Epilogue
TWO WEEKS LATER
It had been enough time for the house at Blackmere Park to return to its familiar rhythms.
Not unchanged. Nothing truly returned unchanged after a masked man entered a duchess’s bedchamber and after constables hauled a traitor from the servants’ hall.
But the corridors had resumed their quiet.
The staff moved with renewed vigilance. The locks were checked twice each night.
Pritchard’s gaze had grown sharper, as if he could read danger in a misplaced candlestick.
And Eleanor had laughed again.
Not often, not lightly. But it had happened. A real sound, warm and startled, when James had made some dry remark about Roderick’s dramatic suffering in her dress. A soft laugh that reminded James he had nearly lost her.
He had also learned that peace did not erase consequences.
It merely gave them room to arrive.
James sat across from Eleanor in their carriage as it rolled toward Norman Barker’s townhouse, the city coming into view through the window as the road narrowed and the sound of other wheels and hooves grew louder.
Eleanor’s hands were folded in her lap, gloved and still. Her posture was composed, but James could see the tension in her shoulders.
“You have not heard from Arabella?” he asked.
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to him. “Not in three days.”
James frowned. “That is unlike her.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said quietly. “Which is why I am anxious.”
James reached across the space and brushed his knuckles lightly over her gloved hand. “If something were wrong, she would send word.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “Unless she was prevented.”
James did not like the way her voice steadied on that last word. It suggested she had already suspected what he was beginning to understand.
“Your father sent the invitation himself,” James said. “He said he had news.”
Eleanor gave a humorless smile. “My father always has news when he wants something.”
James did not argue.
The carriage slowed as they approached the townhouse. A footman opened the door, the foyer bright and overly formal, as if Norman Barker believed grandeur could disguise his sins.
Norman himself waited in the drawing room.
So did Charlotte.
So did Arabella.
James’s attention went to Arabella first.
She looked well enough, color returned to her cheeks, her bruising nearly faded. But her expression was carefully controlled. She stood near the window with her hands clasped tightly before her, as if she had been instructed not to sit.
Her eyes met Eleanor’s, and the smallest shift in her expression told James everything.
Arabella had not been silent by choice.
Eleanor approached at once. “Arabella.”
Arabella stepped forward and embraced her sister quickly, almost fiercely. “I am glad you came.”
Eleanor pulled back slightly. “Why have you not written?”
Arabella’s gaze flicked to Norman, then back. “It has been difficult.”
Norman cleared his throat.
James turned to him, the irritation in his chest sharpening into something colder. Norman Barker wore a satisfied expression, the kind of expression a man wore when he believed he had regained control of a situation.
“Duke of Langford,” Norman said, voice oily with attempted warmth. “Duchess.”
James inclined his head, polite and distant. “St. George.”
Norman’s mouth tightened briefly at the coolness, then he smiled again as if it was all a game he intended to win.
“I have called you here,” Norman announced, “because I have excellent news.”
Charlotte beamed. “It is splendid.”
Arabella did not beam.
Eleanor’s gaze sharpened. “What news?”
Norman looked pleased by the question. “I have found the perfect match for Arabella.”
James felt Eleanor go rigid beside him.
Arabella’s eyes lowered.
Norman continued as if he had not noticed either reaction. “The gentleman will arrive in two days’ time. He intends to make a formal offer.”
Eleanor’s voice was controlled. “A formal offer of what?”
Norman lifted his chin. “Her hand.”
Silence fell.
Charlotte clasped her hands dramatically. “We shall have such a wedding.”
Arabella’s jaw tightened.
James watched Eleanor’s face. He saw the moment she understood. Not guessed. Understood.
“What is his name?” Eleanor asked.
Norman waved a hand. “His name is irrelevant. What matters is his station.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “His station?”
Norman smiled broadly. “A marquess.”
Charlotte added brightly, “A very wealthy marquess.”
Eleanor’s voice stayed calm, but James could hear the edge beneath it. “And why is he interested in Arabella?”
Norman’s smile sharpened. “Because she is beautiful, accomplished, and connected.”
Connected. James almost laughed. Norman was still trying to sell what he had already devalued for years.
Eleanor lifted her chin. “How old is he?”
Norman’s smile faltered for the first time. “Age is not the point.”
“It is a point,” Eleanor replied.
Norman’s tone became more defensive. “He is established. He owns land. He has a title above ours. Arabella will never receive a better offer.”
