Epilogue
As James neared his wife’s bedchamber, he smiled at the female laughter coming from within.
In the weeks since the house party, Georgiana’s fondness for Cordelia had increased.
At first, she had been consumed by guilt over her behavior.
But the realization that her downfall, had it come about, would have been at her own hands—compared to Cordelia’s past, which, by the grace of the Almighty, anyone might have suffered—had been a greater lesson than anything Miss Flight might have taught her in the schoolroom.
But James could never condemn Georgiana too harshly without first condemning himself, and the Society in which he resided that valued decorum, birth, and fortune over goodness, compassion, and courage.
And though the inevitable rumors surrounding Cordelia’s past had spread through London’s drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs, the gossip was already lessening.
Next Season, some other poor soul would entertain the miniscule minds of the unenlightened.
A handful of friends—or, rather, former friends—now refused to associate themselves with the Bedford name, and James’s membership of White’s had been rescinded.
But the prospect of diminishing his funds on St. James’s Street, merely to indulge in puerile male chatter, inhale too much cigar smoke, and imbibe inferior brandy that rotted his insides, was something he could well do without.
And, at least, he was provided with the assurance that those who continued to associate themselves with his family were doing so out of genuine friendship and not merely the need to ingratiate themselves with a viscount.
In fact, several acquaintances had made unexpected visits, almost in a show of friendship and of defiance against the world.
A fortnight ago, the Duke and Duchess of Pittchester had stayed at Bedford Hall for three days.
The duchess, having also secured her own marriage via the Lyon’s Den, was now Cordelia’s particular friend, and she’d invited her to stay at the Pittchester seat in Northumberland.
Perhaps all it took to determine whether a person was a true friend was a scandal of the acutest kind.
Balancing the tray on his left hand, James knocked on the door, then entered.
His wife was seated in the bed, her hair loose about her shoulders, as glossy as a raven’s wing. Margaret was curled up beside her, a book in hand, and Georgiana sat on a chair next to the bed.
Cordelia blushed and drew her shawl about her shoulders. Why she showed such coyness, when almost every night in the past month he’d kissed every inch of that delicious body of hers, was beyond comprehension.
Then she smiled and her eyes gleamed with mischief, as if she could read the thoughts—the very wicked thoughts—that consumed his mind.
“Brother,” Georgiana said, rising, “you ought to have waited until we said you could come in. Decorum states…” She lowered her gaze. But Cordelia leaned forward and took her hand.
“It matters not, Georgie,” she said, smiling. “But I fear your brother has committed a transgression—he’s only brought tea for one.”
“Two, actually, my love,” James said, setting the tray onto a table, then gesturing to the teapot, two cups, and a small vase of flowers. He took the vase and placed it on the table beside the bed.
“Dahlias,” his wife said, fingering the petals. “I thought they didn’t flower at this time of year.”
“They do under Heslop’s tutelage,” James said. “He’s been cultivating these in the hothouse.”
“I’ve been helping him,” Margaret said, placing her arm around Cordelia’s neck. “We planted some out yesterday.” She stuck out her lower lip. “But brother, you said I could give them to Cordelia.”
“They’re from all of us,” Georgiana said.
“All?” Margaret said. “You’ve not done anything, Georgie. You said you didn’t want to get your hands dirty.”
“I said no such thing,” Georgiana said.
“Oh, yes you did,” Margaret said. “You said you didn’t want Leonard Marlow seeing dirt under your fingernails in case he didn’t like it. But Mr. Marlow always has ink on his fingers.”
“How do you know?” James said.
“I’ve seen it,” she replied. “When he helped me climb my tree, I noticed that the fingertips on his right hand are blue. Cordelia says that’s because he’s working so hard so he can take over Sir George’s business.”
“You shouldn’t be looking,” Georgiana said. “And you shouldn’t ask him to help you climb trees.”
Margaret pulled a face. “He offered, Georgie. What’s a business?”
“It’s how some people earn a living,” Georgiana said.
“Oh, like Cordelia?”
James held his breath as Cordelia paled.
Georgiana nodded and glanced at Cordelia, smiling. Her eyes glittered with pride in the sister she had come to love.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Just like Cordelia. We’ve always been fortunate, not having to work to earn our keep.
But Cordelia worked hard to earn the money that she gave our brother when they married.
And Leonard works equally hard so that when Sir George wishes to pass over his business, it will be in safe hands. ”
“Ooh, Leonard, is it?” Margaret said. “It was Mr. Marlow last week. Now it’s Leo-nard,” she finished in a singsong voice, and placed her hand over her heart.
“Be quiet!” Georgiana said, blushing.
“I will when you tell me he’s to be my brother.”
Georgiana’s blush deepened. “He’s not asked me yet and I doubt he will.”
“I disagree,” Cordelia said, smiling. “The poor young man is smitten.”
“No, he’s not!” Georgiana said sharply. Then she tilted her head to one side and gave Cordelia a coy glance. “Is he? B-but what about my… I mean, what happened when Sir Iain—”
She broke off, and James’s heart ached at the stricken expression in his sister’s eyes.
Cordelia took Georgiana’s hand. “Mr. Marlow’s too honorable to consider you anything but utterly blameless over what happened,” she said. “Surely you don’t think he visits us because he enjoys James’s company?”
“Wife, are you disrespecting me?” James said.
Her eyes glowed with mischief. “What if I am, husband? Will you seek retribution?”
