by Deb Marlowe
“No. Just you,” she said with irony. “Without Cade’s leadership, the men were reluctant, and then Isaac made it clear that Cade had shot Marstoke’s son, and that spooked the lot of them. Most rode out right then. Trying to beat each other to Marstoke with protestations of innocence, Isaac says. A few stayed on, tired of Marstoke’s great game, and have asked for help escaping his wrath.”
He nodded, satisfied.
“Now, don’t you go falling asleep,” she admonished, slipping into bed beside him again.
He chuckled and rubbed his face in her hair. “You’re not helping.”
“I want to ask a favor, now that you are all right and we have a moment alone.”
“Anything,” he replied contentedly.
“I want you to paint me a miniature. Your own image.”
He peered down at her. “I’ve never painted myself,” he said, interested.
“Could you try?” Her eyes filled. “You frightened me, you know. For a moment, I thought . . .” Tears spilled over and her lip trembled.
“Shhh . . . I am going to be fine, remember? And I will paint you anything you like.”
“Thank you,” she sniffed.
“I wouldn’t have died, in any case. I could not have.”
“Oh? I’m glad to hear it.”
“I could not possibly leave this mortal plane without knowing.”
“Knowing what?” she asked, mystified.
He took her hand. “Your true name,” he whispered. “It’s been niggling at me since that day in the forest. I can’t bear it any longer, Francis. Won’t you tell me?”
She flushed. “I’d forgotten! Well, I suppose I’ll tell you . . .”
She didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“You must!” he insisted.
Her color rose. “I will, but you must promise to keep it to yourself.” One of her shoulders lifted and she wiggled a little in discomfort. “It’s not really me anymore.”
“It’s part of your past though,” he said. “A lovely memory of your mother.” He gave her a wry grin. “I’m learning how precious such things are, thanks to you.”
Her expression softened. “Very well.” She hesitated. “It’s Aubrey.”
He touched her hair. “Perhaps you were born with this glorious mix of color in your hair, and your mother named you after the auburn,” he ventured.
“Perhaps. But, please, do not call me by it? Francis is who I am, who I have worked hard to become.”
“I understand. And I promise.”
“Good.” She sounded satisfied. “And I warn you, you’ll have to get used to such demands.”
He laughed. “Planning on becoming a nag, are you?”
“Yes. A nag of a wife,” she corrected. “For I’ll be holding you to your declaration.”
Her words startled him. “I did declare, didn’t I?” His fingers rested on her arm and he moved them in a soft circle. “Would you like me to ask you, instead?”
“No need. I’ve already agreed. And I’m afraid I’ll be insisting on other things, instead.”
“Now you’ve sparked my curiosity. What is it you insist on?”
“Oh, more kisses behind doors and in alleys and up against trees. Maybe a few in a bed, as well?”
“We can start now,” he assured her.
“I’m not done. I can’t wait to make love with you in Paris and Florence. You’ll have to get used to me tidying your studio and forcing you to eat during marathon painting sessions.” She took his hand and slid it to her belly. “I fully expect you to give me several children and I’ll probably teach them to pick pockets and wheedle you to paint them, too.”
He smiled. “I confess, I look forward to being a hen-pecked husband, if that’s how it is to be.” He moved his hand up to cover her breast. “Shall we begin on a few of those demands?”
Laughing, she pulled his hand up to kiss it. “I’m afraid the doctor says you must keep quite still for a while, until that wound begins to knit.” She placed a kiss into his open palm and then licked his wrist where his pulse had quickened. “We will have to wait.”
“Give me some more of that tea,” he rasped. “I swear, I shall be the quickest healing patient the good doctor has ever encountered.”
Her eyes shone. “Do you promise?”
“I do.” He ran a finger along her jaw. “You broke me out of my self-imposed prison and taught me to love. Now I can’t wait to get started.”
Sighing in happiness, she snuggled down at his side. “Me either, Caradec, me either.”
