Epilogue
All’s Well That—Oh, Never Mind
The music grew distant as Hetty slipped away from the ballroom.
Her cheeks were still flushed from dancing.
She needed a little air to cool down. She had danced every blessed dance since Mr Bramwell’s refusal, even though her feet were aching and all she’d really wanted was to sit down and have something to drink.
But the way he had looked at her still burned in her mind, those cold grey eyes dismissing her as if she were a silly little child in whom he had no interest. Why she had let it enrage her so, she did not know.
She was not so conceited as to believe every fellow she met should fall madly in love with her, or even like her.
But she had never been dismissed so brusquely before, and she could not let it go.
The air was blessedly cool upon her overheated skin as she slipped out onto the balcony.
Cecilia would be furious with her for leaving alone, but she felt ready to do murder.
It was best if she let her temper cool along with every other part of her before some unfortunate soul came off the worse for it.
Lifting her face to the night sky, Hetty sighed.
It was a romantic scene. The moonlight glowed above, reflected in the sea on the horizon.
She loved it here and could quite understand why the little town had become fashionable, for it was quaint and charming, and she was looking forward to spending the summer here with her grandmama.
Below the balcony, the gardens were bathed in silver light, the air redolent with the scent of roses. Hetty leaned against the cool stone balustrade. She told herself not to think of Mr Bramwell. He was a very rude man and that was all there was to it. He was not worth another moment of her time.
Yet his tall, lean figure, that severe, sculpted jaw, and his serious grey eyes lingered in her mind, provoking her.
Movement at the other end of the balustrade caught her attention and Hetty froze as a dark shape emerged from the door and let out a harsh breath of relief. The man—for it was a man—turned then, and the moonlight illuminated his starkly handsome face.
“Devil take it,” he cursed, glaring at her.
“Quite,” she replied tartly. “I came here for a little peace and quiet, and you are bothering me, Mr Bramwell.”
His mouth was hard, possibly a little cruel, as one corner curved up. “Yes, I can tell I bother you, Lady Henrietta.”
There was an insinuating tone to his voice and Hetty flushed, incensed by his arrogance.
He must have divined the depth of her outrage as he sighed and shook his head.
“Look, I’m sorry. I meant no offence. I don’t dance.
That’s all. These affairs, they’re all nonsense.
Why in the world would you want to dance with me, anyway?
You’ve got most of the men in there panting after you. Must you conquer me too?”
“Why, how gracefully you phrase it,” she said, not in the least mollified by this inelegant apology. “And people dance because it is fun, because it is an opportunity to speak to someone you do not know well, and to share a moment of pleasure. Dancing with the right partner is like… like flying.”
He rolled his eyes. “Ludicrous. The waltz is just an opportunity to get a pretty girl in one’s arms in public.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t you take the opportunity?
” she demanded, wishing he was a little less handsome and a lot less enigmatic.
She did not wish to find him interesting, but the truth was this was the most invigorating conversation she’d had all night.
Every other dance with every other man had been…
lovely, but no more than that. They had been charming, polite, sometimes even witty, but not one of them had made her feel anything. Except the one who had refused her.
His eyes glinted, and she just knew he was about to say something abominable.
“Perhaps you are just not pretty enough,” he said, his tone considering as one dark eyebrow lifted.
For a heartbeat something flickered in his expression, perhaps regret or even surprise at his own cruelty, but it vanished in an instant.
Hetty felt the blush begin at her toes and surge all the way to the roots of her hair.
He was being deliberately provoking. She knew he was.
She had been pronounced a diamond of the first water the moment she made her debut, but suddenly that didn’t matter.
This wretched man did not think her pretty and…
and though she ought not care what he thought, it stung.
“I see,” she said tightly, and crossed the balcony to the glass door. Before she could stalk through it, he caught her arm.
“Lady Henrietta, forgive me, I didn’t mean—” he began, his tone a little more conciliatory.
“Let me go,” she demanded, relieved when her voice didn’t tremble.
He released her, and Hetty stalked away into the house, head held high, but she felt his grey eyes watching her all the way to the door. She would make him pay for that, she promised herself as she made her way back to the ballroom. Oh, she would make Mr Gideon Bramwell very sorry indeed.
St Thomas à Becket church, Fairfield, Romney Marsh, East Sussex, 14th July 1816
A breeze tugged at the bright pink ribbons of Angel’s bonnet as she bent and set the lovely display of roses upon the fresh grave.
It was an exuberant arrangement, with blooms of every colour she could find, for she had not known which Jenny preferred.
Their sweet perfume filled the air, chasing away the dank odour of marsh water, and though the sun was stubbornly absent, the day was far warmer than when they had buried her grandfather.
In the distance, seagulls shrieked, but it was quiet here, peaceful, and she hoped Jenny liked it.
It had taken some doing, but with help from Reverend Honeywell, they had finally gained permission to exhume Jenny’s body and to have her buried beside Black Jack Baxter.
Neither Angel nor Leo could abide the idea of leaving her there on Penenden Heath, surrounded by strangers, and with executions going on around her.
“There you go, Pops,” Angel said, smiling as she imagined the two of them reunited, the rogues.
“I did just as you asked me to. I found your treasure, and Jenny, and I brought her roses. I had a splendid adventure too, and I found myself my own wicked pirate, though he’s got a fancy title to hide his dreadful behaviour behind, which is rather wonderful really.
I shall be a duchess one day. Imagine that!
Your little Angel, a real duchess. I bet even you never dreamed I would do such a thing. ”
“Oh, I don’t know, love.”
Angel turned to smile at her husband, who stood beside her.
“Oh?”
“If your Pops knew you as well as you say he did, I reckon being a duchess was something he thought more than likely.”
Angel laughed and took his arm, gazing up at him, her heart alight with love, and with anticipation for the life that lay ahead of them, wide open and ripe for adventure. “Are you suggesting I planned it all?”
“No, not precisely, but you must admit, you determined to have me the moment you set eyes on me,” he said, his expression smug.
“Oh ho!” she cried, laughing at his conceit, which really knew no bounds. “And what about you? You made your mind up I was yours in the very same instant.”
Leo shrugged, grinning at her. “What can I say, love? Like calls to like, and I recognised the devil in your eyes the moment we met.”
Angel glanced around to see if the coachman was watching and then decided she didn’t care if he was.
She had pirate blood in her veins, after all.
So, she sank her hands into her husband’s hair and pulled his head down, kissing him deeply and passionately, and with all the love her wicked little heart contained.