by Devon, Eva
“It’s the truth,” she said, gently touching the chair he’d had made for her. “Though, if I’m honest, I think I began to fall in love with you from the moment you insisted that I get out of your chair.”
He leaned down toward her, his heart beating with far too much joy for its own good. But he did not mind at all. “I think I fell in love with you from the moment you told me that my name was not written upon it.”
She laughed. “I truly did think you were a servant, you know.”
“I do know,” he replied. “Now, come here. I wish to kiss you.”
Georgiana’s eyes danced with mischief. “Not to make me leave?”
“No, my love. To make you stay.”
And as he pulled her into his arms and she relaxed against him, safe, he knew she would stay with him.
Always.
Epilogue
10 months later
London
When a duke decided to do something, very little stood in his way.
It was a thing which still amazed Georgiana. The power her husband had. But unlike so many, Edward also had an imagination.
And so it was that Bly’s Bookshop came into existence. Edward held out a circular ring of keys, his face all but beaming with an excitement heretofore nonexistent.
Oh, he still peered down his nose at others, and he still needed time alone. He still chose his chair in the evenings before balls. And he certainly was still a master of drawing long, deep breaths.
But she had noticed that in her presence there was a lightness and a joy to him, especially in moments where he was doing something he knew that would please her.
And this moment was beyond description.
While his great houses and estates were something to behold, this shop meant more because… It was for her and her interests, and her family.
They stood together on the pavement in front of the shop in West London. The coach, a large affair with six horses and a host of servants to operate it, had caused quite a stir. They ignored the growing crowd. A crowd which was quite common when out in the ducal conveyance.
“It is yours. The deed is in your name,” Edward said, extending the keys to her. “Your father, with your permission, of course, shall have the name of manager. He shall be able to greet customers whenever he wishes, invite whatever authors he pleases, and feel that he has a good place in society. It will give him a feeling of importance.”
“But you shall be married to a merchant,” she protested, delighting in the fact she felt so free to tease him now.
“Do I look as if that bothers me?” he queried most seriously—before he winked.
“No,” she admitted. “But you often don’t look as if anything bothers you.”
“Usually, it doesn’t,” he quipped. “Besides I am quite proud of the fact that a bookshop is in the family.”
Edward never lied. So, she took his words as true, and felt her heart soar for it.
Most lords would find such a thing far beneath him. But not her husband. Her husband treasured ink and leather and the wit it took to put the pages together.
She took the large iron keys in her hands, turned to the glass door framed with sapphire blue panels. She slipped the key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door open.
A bright jangle from the bell overhead danced through the air.
Together, they crossed the threshold and she let out a sigh of pleasure.
Row after row, after row, after row of empty oak shelves waited to be filled.
Just like the years of their lives to come.
She lifted her gaze upward toward the balcony where she knew her father would be able to make himself a lovely office, a place where he would belong, a place where he would be able to read, gaze down at the customers, and indeed feel a sense of importance.
It would be far better for him than hiding away at home.
The last months had been a slow recovery for him, for her mother, and for their place in society.
But bit by bit, with Edward there every step of the way, they were making that climb.
She looked back at her husband, who was in fact the opposite of arrogant. How could she ever have thought he was unkind or distant?
The Duke of Thornfield was the most thoughtful man in the world, especially when he put his mind to it.
She shook her head, her heart overflowing. She touched her mid-section, which was now impossibly big and round, and realized that the tears filling her eyes were no doubt as a result of the babe who would be born any day. She had been a veritable tumble of emotions for months.
“I do not think I could love you more now that you’ve given me a bookshop,” she said tearfully.
“I rather thought as much,” he said, wrapping his arms about her. He placed his hands over her swelling belly.
The last months he had been alarmingly attentive. She’d never seen more lists or preparations in her life. Edward had made certain everything was in place.
She had never thought to be a mother, and at first the idea had been quite harrowing. She was grateful he was so capable and full of excitement. For she had been most overwhelmed in the first months by the changes that had occurred whilst their child grew inside her.
But now she could not wait to meet the little person inside her who often made so much riot that she was certain he was destined for the front benches of parliament.
Here in the peace of the book shop, she felt…love. So much she hardly believed she was capable of it.
“Shall we place Tom Jones in the front of the shop?” he asked playfully, kissing her neck. “Or Mrs. Radcliffe?”
An intense pain pulsed through her and she let out an involuntary cry. It was so sharp, her knees bent and it was all she could do to stay upright.
“My deepest apologies, my love,” he laughed. “We shall fill the shelves with whomever you please, of course.”
“No…Edward…” She gasped at the sensation that was so foreign and yet completely unmistakable. “I do not care about Tom Jones.”
He cuddled her closer, nuzzling her neck. “I know he’s a challenging character.”
“Much as I love literary debate, take me to the coach please.”
