Epilogue
“I’m not particularly eloquent about these things, so you’ll have to bear with me.”
Cecilia’s breath caught as Adrian’s hands gripped hers—warm, solid, trembling just slightly. The small chapel overlooking the rose gardens was silent save for his voice, rough with emotion he wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.
“The first time we did this,” he continued, jaw working, “I recited vows like they were nothing. This time is different. This time, I’m choosing you.”
The elderly vicar smiled gently.
Adrian took a breath, his dark eyes holding hers.
“I’m choosing you, Cecilia. Not because I have to, or because society expects it, or because your father arranged it.
” His voice dropped lower, more intense.
“I’m choosing you because you walked into my life pretending to be someone else and somehow became the most honest thing in it. ”
Cecilia’s vision blurred.
“I’m choosing you today, tomorrow, every bloody day until I’m dead.” His grip tightened on her hands. “And probably after. I’m stubborn enough to haunt you.”
“You are,” Cecilia managed through tears.
“Stubborn enough for that, and more.” She touched his face—propriety be damned.
“I came to England convinced I was broken. That Wexford’s betrayal had carved something essential from me, left me hollow.
” Her thumb traced his cheekbone. “And then I met you, and you were so bloody terrifying with all your walls and your ice and your absolute conviction that feeling anything was dangerous.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened beneath her palm.
“But underneath that frost, you were just as frightened as me.” Her smile turned fierce.
“And somehow—against all odds and common sense—we saved each other.” She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching his.
“So I’m choosing you, too, Adrian Ravenscar.
With all your impossible standards and your terrible habit of brooding by windows—all of it. ”
“By the power vested in me,” the vicar said warmly, his eyes twinkling, “I pronounce you husband and wife. Again.” He paused. “Though I suspect the Almighty finds this rather redundant.” His gaze shifted to Adrian. “You may kiss your bride, Your Grace.”
The kiss was heat and promise and possession—his mouth claiming hers with urgency that made her knees weak, one hand cradling her face whilst the other pressed against the small of her back, drawing her flush against him.
Cecilia’s fingers fisted in his coat, dragging him impossibly closer, and somewhere behind them, Velma made a sound that was half sob, half delighted laugh.
When they finally broke apart—both breathless, both flushed—Aunt Flora was already standing before them, Cassian’s hand gentle at her elbow.
“May I?” Aunt Flora’s voice carried unusual clarity, her eyes bright with lucidity and something like mischief.
“Please, Aunt Flora.”
Her weathered hands settled over their joined ones, surprisingly warm and steady.
“When you first came to read to me, dear girl, you weren’t Cecilia at all.
You were Clara—complete with those spectacles.
” Her smile turned knowing. “Though they fooled him admirably, which is rather telling about men and their powers of observation.”
Soft laughter rippled through the chapel.
“But just look at the two of you today. Fire and ice. You balance each other perfectly—she thaws your frost, you temper her flame.”
“Thank you, Aunt Flora,” Adrian managed, his voice rough but genuinely amused.
Aunt Flora’s lucidity began to waver mid-blessing—confusion flickering across her features like clouds crossing the sun.
Cassian appeared immediately at her elbow, murmuring gentle reassurances whilst Charlotte gathered their things.
“We should let you rest, dearest,” Charlotte said to Aunt Flora, pressing a kiss to her weathered cheek.
She turned to Adrian and Cecilia with a knowing smile.
“And give these two some privacy to enjoy their wedding day. Properly this time.”
Adrian walked them to their carriage, Cecilia at his side. Cassian clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, my friend. On getting it right the second time.”
They watched the carriage disappear down the drive, Velma having already shepherded Aunt Flora inside for her afternoon rest. The autumn sun hung lower now, painting everything in amber. Adrian’s hand found Cecilia’s.
“Alone at last,” he murmured.
“Finally.” She leaned into him. “Though I suppose we should go inside before the servants start gossiping about the Duke and Duchess standing in the drive like lovesick fools.”
