Epilogue Home
Six months later
Eleanor curled deeper into the leather chair beside the fireplace, her silk wrapper pooling around her bare feet as she observed her husband with growing irritation.
Damien sat at his escritoire, still in his shirtsleeves despite the late hour, scratching calculations across sheets of paper with infuriating focus.
“Are you planning to seduce me with those ledgers, or shall I resign myself to spending the evening alone?” she asked, closing her book with deliberate emphasis.
Damien’s pen paused mid-calculation. “Jealous of arithmetic, Duchess? How charmingly possessive.”
“I’m sitting here in nothing but silk and increasingly violent thoughts about your paperwork,” Eleanor replied tartly.
“Violent thoughts?” His eyebrows rose wickedly. “Do tell. I find bloodthirsty women remarkably arousing.”
“Don’t try to distract me with your depraved appetites. What has you so absorbed that you’re ignoring your perfectly available wife?”
“Westmore Hall,” he said, setting down his pen and turning to study her with the predatory focus that made her stomach flutter despite her annoyance. “I’m calculating how much it will cost to make it habitable for Dominic’s growing family.”
Eleanor’s irritation softened slightly. “You want to restore it for them?”
“I want to foist it upon them,” Damien corrected with a grin, rising to settle on the arm of her chair. “That crumbling pile of stones bled money for decades. Better to let my brother bankrupt himself with noble intentions while I enjoy the comforts of London.”
“How magnanimous of you,” Eleanor said dryly, though she leaned into his warmth.
“Though I suppose we can afford to be generous now that the ecclesiastical court has dismissed Croft’s petition entirely.
Amazing how quickly judges lose interest in marriage challenges when the petitioner is convicted of extortion and fraud. ”
“Indeed,’” he continued. “But Dominic always had sentimental attachment to the ancestral pile. Something about family legacy and noble heritage.” Damien’s voice held fond mockery despite Eleanor’s awareness that Dominic was not the only one.
“Whereas I’ve discovered my legacy is sitting right here in this chair, looking ravishing and plotting my demise. ”
“I wasn’t plotting your demise. I was plotting the demise of your ledgers.”
“Same result—you get my undivided attention.” His hand found the tie of her wrapper. “I approve of your methods, even if your execution lacks subtlety.”
Eleanor swatted his wandering fingers away. “I have plenty of subtlety. I simply choose not to waste it on my husband.”
“Wise woman. I respond much better to direct approaches.” His eyes darkened with familiar heat. “Speaking of which, exactly how violent were these thoughts about my paperwork?”
“Violent enough that you should probably abandon it for safer activities,” Eleanor replied, though her breathless tone rather undermined the threat.
“Such as?”
“Such as reminding your wife why she married you instead of pushing you off the nearest bridge.”
Damien’s laugh was rich. “An excellent suggestion. Though I should warn you, I’ve been thinking about you all evening. You may find my gratitude rather overwhelming.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both,” he said, lifting her from the chair. “I’ve been having the most delicious thoughts about what I wanted to do once I finished those calculations.”
“What sort of thoughts?” Eleanor asked as he carried her toward their bedroom, her arms winding around his neck.
“The sort that would make a courtesan blush,” he replied wickedly. “Shall I demonstrate?”
Eleanor’s response was lost in a soft gasp as his mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear. By the time they reached their bedroom, her wrapper had mysteriously loosened, and Damien’s shirt had somehow lost several buttons.
“You’re terribly efficient at undressing people,” she observed as silk pooled at her feet.
“Years of practice,” he replied with shameless pride, his own clothing joining hers on the floor. “Though I confess, you remain my favorite subject.”
“Only your favorite?” Eleanor asked with mock hurt as he settled her on their bed.
“My only,” he corrected, his voice growing rougher as his hands began their familiar exploration. “The only woman who’s ever made me forget my own name.”
“Good thing it’s embroidered on half your belongings,” Eleanor managed, her words dissolving into soft cries as his touch ignited fires that seemed to burn brighter with each passing month.
“Mmm,” Damien agreed against her throat, his mouth trailing lower. “Though I prefer when you scream it.”
“Arrogant,” she accused breathlessly.
“Accurate,” he corrected with infuriating confidence. “Shall I prove it?”
Eleanor’s reply became incoherent as he proceeded to do exactly that, his devoted attention reducing her to trembling need with practiced skill. When he finally claimed her completely, joining their bodies with urgent passion, she forgot every witty retort she’d ever possessed.
“Mine,” he said fiercely as they moved together, his voice rough with possessive satisfaction.
“Yours,” she agreed, her nails marking his shoulders as pleasure built between them like wildfire. “Completely, utterly, annoyingly yours.”
The climax that claimed them both left Eleanor boneless with satisfaction, her body draped across Damien’s chest as they recovered in the candlelit aftermath.
“So,” she said eventually, tracing lazy patterns across his skin, “how long will this restoration take?”
“Hmm?” Damien’s voice was drowsy with contentment.
“Westmore Hall. For Dominic and Laura.”
“Oh. At least a year.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I hoped we could present it as a generous gift while I secretly celebrated my escape from ancestral responsibility.”
Eleanor laughed against his chest. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m practical. Let Dominic play lord of the manor while I enjoy being a disreputable duke with a scandalous wife who specializes in destroying our enemies.”
“Scandalous?” Eleanor lifted her head to look at him. “I prefer strategically gifted.”
“I prefer magnificent and ruthless with excellent taste in husbands,” Damien replied, his hands resuming their wandering exploration. “Speaking of which…”
“Already?” Eleanor asked with raised eyebrows as she felt his renewed interest.
“I told you I’d been thinking about you all evening,” he said with unrepentant desire. “Did you think I was finished?”
“I was hoping you might show some restraint.”
“Restraint is overrated,” Damien declared, rolling them over. “Besides, I have a reputation to maintain.”
“What reputation?”
“Insatiable libertine who corrupted a perfectly respectable duchess,” he replied with a smirk. “I can’t disappoint Society’s expectations.”
Eleanor’s laughter dissolved into soft sighs as he proceeded to live up to every scandalous rumor ever whispered about the Duke of Westmore and his thoroughly compromised wife.
Hours later, as London slept peacefully around them, Eleanor reflected on the strange turns that had brought them to this perfect moment. What had begun as desperate necessity had become the greatest adventure of her life.
“No regrets?” Damien asked softly, as though reading her thoughts.
“Only that it took us so long to stop being fools,” Eleanor replied, settling more comfortably against his warmth.
“Worth the wait though,” he said. “We make an excellent team.”
“The best,” she agreed. “London’s most dangerous married couple.”
“Dangerous? Duchess, we’re barely getting started,” Damien murmured, his voice already hinting at renewed interest.
Eleanor laughed, perfectly content to spend eternity exactly where she was—in the arms of the inconvenient husband who’d somehow become everything she’d never known she wanted.
The End