He frowned and pulled back ever so slightly. “You wish to go already. I thought perhaps we could explore the rooms toward—”
This time she let out a groan so fierce she thought her strong, stoic husband was about to suffer the vapors.
“I think it is time,” she said, breathing deeply, grateful that she could stop waddling wherever she went.
His usually bronzed face went a strange shade of pale. His eyes widened and he echoed, “T-time?”
“Do you need smelling salts, my love?” she asked.
“M-me?” His voice broke.
“You look most unwell.”
“It is you that is unwell!” he cried, starting for the door, but then he clearly realized he had left her standing alone in the center of the empty shop and he pivoted back to her. He swept her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest.
“I am in the best of health,” she informed, doing her all she could not to be simultaneously amused and infuriated by his reaction to the imminent occasion. “I am simply having a baby. But we should go home. And you should call for my mother.”
Her husband nodded.
For the first time in her life, she realized that the all-powerful duke was completely lost.
“Edward,” she said gently. “All will be well.”
A look of sheer panic crossed his face. “But what if it is not?”
She circled her arms about his neck and forced him to meet her gaze. “Look at me.”
He did as she said. “This is going to be the most exciting day in our lives. Are you ready for it?”
“I am,” he breathed. “And
I shall not leave your side.”
…
Four hours later
Henry Micheal Montrose FitzPatrick Stanhope, Marquess of Brookhaven, entered the world in a hurry, waiting for no man or schedule.
In truth, given the London traffic that particular day, it had taken nearly an hour to arrive at the town house. And Edward had nearly suffered apoplexy at the state of the roads. He may have yelled dire threats at various hackneys.
Despite all his planning, the doctor had not arrived in time for the birth. Certain that it being Georgiana’s first, he could finish his game of whist or…two.
The doctor had been mistaken and was fortunate to still be breathing.
Like so many things, Georgina had chosen to give birth boldly.
And quickly.
Luckily, all had gone well.
Edward was in such good humor, holding his small but mighty son, that he would not run the rather overconfident physician out of town.
Between Greggs, who looked as if the sun and moon rose and set with the baby already, and Mrs. Bly, Georgiana had given birth with a great deal of wailing, strength, and the demand to know why the devil it was taking so long.
It had not actually taken long, as he had later been informed. But it had been particularly vigorous. When the baby had all but popped into this world, Edward had caught him in his own hands. It was a most shocking beginning for a future duke. There had been little pomp or ceremony.
But there was one true thing—the boy was loved by every person in the room.
Edward looked down at his wife who, though exhausted upon their bed, looked as if happiness was the only possible emotion left in this world.
Captain sat on the floor as near as he could physically be without leaping atop the counterpane. The wolfhound kept his vigil, guarding them all, bursting with canine pride.
Edward had never experienced so much emotion and so much peace at the same moment.
Gazing down at the tiny, impossibly delicate hands of his son, he had to agree with his wife’s general air of joy.
He thought of the night that he and Georgiana had met.
That night had changed his entire life.
He was desperately grateful to the young lady, whose name he could not recall, who had flung herself most mercenarily into the muddy ditch. And he was very glad he had done the noble thing and gone in after her. For if they had not done their individual parts, he wouldn’t have needed to change his breeches.
He wouldn’t have strode furiously into his study.
And Georgiana never would have mistaken him for a servant.
“Whatever is going on inside your head?” she asked, her eyes full of adoration.
He leaned down and kissed her softly. “Only that a pair of muddy breeches can lead to remarkable things.”
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank-you to Lydia Sharp and Jill Marsal. You two guided me along this process with so much kindness! Lydia, you are a rock star. Jill, you really were a great partner who supported me at every moment! Thank you to the entire team at Entangled for all the hard work for our book. My gratitude truly knows no bounds. A huge thank-you to Matt, Kelly, and Coochy for keeping me sane and promising me I COULD meet my deadlines. I love you three and am over the moon you’re in my life. For Julie, who kindly and firmly told me during the last rounds of edits that the only way is through. My three gorgeous little boys gave up several hours with their mommy, and I am so grateful for their support, cheering, and pride that I am a storyteller. And last, you. Without you, none of this, not one little bit, would be possible. Thank you. I’m so full of gratitude for this adventure. And I’m ready for the next.
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Eva Devon has been publishing romance novels for seven years. She’s lived in London, Glasgow, Dublin, and currently lives in the USA. London is her favorite town and checking out pictures of England and Scotland on her social media takes up a good deal of her time! Her first true loves of historical romance are Johanna Lindsey and Julia Quinn. When she isn’t writing, she spends all her time with three small heroes of her own and the one who stole her heart.
twitter.com/evadevonauthor
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Chapter One
England, 1819
Was it peculiar that she didn’t feel married?
