A grin tugged at the corners of Grace’s lips. “How so?”
“The moment I married you, I decided to stop living my life according to guilt. I chose happiness. I chose you.”
Now the smile nearly burst to her mouth. Grace’s heart raced as she gazed at him. She drank in his finely cut features, accentuated by his dark hair and stubble, and those pale blue eyes that pierced right through to her soul.
“We are going to have the most handsome children,” she said.
Evan smiled too, even though the statement must have seemingly come from nowhere. “Someday,” he replied.
Grace shook her head. “No, not someday.” She moved their hands from where they rested on his heart and brought them to her belly. It was still flat, but she was certain a child grew within her. “January.”
It took a moment for the news to sink in. Evan only stared at her for the longest moment, his smile fading to confusion, then his eyes widening with unbridled shock.
“You mean you…we…?”
Grace laughed as her husband struggled for words, but in the end, she didn’t want him to say anything. She wanted to feel the joy on his lips as they pressed against hers, feel his excitement in the way he held her firmly against him and caressed her back. So, she put him out of his misery by flinging herself into his arms. He did just as she’d hoped. And while this felt like a happy ending to a rather sad story, Grace knew it was only the beginning. A very happy beginning.
Epilogue
East Sussex, 1823
Grace sat across from her sister in the front parlor of Ballyston Court, marveling at how very different her life had been just a year ago. At this time last year, she’d been just married to Evan, with a babe growing in her belly, and now…
Rose squealed with delight as she watched her little cousin, a mere three months older than she, bouncing on his mother’s lap across from her. They had arrived—Chloe, Andrew and the children—a month earlier for what was supposed to be a short visit, but with any luck, Grace could manage to keep them here forever. She did love having her sister so near.
“I do believe they’ll grow up to be the best of friends,” Chloe said, her smile stretching ear-to-ear.
“Or they will drive one another mad, as Cassie and Jonathan do,” Grace put in.
Chloe shook her head. “’Tis different for cousins, I think, than brothers and sisters.”
Grace wasn’t certain she could agree. “Cousin Lizzie tried your patience at every turn, and she was your cousin.”
“But Cousin Lizzie is my most bosom friend in all the world,” her sister clarified. “I wouldn’t have her any other way.”
They smiled at one another, but Grace could see the sadness in her sister’s eyes. She missed Lizzie something terrible. Oh, how Grace hoped she and Michael would come back from Scotland for a visit soon.
Duff, the stalwart butler of Ballyston Court, who Grace had a sneaking suspicion might be enjoying a special relationship with the dowager duchess, entered the parlor, a silver salver in his hand.
“You’ve a caller, Your Grace,” he said, proffering the salver.
Grace removed the card. “Mrs. Cuthbert?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I recognize the name. Very well. Send her in, and please call for Mary to come retrieve the children.”
Duff nodded and exited the room, then returned moments later with a familiar face.
Grace leaped from her seat, cradling the baby in her arms. “Lady Alicia!” she cried, feeling genuinely glad to see her. They’d not been the best of friends during last year’s Season, but the woman had been rather instrumental in her marriage to Evan. How could she not be glad to see her? “Why, what brings you to Ballyston Court?”
Lady Alicia came into the room and Grace engulfed her in a somewhat awkward hug, as hugs tended to be when one was holding a squirming child in one’s arms.
“It’s Mrs. Cuthbert now,” she said. “And, well, Roger and I have taken up residence nearby in the village.”
“You don’t say!” Grace gestured for her friend to sit in the pink and white tufted chair in the sitting area. “Has Roger then left the employ of the Stillwells?”
Alicia nodded. “He has indeed.” The woman practically beamed. “Actually, Father was kind enough to bestow a rather large dowry to Roger, and we’ve decided to open up a shop.”
“A shop? What sort of shop?” The idea was rather intriguing to Grace.
“A confectioner’s shop!” Alicia nearly burst with the news. “And I would like for you and your family to be the first to join us when we open. Do say you will set the precedent, Your Grace.”
