Epilogue #2
“You may begin,” Marcus said, and now the smile was unmistakable, “by making a proper introduction to Lady Pamela.”
Blaise stared dumbfounded at him. “Iris’s niece? The one who looks at you as if you are something she has found stuck to her shoe?”
Marcus frowned questionably. “I believe that is her.”
“I cannot introduce you to her,” Blaise said plainly as he fixed his cravat.
“Why not?” Marcus looked genuinely disappointed, and Blaise could not hide his laugh.
“Because she hates you, son.”
* * *
As a widow, Iris had never enjoyed going to church. Society used to whisper and stare at her even there. And her first marriage seemed to haunt every holy experience, too. But today, the church did not feel like a dreadful place. It felt like a room full of breath and life.
She stood at the entrance of the church with Camelia and Margaret flanking her, and Pamela just behind.
Her bouquet of daisies was monstrously extravagant, with mismatched petals opened indecently wide, and its scent was thick and heady, just the way she liked it.
It meant even more to her that Blaise planned everything and left her to focus only on the dress.
Iris’s dress was a mess of lace and silky tassels. The corset was fully beaded, and the skirt seemed to flow endlessly, trailing behind her.
Sunlight pushed through stained glass in columns of soft color, painting the guests in blue, red, and green as she waited impatiently for her husband-to-be.
“Stop fidgeting,” Camelia hissed under her breath. “You look as if you wish to bolt.”
“I am not fidgeting,” Iris whispered back. “I am adjusting my gloves. They are new.”
“Your fingers are trembling,” Margaret muttered.
“Do stop,” Pamela said, not softly at all. “You are making us nervous.”
“You all are making me nervous,” Iris said.
But her heart was ridiculously happy, beating far too fast and throwing itself against her ribs at the slightest smile.
“Where is Papa?” Iris asked to distract herself.
“In the front pew,” Camelia said. “Trying not to cry.”
“And failing miserably,” Margaret added drily.
Iris’s mouth tightened with affection. “Of course he is.”
The organist started a tentative phrase, then stopped. Behind her, a priest muttered something like an oath hidden inside a prayer. Out in the nave, there was a collective shuffling as people turned toward the back doors, eager for their first look at the bride.
“You could still run,” Margaret murmured. “If you wish. We would create a distraction. Camelia could faint or say she is having the baby. Or Pamela could pick a fight with some unsuspecting viscount. And I…” She trailed off, apparently running out of useful talents.
“I am not running,” Iris said, surer of herself than she had been in years.
It startled her a little that she meant it so completely. Three months ago, she could hardly believe that she was getting married again. Marriage had been a trap that she had crawled out of through debt and exhaustion. Going back inside had seemed like madness until she met Blaise.
“You are certain?” Camelia asked, for perhaps the fifth time that morning, softer than before.
Iris glanced at her sister. Camelia’s cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, one hand resting protectively over the swell beneath her fashionable gown. The years had turned her from a girl playing at daring into a woman who wore contentment like another jewel at her throat.
“Yes,” Iris said. “I am certain.”
She was certain in ways she had never imagined: in the way Blaise looked at her as if she were some fascinating, disorganized discovery; in the way he did not flinch from her sharpest edges but instead seemed to enjoy cutting himself on them.
In the way he sat beside her father at Lempster House last week, listening with serious patience to a rambling story about pea-shoots and snails, as if nothing on earth could be more important.
And in the way he had stood, naked and unguarded, in their dark library and told her he would not save her from his own actions if she insisted on being punished for being a martyr—
The organ settled at last into a proper prelude.
“They are coming,” Pamela reported, peering unabashedly toward the front of the church. “Marcus looks like a man walking to his execution.”
“Poor thing,” Margaret said. “Do you remember Raph’s face on your wedding day?”
“No,” Camelia said serenely. “I only remember yours, Margaret, because you kept winking at me from the pew as if we were sharing a joke.”
“It was very funny,” Pamela whispered, and the two young girls giggled.