A forgotten glass of warm champagne in hand, Lady Isobel Vance, the new Marchioness of Roth, peeked up at the towering, silent gentleman beside her as they stood on the balcony. The Marquess of Roth could be a statue carved from marble instead of flesh and bone. Starkly beautiful. Impenetrable. Impossible to read.
Her husband.
A thoughtful frown limned his full lips, turning them down at the corners, and his gray eyes held less warmth than shards of flint. Hardly a doting bridegroom. Other than the exchange of vows, he hadn’t said more than two words to her since they’d left the chapel. Isobel swallowed past the thickening knot in her throat and the feeling of unease growing in her belly.
Shouldn’t a bride feel a modicum of happiness on her wedding day?
Then again, her nuptials to Lord Roth had been rather abrupt. Over the past few months in London with her aunt and uncle, the marquess had treated her with polite courtesy and charming indulgence. He wouldn’t have found her disagreeable in looks, she knew. Most men didn’t. Her sister, Astrid, had always bemoaned her beauty as a curse, but Isobel well knew that men craved beautiful things. In their world, beauty was coveted, much like pedigree.
And the Marquess of Roth was of exceptional pedigree.
Heir to the Duke of Kendrick, he was well-heeled, handsome, and young. A desirable catch, by all accounts. And he wasn’t the lecherous Edmund Cain, Earl of Beaumont, who was twice her age and had been trying to lift her skirts since the moment she’d been old enough to marry, especially after compromising her own sister. Poor Astrid had quit London, only to fend off his return as earl nine years later—and his vile pursuit of Isobel—by wedding the dreaded Duke of Beswick.
Isobel had attempted to take matters into her own hands to secure a husband who wasn’t the earl, but it had only been with Beswick’s help that she’d been able to avoid the earl’s trap altogether. Astrid’s scarred duke had not only persuaded the Prince Regent to favor Roth’s suit, but had also procured a special marriage license.
Gratitude didn’t begin to cover what she felt.
She’d escaped Beaumont’s clutches and secured an enviable match with a marquess. A man who was both beautiful and heroic. Noble and honorable. The perfect gentleman. Already half-enamored, girlish visions of a blissful future had danced in her head, full of laughter and joy, family and children. They would be rapturously happy.
Despite a few vague rumors of his aversion to matrimony, their wedding had been a boon, and what had caused him to propose hadn’t been of interest to her, only that he had.
Now, however, Isobel frowned.
Why had he decided to settle down?
Roth didn’t need her dowry. As far as she knew, he was in line for a very solvent dukedom. She’d heard the gossip that the marquess had the reputation of a notorious rake, but which young gentleman wasn’t a bit of a rogue? Her aunt had always said that reformed rakes made the best husbands.
Isobel didn’t know if that was the case with Roth, but she hoped his roué days were over. Her own father had been faithful to her mother, and though Isobel knew that many gentlemen of the ton kept mistresses, the idea did not sit well with her. Not that she would have any say in such things. A society lady was meant to do her duty and provide an heir, and even if her husband sought carnal diversions elsewhere, it was of no consequence.
With a fac
e like his, it wasn’t hard to picture the dashing marquess being surrounded by fawning, simpering women. She spared him a furtive glance through her lashes and promptly lost her breath. The man made the estimable Beau Brummell look like a shriveled toad. Tall, broad-shouldered, and superbly fit, he was every lady’s dream. Hers as well, if her galloping heart had anything to say about it. Even in profile, his sharply edged masculine beauty made her cheeks heat. Sculpted lips, high cheekbones, thick, golden-brown hair curling into a wide brow, and glittering eyes the color of a glacier in a winter storm. His given name was fitting.
Winter.
Because at the moment, he embodied the frigid season.
Suppressing a tiny sigh, Isobel sipped at her warm drink and winced. She’d give anything for a glass of her sister’s whiskey. Or some French brandy. Something with a little more bite to bolster her flagging confidence. Or ward off the chill of her iceberg of a husband. Perhaps he had other things on his mind, like matters of business?
She drew a bracing breath, determined to make the best of it.
“Are you well, my lord?” she ventured softly.
Slate-gray eyes fell to hers, confused for an instant as if he didn’t know who she was or what she was doing there, as though she were some species of creature he did not recognize. But then they cleared, and recognition filled them. “Yes, of course. And you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“Good.”
Awkward silence spooled between them.
So much for brilliant conversation. Ducking her head, Isobel cringed and gulped the rest of her tasteless drink, her eyes darting to the revelry within the balcony doors. Lady Hammerton’s ball was in full swing, and Isobel knew that Astrid would be there. A small comfort, at least.
“I…I suppose we should go in,” she suggested.
The marquess gave her an unreadable look, though his mouth pinched with the barest hint of resignation. “Yes, the show must go on, mustn’t it?”
