Chapter Forty-Seven
Early evening draped Wolfton Hall in soft gold, the kind of light that made the world briefly suspended. The front lawn lay quiet now, the countess’s carriage long gone, the household settling back into its gentle rhythm.
Inside, Henry slept on the music-room rug, cheek pressed to his wooden soldier, the final notes of his lullaby still lingering in the air like a held breath.
Lilianna stood in the doorway watching him, fingers resting lightly against the frame. Marcus joined her without a sound, not touching her at first, only standing close enough that she felt his steadiness beside her.
“He’s peaceful,” she whispered.
“He is,” Marcus murmured.
She shook her head. “Because of all of us.”
Marcus looked at her then, really looked, his expression softening in a way that still caught her breath.
“You brought music back to this house.”
“No,” Lilianna said gently. “Henry brought it back. I only helped him find it again.”
Marcus stepped closer, sliding his hand around her waist, drawing her into the quiet shelter of his body. She leaned into him without thinking.
“He’ll want you nearby when he wakes,” he said.
“I’ll be here.”
Something old and knotted inside him eased, loosening at last.
He lowered his forehead to hers.
“And I will be here,” he said quietly. “Every morning. Every night. For as long as you’ll have me.”
She touched his jaw, brushing her thumb along the faint roughness of his cheek.
“I intend to have you for a very long time indeed.”
His laugh was soft, warm. “Good.”
He kissed her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth—slow, reverent kisses that carried more meaning than any vow. She turned to him and kissed him properly.
A gentle kiss.
A certain kiss.
A kiss that sealed a life they were already living.
Marcus cupped her cheek, deepening the moment, drawing her closer until she felt the steady rhythm of his breath against her chest. When they parted, she rested her head against his shoulder.
“You know,” she murmured, “the Lyon’s Den will take credit for this.”
Marcus huffed a quiet, amused breath.
“Mrs. Dove Lyon already informed Richard that she always knew I’d need a woman who wasn’t intimidated by a wolf.”
Lilianna laughed softly. “Well. She wasn’t wrong.”
“No,” he said, brushing his lips to her hair. “She wasn’t.”
They stood together for a long moment, watching Henry breathe, listening to the peaceful hush that had settled over Wolfton, a hush Lilianna had helped restore.
At last, Marcus straightened and offered his arm. “Come,” he said. “Walk with me.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.
They stepped onto the terrace as dusk gathered along the horizon, the last warmth of the sun pooling across the gardens. Lanterns flickered to life, casting soft halos over fountains and clipped hedges.
Lilianna breathed in the scent of evening jasmine.
Marcus watched her, making no effort to hide it.
“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I once thought Wolfton would always feel half-empty.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now,” he murmured, “it feels like home.”
She looked up at him, her eyes warm. “It is home,” she said. “For all of us.”
Marcus slid his arm around her waist and drew her gently against him as they stood at the terrace edge, watching the sky fade from gold to lavender.
Inside, Henry stirred, turning in his sleep.
A faint breeze carried the last echo of his lullaby through the open windows.
Marcus bent his head and kissed Lilianna again, slow and certain in the gathering twilight.
A kiss of beginning.
A kiss that needed no witness and no proclamation.
Just them.
Just now.
Just the life they would build, bar by bar, note by note, morning by morning.
When they finally turned back toward the house, Marcus whispered, “Let’s go to our son.”
Lilianna smiled, steady and whole. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
Together, hand in hand, they walked back into Wolfton Hall.
And the door closed softly behind them.