Epilogue #3
"He knows family from enemies?" Cordelia asked, tears in her eyes.
"He knows who matters and who doesn't."
"That's remarkable."
"That's ten days of intensive training and approximately fifty pounds of beef."
"Fifty pounds?!"
"Bribery is expensive."
"But effective," Arabella observed. "Lucien?"
Lucien looked at Thistle.
"Fine," he said. "You can marry Cordelia."
"Really?" Cordelia squealed.
"Really. Anyone who can teach Thistle discrimination deserves rewarding."
"That's the strangest marriage blessing I've ever heard," Julian observed from his corner.
"That's the only one I'm giving."
"What about a dowry?" James asked hesitantly.
"What about it?"
"I don't need one. I have my own income."
"Good. Because Cordelia's dowry is entirely in investments."
"Investments?"
"Arabella's investment scheme. Currently worth three times what we put in."
"Four times," Arabella corrected. "I checked this morning."
"You're a financial genius," James said admiringly.
"I'm lucky."
"Lucky doesn't quadruple investments."
Matilda chose that moment to wake, not crying but observing with those dark eyes that seemed to see everything.
"She judges us again," Lucien said, picking her up.
"She's four months old."
"Still judging."
"Like her father."
"I don't judge."
"You judge constantly!"
"I observe with critical analysis."
"The wedding," Cordelia interrupted. "Can we discuss the wedding?"
"Small," Lucien said immediately.
"But..."
"Tiny."
"Lucien..."
"Minuscule."
"I want a real wedding!"
"You can have a real small wedding."
"That's not the same!"
"It's better. Less chance for chaos."
"With this family? There's always chaos regardless of size."
"Fair point."
"So a big wedding?"
"Medium."
"Large medium?"
"Small medium."
"Regular medium?"
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Really. But if Thistle causes an international incident, I'm blaming you."
"He won't! James has him trained now."
And really, Arabella thought as she watched them argue while Matilda gurgled, what more could they want?
They'd survived fires, literal and metaphorical. They'd faced down enemies, rescued family, created new life, and somehow they had come out stronger.
***
The manor would be fully restored within the month, or so the endlessly optimistic builders promised.
Cordelia was already making plans for her spring wedding to James—plans that involved far too many flowers and, inevitably, Thistle as a ring bearer, though everyone knew that was a disaster waiting to happen.
Matilda, meanwhile, would undoubtedly grow up to be every bit as chaotic, curious, and inconveniently clever as her parents.
And Thistle, aging but undeterred, would continue his reign of selective terror across every hallway, salon, and unattended plate of food.
It was all, in the most improbable way, perfect. Not pristine or peaceful or particularly proper; but perfectly imperfect. Perfectly them.
Lucien found her standing on the terrace that evening, the fading light gilding her hair, their daughter asleep in her arms. He watched her smile faintly to herself before he asked, “what are you thinking about, love?”
Arabella turned slightly toward him, her gaze soft but full of mischief. “About how we met.”
He gave a short laugh. “The lake?”
“The fall,” she corrected immediately.
“The dive,” he countered with the ease of long practice.
She smiled. “This argument...”
“It is eternal,” he finished, and for a moment they both laughed quietly, the kind of laughter born of memory and affection.
“Like us,” she said.
“Like our love,” he replied, mock-serious.
Arabella blinked. “Was that actually romantic?”
“I’m improving,” he said, feigning modesty.
“You’re getting sentimental,” she jested.
“Fatherhood does that to a man.”
“It suits you,” she murmured.
“Sentiment suits me?”
“No,” she said, amusement curling through her tone. “Softness.”
Lucien straightened defensively. “I am not soft.”
She gave him a look that could melt steel. “You cried when Matilda smiled yesterday.”
“That was atmospheric moisture,” he said quickly.
“That was tears,” she corrected, grinning now.
“Strategic tears,” he insisted.
“That’s not even a thing.”
“It’s my thing.”
Arabella shook her head, laughing. “You and your things.”
He slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Our things now.”
“Everything’s ours,” she agreed softly.
“Forever.”
“And always.”
They kissed then, unhurried and sure, the kind of kiss that carried years in it; laughter and stubborn devotion. Around them, the house breathed again.“You know,” she murmured, “in the end, that’s all anyone could ask for.”
Lucien brushed a thumb along her jaw. “What is?”
“Life,” she whispered. “Love. Laughter. A little crime.”
He chuckled. “And an eternal argument about whether you fell or dived into that lake.”
She smiled triumphantly.
The End