James stepped forward slightly. “How old is he?”
Norman looked annoyed that the question had come from James. “Your Grace, surely you understand that a man’s maturity is an advantage.”
James’s voice remained even. “Answer the question.”
Charlotte laughed lightly. “Oh, really, must we dwell on it? Arabella is fortunate. Everyone knows it.”
Eleanor turned slightly toward Charlotte. “Do you know his age?”
Charlotte shrugged. “He is older. That is all.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed. “Older than what? Older than Arabella? Older than Father?”
Charlotte’s smile thinned. “Eleanor, do not be dramatic.”
Arabella’s voice cut in, quiet but firm. “I do not want to marry him.”
Norman’s face hardened. “Arabella.”
Arabella lifted her chin. “I said I do not want to marry him.”
Norman’s voice rose. “You do not understand what is best for you.”
Eleanor stepped forward. “You do not understand what is best for her.”
Norman’s eyes narrowed. “Mind your tone.”
Eleanor’s tone remained controlled, but her words were iron. “I will mind nothing when you are trying to sell my sister to a man old enough to be her grandfather.”
Norman snapped, “He is not that old.”
James’s gaze hardened. “How old?”
Norman’s mouth tightened. He hesitated, the delay speaking louder than an answer.
James took a step closer. “St. George.”
Norman’s voice came out curt. “He is older than I am.”
Eleanor’s face went still. “Older than you.”
Norman’s jaw flexed. “And yet he is a marquess. He has influence. He has a seat. He has resources.”
James felt Eleanor’s anger burn hotter beside him. He could almost hear her restraint cracking.
Arabella’s hands clenched. “I will not.”
Norman turned on her. “You will.”
Eleanor’s voice sharpened. “No. She will not.”
Norman’s face reddened. “Do you forget your place, Eleanor?”
James spoke before Eleanor could. His voice was quiet, but it cut cleanly through the room.
“St. George,” James said, “you should remember yours.”
Norman stiffened. “Excuse me?”
James did not raise his voice. He did not need to. “You are speaking to the Duchess of Langford. You will not threaten her.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “How dare you address Father like that?”
James did not look at her. “I am addressing him accurately.”
Norman’s expression twisted, pride battling fear. “This is family business.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “Then you should have behaved like family.”
Norman’s voice rose again, anger breaking through his restraint. “Arabella will marry him. It is decided.”
Eleanor’s gaze went cold. “If you try to compromise her future, I will inform the ton of your association with Lady Whitcombe.”
Norman froze.
James watched the man’s face change, the color draining as he understood the implications. A scandal of that nature would not simply embarrass him. It would destroy what leverage he had left in society.
Charlotte’s lips parted. “Eleanor, you would not.”
Eleanor’s eyes stayed on her father. “I would.”
Norman’s jaw worked as if he wanted to shout, but the threat had found its mark.
James added calmly, “And if Arabella wishes it, she will no longer be under your care.”
Norman’s eyes snapped to him. “You cannot.”
James’s tone remained even. “I can.”
Eleanor turned to James, surprise flickering through her anger.
James met her gaze. “If she wishes it.”
Eleanor’s heart warmed in a way that made her throat tighten. She had spent so long fighting alone. Having him beside her felt like stepping into sunlight after years of shadow.
Arabella’s eyes widened. “You mean it?”
James nodded once. “If you wish to come to Blackmere Park, or to Langford House when we are in town, you will.”
Arabella’s face brightened with immediate relief. “I would love nothing more than that.”
Norman’s face contorted. “This is outrageous.”
James’s voice was calm. “Then consider it the consequence of your choices.”
Eleanor looked at her husband and could not stop the small smile that curved her lips.
James saw it, and something in his chest shifted, steady and certain.
He turned toward Arabella. “Go and pack.”
Arabella blinked. “Now?”
James nodded. “Immediately.”
Arabella’s smile was radiant. “Yes, Your Grace.”
She turned and nearly ran from the room.
Norman sputtered, “This is not finished.”
James met his gaze. “It is.”
The carriage door closed with a decisive click, sealing them into a space suddenly too small for anything but honesty.
James exhaled slowly, leaning back against the cushioned seat as the carriage remained stationary, waiting for Arabella to finish packing. Outside, voices moved distantly, but inside there was only Eleanor, her warmth beside him, her presence no longer something he feared losing.
