Epilogue
LAUREN
I am so excited I can scarcely breathe or hold still.
I’m standing by the wrought-iron gate of the manor, the late summer morning sun warm on my face and casting dappled shadows through the leaves of ancient oak trees lining the driveway.
I’m waiting for Sandy. The manor looms behind me, its stone facade grand yet welcoming, wisteria climbing its walls, and I’m so excited, so full of love, that I feel like I might burst, because Sandy’s coming, and I get to share this life—Hugh, the baby, the wedding—with her.
Eventually, a sleek black car rounds the bend, its tires crunching on the gravel, and my pulse quickens.
The widest grin ever spreads across my face as Sandy spills out, her curls bouncing, her pale blue sundress swirling.
She’s jumping up and down, squealing, and I run to her, our arms crashing around each other, our screams echoing across the lawn.
“Oh my God, Lauren!” she says, pulling back, her brown eyes wide, sparkling. “You said you were moving here, but not to marry a freaking Duke!”
Her laugh is infectious, and I giggle, my cheeks flushing, because I can hardly believe it myself. I’m so happy to see her, it hurts.
“I know,” I say, my voice breathless, my hand squeezing hers, her skin warm, familiar. “I’m so happy you’re here, Sandy.” We go hand-in-hand, her suitcase bumping behind us, and head toward the manor.
“Has your mom arrived?”
“Yup, yesterday. She’s having her nails done. You’ll meet her later.”
She looks sideways at me. “Is she happy you’re becoming the Duchess of Beauclerk?”
I return the look. “What do you think?”
She laughs. “She’s over the moon.”
“Exactly.” And we laugh together.
The house is a whirlwind of activity. Event planners darting across the lawn, their clipboards flashing, vans unloading tables and chairs, decorators stringing fairy lights through the rose garden, caterers carrying trays of crystal glassware.
It’s all for tonight’s rehearsal dinner, the prelude to our white wedding tomorrow, and my heart swells, because it’s real, it’s happening, and Sandy’s here to see it.
“I was so scared you wouldn’t be able to make it,” I say.
She squeezes my hand. “Sweetheart, you know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
We weave through the chaos, the air buzzing with voices and the clink of silverware, and step into the orangerie.
Hugh is there, leaning against a table, talking to his mother, his dark hair catching the sun, his smile easy, warm. He looks up, his gray eyes locking on mine, and my breath catches, because even now, he undoes me. I lead Sandy forward, my hand still in hers.
“Hugh, Catherine, this is Sandy.”
Hugh straightens, his frame tall, his linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, and gives Sandy a hug. She is immensely surprised at how affectionate he is. She has a funny impression of the British aristocracy.
“I’ve heard so many good things about you,” he says, his grin boyish.
Sandy blushes, her eyes wide, clearly charmed. “I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she says, her voice a little shaky. She turns to Hugh’s mother, elegant in a cream blouse, her silver hair gleaming, offering a warm handshake. “Hello, Lady Montrose.”
“Welcome to our home, my dear,” Catherine says quietly.
I smile, my heart full, and tug Sandy’s hand, eager to escape the bustle.
“Come on,” I say, leading her up the grand staircase. We reach our bedroom suite, its double doors opening to a haven of soft whites and blues, velvet drapes, and a fireplace waiting for winter.
Sandy stops at the threshold and turns to me. “The whole set-up is majestic and all, but that is what he looks like?” she asks in awe.
I laugh out loud, amused as I shut the door behind us. “I sent you pictures.”
“Hey, no picture does that man justice,” she says, fanning herself dramatically. “I’ve got to listen to my instincts more, Lauren. If yours can land you this magical fairytale life, I need to trust mine.” Her words are light, but her eyes are earnest.
I grin, so happy she’s here, so grateful for her. “Actually, there might be someone I have in mind for you.”
Her eyes twinkle, and her hand rushes up to cover her mouth. “You little devil. It’s the best man, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. He’s gorgeous, Sandy.”
She laughs happily. “Imagine if I moved here too. We’d be together again.”
And suddenly, the tears start pouring down my face.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, stepping closer, a frown on her face.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We’re having a baby,” I say, my voice breaking.
Tears prick her eyes too, as a smile of pure joy spreads across her face.
