Epilogue #2
Just then Hector wagged his thick tail so hard against the sideboard that the entire lace tablecloth shook rhythmically. Penelope jerked so suddenly that she nearly lost her hold on her crystal wineglass.
And then, without warning, the room tilted.
It was only a slight, brief wave of dizziness. Just enough to make the candlelight blur. Just enough.
Malcolm noticed the microscopic shift instantly. His large hand shot out, his fingers wrapping gently but firmly around her wrist beneath the table. “Penelope? What is it?”
“I am perfectly fine,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“You have gone completely pale. Your skin is white.”
Amelia narrowed her eyes thoughtfully from across the table, a sudden, sharp look of realization crossing her features. Violet noticed it a millisecond later, her wineglass freezing mid-air as she went completely, utterly still.
“Oh,” Violet said softly, a breathless gasp escaping her lips. “Oh, my.”
Penelope looked up, meeting Violet’s shining eyes. Then she looked at Amelia, who was grinning widely. Finally, slowly, Penelope lowered her gaze down toward her untouched glass of rich red wine, a sudden, beautiful understanding washing over her soul.
Malcolm’s intense gaze followed hers, tracing the path of her eyes down to the wine, then back up to her face. His large hand tightened around her wrist. The silence stretching over the dinner table became suffocatingly heavy.
Benedict blinked once, twice, his jaw dropping slightly. “Good God. Is it…?”
A sudden, brilliant heat flooded Penelope’s face, her cheeks turning a beautiful rose pink. Nicholas looked between all of the adults in complete and utter confusion, his fork hovering. “What? What is happening? Why is everyone staring?”
Malcolm was staring at her now, his dark eyes wide, his chest completely still as though he had forgotten how to draw breath into his lungs.
Penelope’s heart fluttered wildly, like a trapped bird, but a profound, overwhelming joy bloomed in her stomach. She smiled, her eyes crinkling with tears, despite her best efforts to remain composed.
“I believe,” she said softly, her voice vibrating with emotion into the quiet room, “that before the next winter arrives, we shall have to open the nursery at Brigrock Hall.”
For one full second, nobody in the grand room moved a single muscle.
Then Nicholas shouted at the top of his lungs, “Really?” nearly launching his entire body across the silver centerpieces.
Penelope laughed through a happy sob. “Really, darling.”
“I am going to be a brother? A real brother?”
“Yes, sweetling,” she laughed.
Nicholas looked absolutely thunderstruck, his small face transitioning from shock to a delighted, booming grin, before turning deeply, intensely serious. “This is excellent news. I shall teach the baby absolutely everything. How to sail, how to shoot, and how to trick the servants.”
Malcolm finally found his voice, his deep baritone cracking slightly. “You know almost nothing yourself, boy.”
Penelope looked toward Malcolm then. He had not moved a single inch. Not once. His dark eyes were fixed unblinkingly on her face, and the sheer, raw emotion crossing his rugged features was so completely open that her chest tightened with a beautiful pain.
Joy. Absolute terror. Profound wonder. And a love so deep it looked like a prayer.
Slowly, deliberately, Malcolm reached completely beneath the table, his large, scarred hand sliding into hers, his fingers tangling with hers with a fierce, possessive intensity.
“You are certain?” he asked quietly, his voice trembling in a way she had never heard before.
She nodded, her eyes shining with tears. “I am certain, Malcolm.”
His fingers tightened around hers instantly, holding onto her as if she were his very life.
Benedict let out a loud, triumphant laugh that echoed off the high ceiling, reaching eagerly for the crystal decanter to pour more wine. “Well! Clearly, we celebrate! Bring more champagne!”
“To the children of the Duke and Duchess of Brigrock,” Violet declared, her voice thick with happy tears as she raised her glass to Penelope.
“Hear, hear,” Amelia agreed, her eyes glittering with genuine happiness for her niece.
Malcolm huffed a low, emotional laugh beside Penelope, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of her hand. She looked at him again, seeing that he still had not quite recovered from the sheer magnitude of the news.