She ran her fingertips along the neckline of her nightgown, pausing at the laces in the center.
Sweet heaven! Why was it that when she wore that expression in her eyes, his manhood surged like a stallion? He caught his breath as a fizz of heat threaded through his blood. Cordelia curled her lips in a smile, then flicked out her tongue, licking her lower lip until it glistened with moisture.
James caught his breath, willing himself not to spend at the thought of what she could do with that tongue of hers.
Or rather, had done.
Many times.
Georgiana extended her hand toward Margaret. “Come along, Meg. I believe we’re no longer welcome in this chamber.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret said. “Cordelia said I could always come here.”
“I think James and Cordelia would like to take their breakfast in privacy.”
“But breakfast’s downstairs,” Margaret said. “James only brought tea.”
“I’m sure they’ll join us later,” Georgiana said. “I don’t want to be late. Leonard—I mean, Mr. Marlow—said he’d call this morning.”
“Ought I ready myself for an interview request from Mr. Marlow?” James said.
“I told you, brother, he’s not asked me,” Georgiana huffed. “I—” She broke off. “Cordelia, are you all right? You’ve gone very pale.”
James glanced at his wife, who leaned forward, her hand over her mouth. Then she righted herself.
“I’m quite well,” she said.
“You weren’t well yesterday,” Margaret said.
Georgiana took Cordelia’s hand. “Perhaps we should send for Dr. Carlton.”
Cordelia paused, then she met James’s gaze and his heart surged at the expression of love in her silver eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps we ought to. Georgie darling, why don’t you and Margaret go down to breakfast, and James and I will join you later?”
“But…” Margaret protested.
“Now, little ferret,” Georgiana said. She kissed Cordelia on the cheek. “I’ll ask Mrs. Case to send for Dr. Carlton immediately.”
The sisters exited the chamber, then James took his wife’s hand and sat on the bed.
“You ought to have told me you’ve been feeling unwell, my love.”
“I know.” She gave a coy smile. “Will you punish me for violating my vow of obedience?”
“Not if you obey my every command from this moment.”
He kissed her, then let out a low growl as she reached for his. One touch, even through his breeches, and he’d be at risk of spending.
“Do you wish to torture me before breakfast?” he said. “Most outrageous.”
“Then I must present you with a gift, to atone,” she replied.
He tugged at the laces of her neckline, and his breath hitched as her gown opened to reveal the swell of her breasts. Would he ever tire of looking at them, of kissing that soft flesh and nipping at those delicious little buds?
“May I collect my gift before breakfast?” he said.
She shook her head. “My husband must be patient and wait for his gift to be delivered.”
“After breakfast?” He brushed his lips against the tops of her breasts.
“A little longer than that.”
He kissed her skin, then flicked his tongue out, running the tip along her soft flesh until he reached the beautiful, dark pink centers.
“Tonight?”
He nipped her flesh with his teeth and she shuddered with pleasure.
“Forgive me, husband, but you must wait longer than that.”
“I’m growing impatient already,” he said, a low growl reverberating in his chest.
“But you must exercise—Oh!” she cried out as he nipped at her nipple. “Oh, husband, you have learned much since our first time,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Are you trying to torture me?”
“Yes,” he breathed, delivering open-mouthed kisses to her breasts. “When it comes to my wife, I am not known for my patience. How long must I wait?”
“About eight months.”
He lifted his head. What the devil was she speaking of?
“I cannot tell for sure,” she continued, smiling. “Dr. Carlton will be able to confirm.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Dr. Carlton?”
She let out a laugh, then placed her hand over her stomach.
Understanding flickered in his heart. “Y-you don’t mean…?”
She gave a shy smile and nodded. “A future viscount might not be the gift you were expecting, but I trust you’ll be satisfied.”
He let out a whoop of joy, grasped her shoulders, and pulled her close. Then he stiffened and released her.
“Forgive me, I oughtn’t have been so rough just then.
” He reached behind her and patted the pillows.
“Are these soft enough? Or do you need another?” He glanced about the room, and his gaze landed on the fireplace.
“Perhaps the room’s not warm enough. I can get someone to light the fire.
Or is it too warm?” He rose and approached the bellpull.
Cordelia’s laughter filled the air.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“You!” she cried. “I’m not ill—I’m just expecting your child. And I’m perfectly comfortable. Come here.”
He returned to the bed, and she took his hand and placed it over her stomach.
“Will I be able to feel him?” he said.
“Not yet.”
“Then I’ll just have to talk to him.”
He dipped his head and placed a kiss on his wife’s belly.
“Hello.”
Cordelia caressed his hair as he peppered her body with kisses.
“You’re a lucky little person,” he said. “You’re going to have the best mother in the whole of England…no, the whole world. And shall I tell you a secret?”
He lifted his head and traced the outline of his wife’s face with his fingertips.
“Shall I tell you a secret, Cordelia?”
She nodded, and he brushed his fingers over her mouth. She parted her lips and his skin tightened as her warm breath caressed his fingers.
“I have loved you from the moment we first met. My beautiful Dahlia. You might have been hidden behind a mask and beneath a wig, but I still saw you.”
“And you have no regrets?” she said, placing her hand on his cheek.
“No, my love,” he said. “I shall, forever, bless the day that I first entered the Lyon’s Den.”
“And I,” she said. “Now, why don’t you pour the tea and let us drink to the health of Bessie Dove-Lyon.”