“Oh wow. How amazing,” she says, and rushes to me, her hands gentle on my stomach. She lowers her head and presses a soft kiss on my belly.
“Hi, I’m your Aunt Sandy,” she whispers.
I laugh, tears spilling, my heart so full it aches. She stands, taking my hand, her eyes bright again, and says, “Okay, I need to see the dress. How many for today?”
“Just one,” I say, leading her to the closet, its cedar scent wafting as I open the doors. “I’m keeping it simple for the rehearsal.”
She pouts, mock-disappointed, her hands on her hips. “Only one? Come on, Lauren.” I laugh, pulling out the lace dress, its silhouette elegant and understated.
“Don’t worry,” I say, holding it up. “I’ve got three planned for tomorrow.”
Her eyes light up at this. I point towards the walk-in closet and she dives into it with a squeal of delight, running her fingers over the dresses. Her joy is contagious, and it fills the room and my heart with warmth.
Hugh
-endless love-
I wake up in the middle of the night to the manor’s heavy silence.
The moonlight filtering through the tall windows cast soft shadows across the room, and as is now my habit, my hand reaches out for Lauren.
I expect to instantly feel her warmth, but instead the sheets are cool and empty.
A flicker of concern tightens my chest. It’s the night before our wedding, and I know she must be nervous, so I slip out of bed and go in search of her.
The hardwood floor is cold against my bare feet as I move quietly. I check the bathroom first and after confirming that she isn’t there, I make my next best guess: the library, her sanctuary when sleep eludes her.
I head down the staircase. This time of the night is so immensely peaceful when the manor’s halls are hushed, the air carrying the faint scent of roses from the wedding preparations.
I reach the library, making no sounds. Its double doors are ajar, and there she is, curled up in a leather armchair by the fireplace, reading.
The low lamp casts a soft light across her lace nightdress, its delicate straps slipping off her shoulders, the fabric clinging to her curves.
Her blonde hair tumbles over one shoulder.
I don’t call out to her. I just watch her.
The most precious thing I have. It takes a little while, but when she notices me, her eyes light up with love and joy.
She starts to close the book, tucking it against her side, and I narrow my eyes, a playful suspicion stirring, because every time I catch her with a book, she hides it, like it’s a secret she’s guarding.
I cross the room, my steps slow, deliberate, the rug soft underfoot. She reaches out to hold me while I reach out to stroke her cheek, her skin warm, velvet under my fingers. “Are you nervous?” I ask, my voice low, teasing, though concern lingers. “Couldn’t sleep?”
She shakes her head, her smile widening. “ No, no, I’m not nervous. I’m too excited. I didn’t want to wake you by tossing and turning, so I came here to read.” Her eyes sparkle, and I feel the tension in my chest ease, replaced by a warmth, a pull to be closer.
I tug her gently to her feet, her nightdress swaying, and she stands in front of me. Her hand in mine, her touch electric. I sink into the chair, its leather creaking, and pull her onto my lap, her weight familiar and perfect, her thighs warm against mine.
“Are you going to show me what that book’s about?” I ask. “You always seem to be hiding your reading material.”
She blushes. I watch mesmerized as her cheeks go pink and her eyes dart away. It’s so endearing I can’t help but grin.
“Don’t judge me,” she says, her voice a whisper, half-pleading.
I tilt my head, my fingers brushing her hair back. “I won’t,” I say, teasing, “or maybe I will. Is it something kinky?”
She hesitates, then meets my gaze, her shyness melting into a playful defiance.
Then she holds up the book, and I glance at the cover.
A painting of a man in Victorian era attire, his coat flared, holding a woman in a flowing dress, her body arched as he leans to kiss her.
Their pose is so damn dramatic that for a while, I’m almost not sure as to what I’m looking at.
Eventually though, after reading the wild title, I completely understand.
Falling for the Duke
I laugh, a deep, warm sound, because now I get her secrecy, her blushes. “Okay,” I say, my voice light, “I understand now why you’re always hiding it from me.”
She ducks her head, her fingers tracing the book’s edge, her voice soft but earnest. “I love this book so much. There was another I found, one of my grandma’s, but it was lost in the fire, so I had to replace it.