“I am glad to know my wedding was a comedy for you,” Camelia muttered.
Their chatter washed over Iris in a warm, ridiculous wave. Once, she might have told them to hush, to behave themselves, to remember they were in church. Today, she only smiled, a little helplessly.
The doors finally opened, and the congregation rose like a field of wheat before a gust. Iris walked with them slowly.
Marcus and Blaise stood beside the pew. She had seen Blaise in every imaginable state now: sweating and bloodied from a fight; sprawled and laughing in a chaise; naked in candlelight, his scar catching the glow like a line of silvered flame.
Still, the sight of him today, dressed in sober black and immaculate linen, waiting for her with his head held high, scattered her composure in a single swift gust.
He looked… like her future.
He saw her at once. His gaze snagged on her and stayed. The corner of his mouth lifted. Not his practiced, charming rake’s smile. The smaller one, the real one that tilted his cheek and softened his eyes.
As Blaise came to stand opposite her, the world narrowed to the span between them: the width of the chancel rail, the distance of one step, and a lifetime.
“You are late,” she murmured.
The corner of his mouth ticked higher. “I was waylaid by a duke in existential distress.”
“Another one?” she asked. “How many can you collect before breakfast?”
He inclined his head slightly towards Marcus. “This one insists I introduce him to Lady Pamela, who, I am informed, hates him.”
“You are incorrigible.” She almost laughed.
His gaze dipped just as the priest began the sermon. “You are exquisite.”
Color raced up her neck. “This is church, Blaise.”
“I noticed,” he said. “There are rather a lot of pews.”
The vicar coughed delicately. “The rings?”
The ceremony unfolded in words, and they repeated the words they were told. The ring he slid onto her finger was cool for a moment, then warmed against her skin. It fit perfectly.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I now introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Vale.”
The congregation threw petals as they stepped out of the church.
Blaise bent his head to her ear. “How do you feel, wife?”
The title curled strangely in her chest. Once, she would have flinched from it, fearing the weight of new expectations. Now it felt like something they had made between them, rather than something imposed.
“Hungry,” she said. “These ceremonies are very long.”
He laughed, and the sound slid into her bones and settled there.
“Luckily for you, there is a wedding breakfast awaiting us,” he said. “Toasts. Speeches. I am told Alistair intends to recite an ode he has written in our honor.”
“Do not jest about such things,” she protested. “He might actually do it.”
“I would never underestimate his capacity for dramatic excess.” He tucked her hand firmly into the crook of his arm as they walked toward the waiting carriage. “But we are not staying.”
She blinked. “We are not?”
“We will make a polite appearance. We will endure the toasts. We will prevent Alistair from unleashing any poetry upon the unsuspecting ton. Then”—his fingers flexed lightly over hers—“we will go home.”
The word shivered through her.
“To your country house in Surrey?” she asked softly and held her breath, waiting for his answer.
“No…to our house that we worked on tremendously,” he corrected her gently. “Though we will be changing the name from Hentley House to Vale House. I hope you do not mind—”
“I do not!”
Iris felt her stomach flutter with eagerness. Six months ago, that sentence would have felt like a bargain she had struck with desperation: the house for her body, her obedience, her shame. But today, it felt like a gift.
“You will not insist on bringing your nephew and his future brood of heirs to live with us?” she teased lightly. “To torment the neighborhood?”
“I am fond of the boy, but not deranged,” Blaise said. “Marcus will have Knoxford. He can fill that house with as many children and dogs as his duchess will allow. Our home will be for us. That is, if you allow me to build our very own red room?”
Iris blushed. “Of course, you owe me many more experiences in that room anyhow.”
Blaise chuckled. “Yes…Yes, I do.”
“Will there be space for one more?” she asked softly as she climbed into the carriage.
Blaise frowned. “Who are you planning on inviting?” He climbed in after her and flashed her a dazzling smile.
Iris smiled sweetly at him before she said, “Why, our baby, of course.”
The End?