“Let them gossip.” But he led her inside anyway, straight to their private sitting room.
Evening light turned the private sitting room golden, gilding everything it touched with honey warmth.
Cecilia stood at the window, watching the restored east wing stretch below—walls rebuilt stone by stone, gardens replanted with ridiculous attention to detail, every scar from the fire carefully erased as though Henry’s murderous attempt had never happened.
She pressed her forehead against cool glass, breathing deeply.
Scotland felt like another lifetime now—that girl abandoned at the altar, drowning in shame and betrayal and her father’s cold disappointment.
She’d existed. But she’d also been the catalyst for everything that followed.
The desperate scheme hatched with Velma over too much whisky.
Clara Vale’s awful spectacles and dowdier-than-necessary gowns.
Those first terrifying weeks here, falling for Adrian whilst lying about absolutely everything.
“You’re thinking too loudly, duchess.”
Adrian’s arms slid around her waist from behind—solid, warm, perfectly familiar now. His chin found her shoulder.
“Just reflecting,” she murmured, “on what a spectacular liar I turned out to be.”
“The spectacles were your masterstroke.” His lips found the curve of her neck, pressing warmth there. “Though they did absolutely nothing to hide how beautiful you are.”
“You’re just saying that because you know what I look like naked.”
His laugh was low, delicious against her skin. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
She turned in his arms, meeting his gaze. “Did you really not know? The whole time?”
“I suspected.” His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones with devastating tenderness.
“But I convinced myself I was imagining it, because acknowledging the truth meant acknowledging what you made me feel.” His forehead pressed against hers.
“And I’d spent years perfecting the art of feeling nothing at all. ”
“How tedious for you.”
“Devastating,” he agreed solemnly.
“Poor frozen duke,” she teased, though her voice came out softer than intended. “Forced to experience horrid things like joy and desire.”
“And love.” His voice dropped.
He kissed her then, his tongue sliding against hers until she melted into him with a soft, desperate sound. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark with intent, pupils blown wide with want.
“Our first wedding night,” he said quietly, fingers finding the buttons running down her spine with practised efficiency, “was a disaster of avoidance and separate chambers.”
“It was.” Cecilia managed, already breathless.
“This time…” The gown pooled at her feet, silk whispering against floorboards. His gaze raked over her—hungry and reverent both. “I intend to make love to you properly. The way I should have that night.”
He lifted her easily, carrying her to the settee positioned near the fireplace, where flames cast dancing shadows across velvet cushions. He lowered her down with exquisite care, his body covering hers with deliberate slowness.
He kissed his way back up her trembling form, his arousal hard and insistent against her thigh, pressing urgently. “God, you’re ravishing,” he breathed, positioning himself between her legs, the swollen tip of him nudging against her entrance.
When his lips closed over her nipple—tongue circling the sensitive peak with maddening precision—Cecilia arched against him, gasping his name.
“Look at me, Cecilia,” he commanded softly.
She met his eyes as he pushed forward. Slowly, deliberately, filling her completely. The stretch was exquisite, familiar yet somehow new.
“Yes,” she breathed, her legs wrapping around his hips, drawing him deeper. “Oh God, yes.”
He began to move—long, deep strokes that made her gasp with each thrust, each withdrawal. His hips snapped forward with increased force that made the settee creak beneath them.
Cecilia felt herself climbing toward that edge again, tension spiralling through her with devastating intensity, building and building until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it.
Pleasure exploded through her in waves, her inner walls clenching around him as she cried out his name like a prayer, like a curse, like the only truth that mattered.
“Cecilia! Christ—” Adrian’s rhythm faltered, his iron control shattering completely as her climax triggered his own.
He buried himself deep with a guttural groan, his body going rigid above her, shuddering violently as he spilt himself inside her with ragged, broken sounds that were more feeling than words.
THE END?
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