Epilogue
The Duchess of Northmere was going to be sick.
Again.
Eliza barely made it to the basin in time, retching miserably while her lady's maid hovered nearby with cool cloths and sympathetic murmurs. When the spasm passed, she slumped back against the pillows and pressed her hand to her still-flat stomach.
"This had better be worth it," she muttered.
"What had better be worth what?" Alistair appeared in the doorway of her dressing room, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you unwell again? Should I send for the physician?"
"The physician was here yesterday. And the day before that." She managed a weak smile. "He assures me this is perfectly normal and will pass in a few weeks."
"A few weeks of watching you suffer is not acceptable." He crossed to her side and sat on the edge of the chaise, taking her hand in his. "There must be something that can be done."
"There is. You can stop hovering and let me rest."
"I don't hover."
"You absolutely hover. You've been hovering since the moment I told you about the baby."
His expression softened at the word, the worry giving way to something warmer. "I'm allowed to hover. I'm going to be a father. It's practically required."
A father. Even after three weeks of knowing, the word still sent a thrill through her. They were going to have a child. A family of their own.
"Speaking of fatherhood," she said, "Henry is looking for you. Something about a new pony he saw in the village and absolutely must have immediately, or he'll perish from disappointment."
Alistair groaned. "He already has three ponies."
"He says none of them is the right colour."
"The right colour? What colour could possibly be more important than the three perfectly good ponies already eating their way through my hay stores?"
"Apparently, this one is dappled gray. Like a storm cloud, he says. He's very poetic about it."
"He's very expensive about it." But Alistair was smiling as he said it. His relationship with Henry had blossomed over the past year, transforming from awkward guardianship into genuine brotherhood. They rode together, studied together, and argued affectionately over chess games in the library.
"You're going to buy him the pony," she said.
"I am absolutely not going to…" He caught her knowing look and sighed. "I'm going to buy him the pony, aren't I?"
"You're a wonderful brother."
"I'm a weak person, that's what I am." He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. "Rest. I'll handle Henry and his dappled demands. And when you're feeling better, we can discuss the nursery renovations."
"The nursery is fine."
"The nursery hasn't been renovated in years. It needs new paint, new furniture, new everything." His hand came to rest on her stomach—still flat, still hiding its precious secret. "Our child will have the best of everything. I insist."
"Our child will be spoiled."
"Our child will be loved. There's a difference."
She reached up to cup his cheek, feeling the slight stubble against her palm. "Have I told you today that I love you?"
"Once or twice. But I could stand to hear it again."
"I love you, Alistair Ravenshaw. Duke of Northmere. Father of my children. Best thing that ever happened to me."
"I love you too." He turned his head to press a kiss to her palm. "Rest now. I shall check on you in an hour."
"Hovering," she murmured as he left.
"Doting," he corrected over his shoulder. "It's much more dignified."
***
Later that afternoon, when the nausea had subsided and the winter sun had warmed her enough to venture downstairs, Eliza found herself in the library.
It was still her favorite room in the house.
She ran her fingers along the spines, remembering.
A year ago, she had been a governess with no prospects, no family, no home to call her own. She had arrived at Northmere Hall expecting nothing more than a temporary position, a roof over her head, and another family to serve until they no longer needed her.
But she had found so much more.
"Miss Harrow…I mean, Eliza…I mean…" Henry skidded to a halt in the doorway, still struggling with the change in address even after a year.
"What should I call you now that you're going to be a mother?
Should I call you 'Mother'? That seems strange since you're not my mother.
But 'Eliza' seems too informal for someone who's going to have a baby. "
"What would you like to call me?"
He thought about it seriously, his small face scrunched in concentration. "Could I call you 'Sister'? Since you're married to my brother?"
"Sister sounds perfect."
His face lit up. "Really?"
"Really." She opened her arms, and he ran into them, hugging her with the fierce enthusiasm of a six-year-old. "You're going to be a wonderful uncle, you know."
"I'm going to teach the baby everything," he announced. "How to ride Perseus. How to catch frogs. How to sneak extra pudding from the kitchen when the Cook isn't looking."
"Perhaps save that last one until they're a bit older."
"But the earlier they learn, the better they'll be at it!"
She laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. This wonderful, exhausting, joyful boy had changed everything. He had brought Alistair and her together, and he had taught them both what family really meant.
"What's so amusing?" Alistair appeared in the doorway, and the sight of him still made her heart skip. A year of marriage, and she still felt like the luckiest woman in the world.
"Henry is planning the baby's education. It involves frogs and stolen pudding."
"Ah. Essential skills for any young aristocrat." He crossed to join them, wrapping his arms around both of them. "Mrs. Crawford wants to know your preferences for dinner. She's determined to find something that won't make you ill."
"Tell her I'm feeling much better. And that I could eat an entire roast by myself."
"Noted." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I love you, you know. Both of you. All three of you, I suppose, now."
"All three of us love you back."
They stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, in the library where everything had begun.
A new year. A new chapter. A new life growing inside her.
Eliza closed her eyes and let herself feel it—the warmth, the love, the absolute certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Home.
The End