This one is even better. It’s a bit cringey, of course, but it makes me smile because I can’t believe how similar it is to our life.
Sometimes I have to pinch myself, but I think… I think our story’s better.”
Her words hit me, a quiet confession of her joy, and my heart swells, my love for her deepening, because she sees us, sees this life we’re building, as a fairytale.
I flip open the book, the pages worn from her touch, and say, “Tell me about it.”
She laughs, embarrassed, her voice rising. “The whole story? That’s mortifying.”
But I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear, my voice coaxing. “We have time,” I say, “and maybe it’ll tire you out enough to sleep. Start from the beginning. Tell me how this duke falls in love with this damsel in distress.”
She stares at me, incredulous, then she nestles into me, her body relaxing, her voice taking on a theatrical lilt as she begins to tell the story of a Duke who fell in love with a girl he had no business falling for.
She’s read it so many times she knows it by heart, and I laugh, enchanted, as she tells the tale, her arms flailing, her voice rising and falling, mimicking the duke’s swagger, the princess’s defiance.
She stands, pacing before the fire, describing a ballroom scene, her nightdress swirling, her hands gesturing wildly, and I’m captivated, falling more in love with every word, every movement.
She’s so animated, so alive, her laughter infectious, her eyes bright with passion, and I can’t take it anymore, can’t just sit here watching her shine.
I stand swiftly, and lift her. Her gasp soft, as I carry her to the library desk, its polished surface cool under my hands.
“Hugh, no,” she says, half-laughing, her voice teasing, but I don’t stop.
My lips find hers, kissing her deep, urgent, tasting her warmth, her sweetness.
I peel the nightdress over her head, the lace whispering to the floor, leaving her naked before me.
Her skin glows in the firelight, her curves soft, perfect.
I stretch her across the table, my hands gentle but firm, and kiss down her body—her breasts, her nipples hardening under my lips, my tongue teasing, sucking, drawing a moan from her throat.
I kiss lower, across her abdomen, the faint swell of our baby beneath my lips, and lower still, my mouth finding her, tasting her, my tongue tracing her folds, slow, deliberate, tasting her sweetness, her musk, the essence of her driving me wild.
Her gasps tear through the room, sharp, desperate, each one a spark that ignites me.
Her hands fist in my hair, pulling hard as she arches, her hips bucking against my lips.
I suck her clit, firm, relentless, my tongue flicking, circling, and she cries out.
Her voice is raw with emotion, her body trembling, her thighs clamping around my head as she comes.
I relish her cry as she releases it all in a shuddering wave, her wetness coating my chin, her scent filling my lungs.
But I need more. I can never get enough of her.
With my eyes locked on her I rise and grip her hips.
Her skin is feverish under my fingers as I position myself before her.
I’m so hard, it almost hurts, my cock throbbing as I slide into her.
I go slow at first, and her tightness grips me, slick and warm.
Every inch is a delicious torment; her moan is low, guttural, urging me deeper.
That’s when I thrust hard and deep, and her gasp echoes across the room.
I fuck her hard, her breasts bouncing with each drive.
I feel myself starting to lose control. Her hands clutch my shoulders, nails digging into my skin, her legs wrapping around my waist, heels pressing into my back, pulling me closer, demanding more.
I pound into her, the wet slap of our bodies loud and primal.
I adore the way her walls pulse around me, milking me, her gasps syncing with my grunts.
I lean down then, my lips grazing her ear, my voice raw, strained.
“I love you, baby,” I growl.
“I love you too,” she echoes hoarsely. Her hands slide to my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. I thrust harder, the table rocking, her hips meeting mine, our rhythm fierce, unyielding.
“You’re forever mine,” I growl, my voice cracking with emotion. I feel her clench in response, and then her orgasm rips through her like a storm. Her cry is sharp and piercing, and it pushes me over the edge.
My release crashes, hot and blinding, spilling into her, merging our bodies as one. I shudder in the wave of heat and light that consumes us, and it leaves us trembling, spent.
We collapse, her head on my chest, her hair damp, sticking to my skin. The library is silent except for our panting, the book forgotten on the chair. I hold her, kiss her, and promise her my heart and devotion for a lifetime.
That’s all folks!