“As long as you agree to call me simply Grace.”
Alicia reached for Grace’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Thank you,” she said, but Grace knew she was thanking her for more than just coming to the confectioner’s shop. She, too, felt the deep sense of gratitude toward the woman sitting across from her. “If you hadn’t come along…well…”
“Say no more,” Grace said. “For it is I who should be thanking you.”
Alicia laughed. “I suppose we both have much to be grateful for.”
“Ah, there you are!” came Evan’s booming voice from the doorway. He took long strides across the parlor, his tan breeches hugging his strong thighs as he did, and sending a rush of heat to Grace’s cheeks. “I’ve just received a letter from Hannah—” He came up short when he realized a familiar woman sat in the pink and white tufted chair. “Lady Alicia?”
“It’s Mrs. Cuthbert now,” Grace told him, jumping to her feet again. Where on earth was Mary? Rose was starting to fuss rather loudly.
“Here,” Evan said, coming to her aid. “Allow me.” Then he took the babe in his arms and of course, she settled immediately. Grace gave a reluctant smile—who knew the Duke of Somerset would be more skilled at caring for a baby than she, the babe’s own mother?
“She and Roger have taken up residence nearby,” she continued, suddenly aware of the awkward silence. “And we shall be the first to patronize their confectioner’s shop in the village. Is that not wonderful news?”
Evan smiled widely—a gesture that always sent Grace’s heart pitter-pattering. And he did it so often lately, well, she was in a constant state of pitter-patter, it seemed.
“Wonderful indeed,” he said. “Perhaps you would both like to join us for supper on Sunday?”
Alicia looked to Grace, a gentle gleam in her large, brown eyes. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Grace gave her a reassuring smile. “Cook makes enough for the entire British Navy. As long as you can tolerate the dowager duchess, you are more than welcome to join us.”
“I heard that.”
All heads whirled to land on the dowager duchess herself, standing in the doorway, in all her black bombazine glory.
“Afternoon, Mother,” Evan said, shifting the now sleeping Rose from one arm to the other.
The dowager duchess usually rolled her eyes whenever she saw her son holding his daughter—“I never held either of you and look how well you turned out,” she loved to say—but today she was distracted by their guest. She didn’t say anything to her, she simply stared, seemingly dumbstruck, which was a rare thing for the dowager.
“Your Grace,” Alicia said, dipping an elegant curtsey.
“Goodness,” the dowager finally said. “I can hardly believe you’re alive. I thought your father might have drawn and quartered you after you called off the wedding.”
Alicia giggled. “Well, he wasn’t exactly thrilled when I told him. But he came around when he realized he had little say in the matter.”
Grace chimed in to tell the dowager about the confectioner’s shop, which would surely scandalized her mother-in-law, though the woman kept her composure rather admirably. “Now, do give me an answer,” Grace said a few minutes later as they walked arm-in-arm toward the front door of Ballyston Court. “Will you and Roger join us for supper on Sunday?”
The beautiful wo
man who had spent most of her life engaged to a duke and now found herself the proud owner of a confectioner’s shop, nodded her agreement. “We will very much look forward to it.”
“So will we,” Grace said with a genuine smile for her new friend.
As she closed the door on Lady Alicia, a loud wail came from the parlor. A moment later, Evan strode into the foyer.
“I do believe she might be hungry.”
The dowager duchess, who was on his heels, tskd her disapproval at Grace’s decision to nurse the babe herself, and turned in the opposite direction. “Preposterous!” she always said. “That’s what nursemaids are for.”
“Will you join me? I’m anxious to hear what was in Hannah’s letter.”
Evan handed Rose over to her and then stroked Grace’s cheek lovingly. “I wish I could, my love, but I must go back out. Mr. Hooper’s roof is leaking again, and I need to inspect the damage.”
Grace smiled at her husband. How had he ever thought himself ignoble or dishonorable? He was quite the most wonderful duke there ever was—and husband, and father, and brother, and son. “All right, dearest. Then you shall tell me this evening upon your return.”
