Epilogue #3
“Then we give them every reason not to.” He turned his head to press a kiss into her palm.
“We raise them in a house where the curse is spoken of openly, where they are taught to manage it rather than be ruled by it. We show them that life can still be worth living.” His mouth curved against her skin.
“And we make certain they marry women of strong enough character to stand beside them. As I have done.”
“Strong character,” Verity repeated, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Is that what your mother meant when she called me plainspoken?”
“My mother is rarely wrong.” He drew her back down against his chest. “But I was not thinking about my mother. I was thinking that we should continue working on our first child. I believe the process requires diligent repetition.”
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, and for a few moments the future and its uncertainties retreated to a respectful distance.
Then Verity pulled away, her expression shifting from desire to the particular brand of gentle determination that he was learning to recognize as the precursor to a practical request.
“There is something I wish to discuss before we resume our … diligent efforts.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I should like to invite Aunt Martha to join us at Blackfen.” Verity settled against his shoulder.
“She is alone in Somerset, and she kept me safe when I had no one else. Besides, your mother would benefit from the companionship of a woman closer to her own age. Mrs. Harrow is devoted, but she is a housekeeper, not a companion. Aunt Martha is well-read, sharp-tongued, and possessed of opinions about everything from tea blends to theology. I believe she and Lady Blackfen would suit each other admirably.”
“Or destroy each other within a fortnight.”
“That is also possible. But I think it is a risk worth taking.”
Lucien considered it. The castle was large enough to absorb a dozen aunts without strain, and if Verity’s great-aunt was anything like her niece, she would bring a warmth and practicality to the household that had been sorely lacking.
His mother needed more than a housekeeper and a declining mind for company.
She needed someone who would argue with her and read to her and refuse to let her drift too far into the country of the past. Someone with opinions and a backbone and no excess reverence for the peerage.
“Write to her,” he said. “Tell her she is welcome for as long as she wishes to stay.”
Verity’s face lit with a gratitude that made his chest ache. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone, quick and warm, and he tightened his arms around her.
“We shall have to account for the difference in names when your aunt arrives,” he added. “The household knows you as Verity Hale. Your aunt knows you as Pike. Mrs. Harrow will have questions.”
Verity was quiet for a moment. “Hale is my mother’s maiden name, so that is easily explained. And Verity is my middle name. I shall become Verity Northwood.”
Lucien looked at her. This small, fierce, extraordinary woman had walked into his cursed house under a borrowed name and false references and proceeded to his soul.
“Verity Northwood,” he said, trying the words aloud. They fit. They fit the way her hand fit in his, the way her body fit against his, the way her mind fit the edges of his own. “I think that will do very well indeed.”
She smiled. It was wide and undefended and full of a happiness so luminous that it made his throat close with the force of it.
He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her mouth, softly at first and then with increasing intent, and she made a small sound against his lips that sent heat pooling low in his belly.
“Now,” he murmured, drawing back just far enough to meet her eyes. “Where were we? Diligent repetition, I believe.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“I am an earl with a bloodline to continue. I am the very model of responsibility.”
She laughed, and the sound of it filled the study and chased the shadows from its corners and settled into the ancient stone of Blackfen Castle like a promise that had been a long time coming.
Beyond the windows, the January night pressed close.
Somewhere in Blackfen Woods, the moon hung low on the horizon, waning now, its power fading with each passing hour.
It would return. It always returned. But tonight, it held no dominion over the man who lay before the fire with his arms around the woman who had agreed to share his name, his home, and the strange, difficult, extraordinary life that the curse had made.
The wolfhounds had settled into their places.
Braccus on the edge of the hearthrug, keeping watch.
Eirin beneath the window, her ears still pricked, still listening.
And Ronan on the settee with his legs in the air, fast asleep and dreaming of whatever wolfhounds dreamed of when their people were safe and the night was quiet, and the world had arranged itself into something resembling peace.
The fire burned on. The hall stood firm around them. And the silence that had poisoned this family for generations was broken at last, replaced by something better. Something that had only just begun.
A masked viscount. A curious debutante. A romance that begins with illusion and dares to reveal the truth.
What happens when a debutante falls in love with an invisible lord? Find out in Viscount Unseen.