Epilogue
London, 1900
Delia stared in disbelief at the budget estimates spread out across her office desk. “How?” she murmured, shaking her head. “How can flowers possibly cost so much? This can’t be right.”
“Delia, look.”
She lifted her gaze from the columns of figures she’d been studying and watched as Simon rose on his knees, their son’s fists wrapped around his index fingers. “Look. He’s walking.”
Any budget projections for the Mayfair’s coming year were forgotten as she watched Oliver slide one chubby foot forward on the carpet. It was a tentative move that only the proudest of proud parents would define as walking, but that didn’t stop a bubble of happiness from rising inside her, pressing against her heart, and making it hard to breathe. Was there ever a woman so lucky as she?
She pressed her fist to her mouth, choking back a sob, but it was too late.
His attention diverted by the faint sound, Simon looked up to find her watching them, and at once, she tried to dissemble.
“Oh, stop,” she said with a sniff, striving to sound no-nonsense and stiff-upper-lip about it all. “He’s only nine months old. You’re imagining things.”
“Did you hear that, my son?” Simon disentangled himself from Oliver’s grip, wrapped his hands around the baby’s midsection, and lifted him into his arms as he rose from the floor of her office. “Your mama doesn’t believe me,” he murmured as he propped the boy’s bottom on his forearm and crossed the office toward her. “Let’s show her what you can do, hmm?”
He paused in front of her desk, set Oliver atop the papers on her blotter, and then he let go, his hands cupped on either side of the wobbly baby, ready to catch him if he started to fall.
Delia smiled, holding out her hands. “Come to your mama, then, and prove your father right.”
She had no expectations of her son’s success, but to her astonishment, the baby took a step toward her, a real step, and the bubble pressing against her heart burst into a thousand shards of pure joy that made her feel as if she’d swallowed a box of fireworks. Oliver started to sway, pitching forward, and she caught him up before Simon could do so, pulling him to her breast. “My boy,” she whispered fiercely, holding him tight as a tear she could not contain slid down her cheek. “My darling boy.”
“Delia, are you all right?” At once, Simon straightened and circled her desk, halting beside her. “My love, why are you crying?”
She swallowed hard, struggling to find a way to explain what she felt, but words seemed so inadequate.
“My lady?”
She and Simon both turned as Mrs. Barton entered Delia’s office. “It’s time for Master Oliver’s bath, my lady,” the stout, red-haired nanny told her as she came toward Delia’s desk.
“Of course.” She kissed the baby’s blond head and handed him to the woman on the other side of her desk. “Go with Nanny, now. And mind you,” she added, trying to sound stern, “don’t make a fuss this time when she cuts your nails, young man.”
She watched as Nanny took the baby and departed, then turned to her husband, who was watching her closely.
“Two years ago,” she said softly as he pulled her into his arms, “I had come to accept that I didn’t need a child to complete my life. But now, I can’t imagine my life without him.” She looked up, blinking hard. “Or without you.”
He lifted a hand to her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his beautiful gray-green eyes so steady and sure. “I hope you know that.”
She nodded. “I do know.”
“Do you?” Simon’s hand fell away, and his arms slid around her waist, pulling her close. “There was a time when you were rather afraid you were fated for perpetual widowhood. I hope you’ve gotten over that.”
“I have. Truly.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Good. After all,” he added, his voice light as he pressed a kiss to her damp cheek, “it’s a moot point, since I fully intend to defy the expectations of the bettors at White’s for fifty years at least. So no more crying, my darling.”
“It’s happiness making me blubber,” she assured him.
“Are you happy? Have I made you happy?”
“More than you could ever know, and in ways I never could have imagined. I won’t say I don’t still worry sometimes about what the future might bring. I do. I probably always will, now, at least a little. After all, grief and loss have changed me, and there’s no denying it. They’ve made me more wary, more circumspect than I was as a girl. But when we met, I’d taken it much too far, holding myself apart, hiding behind a facade of glib words and flirtation—”
“Don’t I know it,” he interrupted with a groan, earning himself a gentle kick in the shin.
“The point is,” she went on, “I was convinced I could never fall in love again. But the truth was that I didn’t want to. I’d become afraid of love, sure it could only bring me another round of pain and loss. I’d become afraid to trust myself, or to trust any man that got too close. I was resigned to a life alone. But then you came along, barreling past all my defenses, bullying me into changing my ways—”
“Bullying?” he interrupted. “Well, I like that.”
“You should, because it worked.”
“Did it?” His brows lifted in obvious skepticism.
“Yes.” She did her best to look ho-hum and wise. “I’m not afraid of love, or new ways of doing things, or—”
“Budgets, too?” he asked hopefully, nodding to the papers spread across her desk. “I hope this means you won’t be ordering thousands of pounds’ worth of flowers this year like you did last year?”
“Don’t bet on it, my darling.” She rose on her toes and kissed him before he could give her a lecture on the wisdom of proper budgeting. “Don’t bet on it.”