He leaned forward and left a lingering kiss to her forehead, his stubble rough against her skin, his lips warm and promising. “I love you, my Grace.”
“And I, you.”
Evan walked out the front door and down the steps of Ballyston Court toward his waiting horse and Mr. Starke. Grace stood in the open doorway for a long moment, surveying the lovely countryside of East Sussex, marveling at the changes a year had brought, and basking in the love of her very own duke.
The End
Don’t miss the next installment of the Wetherby Brides series
How to Care for a Lady
Prologue
London, June 1822
There comes a time in every woman’s life when she looks at her reflection in the mirror and she doesn’t quite recognize herself. For Hannah Ludlum, Lady Beeston, that day was the day her husband shot her.
She clutched the cold heavy silvered mirror in her hand and stared into her tawny eyes. They were so different than they used to be. They’d once sparkled with youth and hope, but all she saw now was ten years of misery. Ten years of waiting, wanting, and hoping. She saw defeat. It stung far more than the bullet wound in her leg.
A tear eked out, and the fluttering of a sob accosted her lungs. She placed the mirror on her bedside table and lolled her head back against the pillows. What had she been thinking? Not just today. Of course it was foolish to run pell-mell across the field as her brother and husband were about to fire their pistols at one another. She'd been foolish long before then. One might have forgiven her after a year, but ten. Ten. How dare she hope for so long? What a waste of her precious time to spend it thinking one day, somehow, she might make her husband love her.
A bitter laugh bubbled up at the thought. Love. The only thing Beeston loved was an endless bottle of brandy and a lightskirt who would do…
Oh, blazes! She didn’t even know what it was he would want the doxy to do, for heaven’s sake. How about that? His own wife knew nothing about his preferences in the bedroom. After ten blasted years.
Her head began to swim, partly from her musings, but mostly from the heavy dose of laudanum the doctor had just administered. The pain in her leg had subsided quite a bit, but she grew sleepier by the moment. Which was why she was certain she was dreaming when Beeston himself walked through the door of her bedchamber. She was certain he’d disappear for a while after this morning’s events. But the fact he had the bollocks to show up here sent just a tiny ray of hope to her heart.
No. She wouldn’t dare. Not after last night, or this morning. She’d given him ten long years to prove that he wasn’t the cruelest of men, but he’d proved to her, in no uncertain terms, he was beyond redemption. As soon as she could keep her eyes open and form a coherent sentence she would tell him so.
Her eyes were so very heavy. His form swam toward her as if the entire room had filled with water.
“Hannah,” he whispered. She held her silence. “Hannah, are you sleeping, my darling?”
My darling?
“Dreaming,” she mumbled. There was no other explanation for his endearment.
“The doctor said you would sleep,” he continued. “But I had to see you. I had to make certain you were all right.”
His voice sounded far away, and so gentle. She thought of the night they’d met. She’d spotted him across the Holifields’ ballroom, but promptly lost him in the crowd, since he wasn’t terribly tall, and neither was she. Her romantic younger self held onto the vision of that handsome gentleman all evening, waiting to see his face again. Wondering why she’d never seen him before, and all manner of other thoughts that flit through a young woman’s head.
Warm sunlight kissed Hannah’s cheeks. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so heavy, as if rocks lay upon them. Her mouth was dry. So dry. She shifted and a searing pain shot through her body.
“Hannah.” It was Beeston. She could feel him at her side. He must have moved over her, eclipsing the sunlight, stealing the warmth, as he’d done since the day they’d said I do. “Can I get you something? Water? More laudanum?”
“No,” she rasped. “No more.”
“Water, then?”
She nodded—or at least, she thought she had. She couldn’t be certain. Not until a moment later when Beeston lifted her head and pressed the edge of a glass against her lips. She drank, grateful for the cool wetness that filled her mouth and relieved her dry throat.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Beeston placed the glass on the bedside table and then took her hand in his. “What are you doing here?” Hannah couldn’t help but ask. It wasn’t like him to be so attentive. Or to be around at all, really.