Eleanor turned toward him, her expression softened by the quiet. “You did not have to do that.”
James met her gaze. “Yes, I did.”
“You challenged my father,” she said. “In his own house.”
James’s mouth curved faintly. “I have found that I no longer care where I do things, only that I do them properly.”
Her lips curved into a smile that reached her eyes. “I suppose that is one advantage of marrying a duke.”
James chuckled under his breath. “If that is the case, I am disappointed you waited this long to wield it.”
She laughed softly, then grew serious again. “Thank you.”
“For what?” James asked.
“For seeing her,” Eleanor said. “For not dismissing her wishes as inconvenient.”
James’s gaze softened. “I saw myself in her. Cornered. Spoken over. Told that obedience was virtue.”
Eleanor’s fingers brushed his sleeve. “You could have chosen the easier path.”
“I chose you,” James replied simply.
The words seemed to settle between them, weighty and certain.
Eleanor shifted closer, her knee brushing his. “You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?” James asked.
“Choosing me,” she said quietly.
James turned toward her fully now. “I intend to keep doing it.”
Her breath caught. “Even when it is difficult?”
“Especially then,” he said.
She smiled, that small, knowing smile that had undone him from the start. “I love you.”
James felt the words land in him, steady and grounding, not a blow but a truth he had been carrying for weeks without naming.
“I love you too,” he said.
Eleanor’s hand came to rest against his chest, over his heart, as if confirming it was real. “Say it again.”
James leaned in, close enough to feel her breath. “I love you.”
She kissed him before he could say more.
It was unhurried, full, nothing stolen or restrained. Her fingers curled into his coat, and James responded instinctively, one hand at her waist, drawing her closer. The world beyond the carriage ceased to exist entirely.
When they parted, Eleanor rested her forehead against his. “We are going to have to stop meeting like this in enclosed spaces.”
James smiled. “I am not convinced that is a problem.”
Her laugh was quiet and warm. “You say that now.”
He brushed his thumb along her jaw. “I say it sincerely.”
She tilted her head, eyes darkening just slightly. “We are alone. For the moment.”
James’s pulse quickened. “Are you suggesting something, Duchess?”
“I might be,” she replied.
James leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You are aware that I have spent the last several weeks exercising remarkable restraint.”
“And you would like to be rewarded?” she asked lightly.
“I would like to be uninterrupted,” he said.
Her lips curved. “That might be ambitious.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, the promise of more threaded through the contact. Eleanor’s hand slid up to his shoulder, and James allowed himself one brief moment of indulgent anticipation.
The carriage door flew open.
James jerked back with a sharp inhale, his hand still at Eleanor’s waist.
Arabella stood there, a valise in one hand, a bonnet tucked beneath her arm, her expression bright and unapologetic.
“I am ready,” she announced cheerfully. “I do hope we are not late.”
Eleanor burst into laughter.
James closed his eyes. “Of course you are.”
Arabella glanced between them, amusement lighting her eyes. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Eleanor said quickly, far too quickly.
James opened his eyes and fixed Arabella with a look. “Yes.”
Arabella grinned. “How unfortunate.”
James muttered, “This is becoming a pattern.”
Eleanor laughed again, unabashed now. “You did rather invite it.”
“I offered you refuge,” James replied. “Not a guarantee of interruption.”
Arabella climbed into the carriage, settling herself opposite them with obvious satisfaction. “You removed me from an unwanted engagement and my father’s authority. I consider occasional inconvenience a fair price.”
James sighed dramatically. “I may have miscalculated.”
Eleanor reached for his hand, squeezing it. “You may have shot yourself in the foot.”
Arabella tilted her head. “I beg your pardon?”
Eleanor smiled sweetly. “My husband has just realized that rescuing his sister-in-law comes with consequences.”
Arabella’s grin widened. “Oh, I intend to be an excellent consequence.”
James groaned softly. “I see that now.”
The carriage finally lurched into motion, wheels turning as they pulled away from St. George Manor.
Eleanor leaned into James, her shoulder fitting easily beneath his chin. “You do not regret it?”
James tightened his hold on her hand. “Not for a moment.”
Arabella watched them with open satisfaction. “You are insufferably happy.”
Eleanor smiled. “We have earned it.”
James glanced down at his wife, warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with victory or titles or justice served.
The End?