this morning.”
“You perched.”
“I perched productively.” She looked down, unbuttoning the cuffs of her dress. “Besides, I already have enough to do.”
“Do you?” Edward’s tone was light but curious. “I was under the impression that you enjoyed collecting responsibilities the way some people collect stray cats.”
She laughed softly, the sound easing something in her chest, and sat more fully on the bed. “I’m writing again.”
That caught his attention.
He leaned forward, with pride shining in his eyes. “You never said.”
“I wasn’t sure I would,” she admitted.
“Under a new name?” he asked lightly.
“No.” Her fingers worried at the hem of her sleeve. “Under none.”
He frowned slightly. “Beatrice—”
“I am Miss Verity,” she said, gently but firmly. “And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”
He studied her, his head tilted slightly, as though turning the thought over from every angle. “Explain.”
“I sent a letter today,” she revealed. “To the editor.”
“And?”
“And Miss Verity has written her last anonymous essay.” She picked at the edge of the quilt as she spoke, grounding herself. “She confessed who she truly is. Why she wrote under a false name. And she made it clear that the last piece—the one tied to the scandal—wasn’t hers.”
Edward exhaled slowly, leaning back. “So the mystery columnist retires?”
“No. There will just be no more hiding,” Beatrice replied. “No more borrowed names. From now on, I’ll write as myself.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Beatrice Pembroke.”
For a moment, Edward only looked at her. Then he stood up and crossed the room, stopping just in front of her.
“Well,” he murmured, “that’s terribly inconsiderate of you.”
She blinked. “How so?”
“I rather liked being married to a scandalous secret,” he drawled. “It gave me something to lord over people.”
She laughed. “You are incorrigible.”
His hands settled on her waist with easy familiarity, his thumbs resting where the fabric warmed beneath his touch. “I prefer you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Unhidden,” he said. “Annoyingly brilliant. Mildly terrifying. The one who doesn’t disappear when things get tough.” He reached down, brushing his thumb over her wrist. “The one who stays.”
Color crept across her cheeks. “You make it sound braver than it feels.”
“Bravery usually feels inconvenient,” he quipped. “And slightly terrifying.”
She laughed again, and he pulled her up against him. His forehead rested briefly against hers.
For a moment, she let herself stay there, gathering her courage. Because this was the part she had rehearsed. And still feared.
She lowered her head to his chest. “Edward…”
“Yes?”
“There’s something else.”
He looked down at her. “You say that as though I should sit.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
He did. Immediately.
She took his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles, buying herself time. His palm was warm, solid. She placed it on her stomach and held it there, as though it might slip away if she didn’t.
The silence stretched.
His breath left him in a quiet, stunned rush. “Beatrice.”
Her heart raced as she waited. For shock. For joy. For fear. For something she might have to manage.
“I’m carrying your child. Our child.”
He stared at her, then at his hand, as though the world had rearranged itself without consulting him.
“You’re certain?” he asked, not because he doubted her, but because the weight of it demanded reverence.
“Yes.”
The word felt solid in her mouth. Real.
He swallowed. His other hand tightened on her waist, not possessive, but grounding—as though anchoring himself.
“Oh,” he breathed.
Then he pulled her into him, sudden and fierce, one hand cradling her back, pulling her close enough that she could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.
“We will not ruin this,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough. “I refuse to let fear touch it. Not this. Not you.”
She laughed softly, emotion clogging her throat. “That sounds like a vow.”
“I’m very serious about my vows,” he stated. “Especially the ones I choose.”
She pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were bright. There was humor there, yes, but also awe. And something like reverence that made her chest ache.
“You aren’t afraid?” she asked, the question slipping free before she could stop it.
He huffed a breath. “I am terrified.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“But,” he continued, cupping her face, his thumbs brushing the dampness beneath her lashes, “I have never wanted anything more in my life.”
Her breath shook.
“We’ll do this properly,” he said. “Together. With honesty. With patience. With more chairs than you think necessary.”
She smiled through her tears. “You’ll insist I sit.”
“Relentlessly.”
She giggled, the sound muffled against his coat. “That’s very commanding of you.”
“I am excellent at managing crises,” he said. “Ask anyone.”
The knot in her chest loosened.
She smiled again, her eyes stinging. “You didn’t even pretend to be calm.”
“I am profoundly not calm,” he said. “But I am very certain.”
She leaned into his touch, the fear she had carried fading at last. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You told me perfectly,” he assured her. “You always do.”
He kissed her then, slow and sure, his hands warm and anchoring. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers and breathed her in, as if committing the moment to memory.
“I love you,” he murmured.
She smiled. “I know. You’re very bad at hiding it.”
“Rude,” he chided, kissing her again.
When they came up for air, she closed her eyes, pressing her hand over his heart. “I love you, too.”
The fire crackled softly as the house slept. And in the quiet, they stayed exactly where they were, as though neither could imagine being anywhere else.
The End?