The sight made her love him so fiercely, so boundlessly, she hardly knew what to do with the emotion.
Later that night, after the guests had finally departed into the snowy London streets and Nicholas had finally surrendered to sleep—after forty solid minutes of frantic, hyperactive discussion about baby names, miniature horses, and whether puppies could live in a nursery—Penelope stood beside the roaring hearth fire in Malcolm’s private chambers.
She was dressed in a soft, cream silk dressing gown, slowly brushing out the long, dark waves of her chocolate hair. The large room smelled faintly of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and warm wax.
Behind her, the heavy oak door closed quietly. She watched his reflection through the silver mirror as Malcolm stepped into the room.
He crossed the room with slow, heavy strides. Penelope set down her ivory hairbrush the exact millisecond his large, warm hands settled gently at her waist from behind. A familiar, deep warmth spread through her veins instantly at his touch.
“A child,” he murmured against the crown of her head, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Our child.”
“Yes.”
His powerful arms tightened around her, pulling her spine flush against his massive, broad chest. Penelope leaned back into his strength with a long, soft sigh of absolute contentment.
“You are happy,” she said, looking at his reflection.
Malcolm leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the elegant curve of her neck. “I am entirely terrified, Penelope.”
She laughed quietly, her hands resting over his on her waist. “That too, darling. We can be terrified together.”
He turned her slowly within the circle of his arms until she was facing him. The jagged white scar along his cheekbone caught the amber firelight as he looked down at her face, his gaze incredibly heavy.
“I did not think…” He stopped briefly, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “There was a long time in my life, Penelope… after serving in the army, after the emptiness of this house… when I believed a door had been closed to me forever… That I was meant to die alone in the dark.”
A sudden, sharp emotion tightened in her throat, tears pricking her eyes. Penelope reached up, her soft fingertips carefully cupping his scarred cheek, feeling the scratch of his jaw. “You deserve this happiness, Malcolm. More than anyone I know.”
His dark eyes darkened with a soft, intense passion. “No,” he whispered, his large hand sliding down from her waist to rest flat against the still-flat plane of her stomach, his palm incredibly warm through the silk. “We deserve it. Together.”
The sheer, profound tenderness in his deep voice nearly undid her.
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him first. Slowly. Deliberately. Malcolm let out a low, guttural sound against her mouth and drew her instantly closer, his arms wrapping around her back until she was lifted slightly off her feet.
The kisses deepened gradually, becoming warm, familiar, and intensely intimate. There was no uncertainty left between them tonight. No shadow of past marriages, no fear of the world outside. Only pure, unadulterated love.
His hands moved beneath the heavy cream silk of her dressing gown reverently, his fingers lingering at her waist, her hips, and the gentle curve of the body that was now carrying their future.
Penelope shivered softly with delight when he effortlessly lifted her into his arms, gathering her up against his chest.
She laughed softly, a beautiful, breathless sound as he carried her toward the massive four-poster bed. The fire crackled low and warm in the hearth while, outside the tall windows, the first soft flakes of a white winter snow began to fall quietly over the sleeping streets of London.
Malcolm laid her gently against the crisp linen sheets, hovering above her as he kissed her until her breath turned uneven and her fingers tangled desperately through his thick, dark hair.
Everything between them felt known—learned. Completely trusted.
The slow, intoxicating slide of his mouth against her lips. The rough, protective warmth of his split-knuckled hands. The quiet, ragged sounds he made only for her ears when she touched the sensitive skin near his ribs.
Penelope traced the white scar along his cheekbone with her thumb while he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the inside of her trembling wrist.
“I love you, Malcolm,” she whispered into the shadows.
His dark eyes lifted immediately to meet hers. Every single time she said the words, he still looked momentarily startled by the sheer magnitude of his own happiness, as if he could not quite believe his fortune.
He kissed her again, a soft, deep promise of their future.
And their own forever.
The End?