Epilogue
I threw myself into the loud and gaudy life of a celebrated courtesan. I laughed when I didn’t feel like it, learned to mimic every emotion, but my heart was dead. No man could touch me inside—so of course, they all wished to try. I let them fling themselves against the rocks of my sorrow. I played their games and I took their money. But it was a long time before I felt anything again, before I discovered what I truly wanted to do with my power.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
They were married two months later. Rhys still had a limp, but he would not be put off another month, another week, or even so much as another day. They were going to Florence on their bridal trip, he insisted, and they had to leave before the stormy season began.
Francis agreed with him. She was happy to give him the timing of the ceremony and the plans for the trip, because, as she’d warned, she had all the rest of the wedding just as she wished.
It had to be at Half Moon House. They were married in the parlor, after Hestia escorted her down the stairs and to her groom. Brynne and Callie and their husbands sat in the front row next to Isaac, who cried.
Francis had personally invited all of the Half Moon House girls, even Jesse, who had discovered that it was the butcher’s boy who had sold information on Hestia’s travel plans, after using her infatuation with him to gain access to the house.
She invited all of the messenger kids and even a street rat or two from her old gang.
Mrs. Spencer and Jasper came from Scotland and brought Angus. The Earl and Countess of Hartford attended, and the Duke of Danby sent a fine set of luggage as a wedding present.
Mrs. Spencer insisted on fashioning the wedding gown. Not white, Francis insisted right back, and so she was married in a lovingly embroidered confection of soft green.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she whispered to Hestia for the hundredth time, taking her mentor’s hands after the vows—and the kisses—were exchanged.
“I could not have hoped for better,” Hestia told her again. She kissed Francis’s cheek. “You are my daughter in truth now, my dear. I could not be more proud.”
Francis sniffed, but Rhys whisked her away to greet Andor and his family and Hestia smiled after them.
“Is that the truth?”
Lord Stoneacre sidled up beside her and she raked him with a jaundiced eye. “Do you think I would lie about such a thing?”
The earl pursed his lips. “Yes.”
She laughed. “Well, I did not. I did not have to. Apart, the two of them were my best legacy. Together?” She looked after them, both happy and smiling and nearly glowing with love. “They are the greatest gift I could have been given.”
“My sincere congratulations, then.” The earl lifted her hand and placed a kiss upon it.
“I sense you are here to offer something besides congratulations. News, perhaps? Is the girl safe?”
“Yes, and bound for America, where no one will ever know her true lineage.” He shook his head in admiration. “All of the rumors, for all of these years—but leave it to you to ferret out the true daughter of the Prince Regent and Maria Fitzherbert.”
“I didn’t. It was Marstoke who sent his people sniffing around her skirts. She knew enough to be frightened and she sent to me for help.”
“Yes, she told us everything.” He sighed. “But it’s not just news that brings me.”
“An offer?”
; “A command. He wants to see you.”
“I don’t think that the Prince Regent will enjoy hearing what I have to say.”
“Please, be careful, Hestia. Our regent has many faults—and one of them is a vindictive bent. You have enough powerful enemies.”
“I have more powerful friends,” she said, her chin in the air. “But I am not stupid.” She took a flute of champagne from a passing footman. “When?”
“Next week. I’ll escort you.”
“Fine.” She drained her glass. “Next week we begin. But not today.” Her gaze softened as she looked at her family.
She had a family.
“Today is about love.” With a nod, she moved away.
She didn’t see the yearning look he sent after her, or the salute Stoneacre raised after her departing back.
Also by Deb Marlowe
Don’t miss the other books in the Half Moon House Series!
The Novels
The Love List
The Leading Lady
The Lady’s Legacy
The Novellas
An Unexpected Encounter
A Slight Miscalculation
Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
A Waltz in the Park
Beyond a Reasonable Duke
Lady, It’s Cold Outside
The Earl’s Hired Bride
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling author Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance.
A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.
A proud geek, history buff and story addict, she loves to talk with readers! Find her discussing books, movies, TV, recipes and her infamous Men in Boots on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. Find out Behind the Book details and interesting historical tidbits at [email protected]
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