“Helping you recover.” His voice wavered. “Are you in very much pain?”
Hannah managed a puff of laughter. “It feels as if Satan himself is stabbing his trident into my leg.” She finally pried her eyes open to see Beeston sitting beside her, his face contorted in a mixture of horror and despair.
When had he turned so very hideous? Ten years ago, he’d been the very picture of a dashing gentleman. Light brown hair sat in gentle waves above a strong brow. Clean shaven skin. Eyes that danced with light and amusement. He’d stood with confidence, and his clothing had hugged his muscular form just so, causing every woman in the ballroom to swoon over him, in spite of his reduced stature.
“Will you ever forgive me?” he asked. It was obvious he was choking back tears.
Hannah might have felt sorry for him if she didn’t find him so very pathetic. It wasn’t her most charitable thought, but she was done being charitable and forgiving toward him.
“For what?” she asked, feeling stronger now, thanks to the rush of anger that surged through her. “For shooting me? Or for bedding every woman in Town? Or for forcing me into a miserable existence for the last ten years? I ought to be clear on what I’m to forgive you for.”
If only an artist were there to capture the look upon Beeston’s face, his jaw slack, his eyes filled with shock that his meek little wife had finally spoken up for herself.
“I-I—”
“The answer is no,” she said, cutting him off before he attempted to come up with a pitiful excuse for his entire existence. “To everything. I do not forgive you. Not anymore.”
“But you’re my wife.” A bit of the Beeston she knew started to creep back in—tight jaw, flaring nostrils. But she’d not be afraid of him anymore.
“Exactly. And I’ve been more than wifely all these ten years. You, however, have gone about your life as if I don’t even exist.”
Beeston only stared at her, clearly at a loss for words. She’d run out of words, herself. What was left to say? He’d treated her poorly their entire marriage, and then he’d shot her. Whether by accident or not, he’d shot her nonetheless.
“I want a divorce,”
she finally said, knowing full well that decision was not in her hands, nor would it ever be. If she were to obtain a divorce, it would have to be at Beeston’s request. He didn’t look terribly amenable to the idea.
“A divorce?” he practically roared. “How dare you? You carry my child.”
Oh, right. There was that. Not that she actually carried his child, but that she’d told him she did. Bugger. She’d have to come clean, which would further enrage him, but at least they were in her brother’s house. If Beeston attempted any bodily harm to her, someone would come rushing to her aid.
She swallowed over the hard lump in her throat. “I lied.” Best to state it as simply as possible.
Beeston’s eyes knit together in a frown. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was quiet, dangerous. It made Hannah’s hands tremble.
But she wouldn’t let him get the best of her. If she was ever going to stand up to him, this was the time to do it, while she was already injured and in a great deal of pain. How much more damage could he inflict? He could murder her, but part of Hannah wondered if that wouldn’t be preferable to a lifetime spent as his wife.
Hannah lolled her head back against the fluffy pillows, growing ever more weary. “I said, I lied. I was never enceinte. I only said that because…because…”
“Because why?” he roared, clearly impatient to know why she would do such a thing.
“Because I thought it would make you love me.” The words were out before she could stop them. They sounded so foolish when she spoke them aloud. What a silly fool she was. Beeston loved no one but himself, and an unborn child wouldn’t change that.
Tears tried to push their way from behind her eyelids, but she wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Not in front of him. She would suffer in silence, as she always had.
When she’d gained her composure, she dared to meet his eyes. He sat stone still, staring at her, his jaw set, his brow furrowed. Was he angry? Sad? She couldn’t tell. This man she’d been married to for ten long years was impossible for her to read. She knew nothing about him, save the rumors she’d heard of his dalliances and drunken nights at the seediest of London’s establishments. She knew the money she’d brought to the marriage was long gone, and there was little left in their coffers.
The Temptation of the Duke (Regency Romance) Page 20
