Epilogue

September 1, 1812

T here was something about the thrill of the movement beneath you. The knowledge that the two of you were moving as one. The sense that the rest of the world could fade away, and as long as the two of you were still there, everything would be fine.

Florence smiled. Nothing compared to what she felt when she was with John, but horse riding came perhaps a close second.

There was a chill in the air as the hooves beneath her pounded along the path, and it carried the scent of autumn. The seasons were changing, just as she was embarking on this new season of her own life.

As a wife.

Florence lifted up a hand and whooped in the cold, crisp early air. "Yes!"

It had been a wrench to tear herself away from the warm arms and even more warming fingers of John that morning, but Florence had been unable to stay away. The Aylesbury estate had been far more than she could ever have imagined.

The one in Scotland, that was. Who knew?

Mountains loomed on the horizon before her, with acres and acres of pines sweeping down the sides of the hills toward the Aylesbury estate. The beauty of the place had dazzled her when the carriage had brought them here only days ago, and she wasn't sure whether she would ever grow entirely used to it.

Forest became parkland, where red deer roamed. Parkland became the arboretum, with several kinds of trees Florence had never seen before. And the arboretum swept gracefully into the gardens that encircled the house. Herb and rose and kitchen, all in their own red brick rooms. Despite the days they had spent there, Florence had not yet discovered everything there was to find.

And she had not seen a single soul. Other than the servants, of course. And they kept out of their master and mistress's way.

The isolation was perfect. As was its owner.

"Slow down there!" called John from behind her, panting as his horse struggled to keep up with hers. "You're riding like the very devil is behind you!"

"Isn't he?" Florence called back over her shoulder with a grin, spurring her horse onward.

There was something truly magical about this. Being here, with John. Knowing she could speak clearly and would always be heard, always attended to. Knowing the words she spoke were considered weighty and important by the man she loved.

The man who loved her.

Though perhaps "loved" wasn't a strong enough word. Adored? Worshipped?

Florence smiled as she gently eased her mare from a gallop into a mere canter. After a few moments, John drew up beside her on his own steed.

"You really can ride faster than I can," he said, more than a little ruefully, wind tugging at his hair.

Florence laughed, and her happiness increased as she felt no tension in her lungs, nothing stopping her from allowing the laugh out.

Being with him, with John... it was like nothing else she had ever experienced.

Trusting him, finally, had perhaps been an act of faith. He had certainly needed more than one second chance. But taking this chance on him, giving him the opportunity to woo her—even though she had been, for the greater part of it, his wife...

It was not something Florence was going to regret in a hurry.

"Of course I can ride faster than you," she said aloud, her laughter continuing as their horses slowed to a trot. "You thought I was t-teasing?"

"It doesn't matter what I thought," John said with a chuckle, reaching out for her. "It's what you think that counts. It will always be your opinion that counts."

A splash of heat covered Florence's cheeks, but she did not look away. She did not need to. This man, this wonderful man—he understood her shyness. Finally.

And most importantly, he did not see it as something to change, to alter, to fix.

He did not think like her mother and cringe every time Florence opened her mouth and stuttered her way through a sentence. Even though she tried not to.

"I could ride out here all day with you," John said, as they trotted over the lawn toward the large manor house which was their current home. "But I promised my steward I would look over the tenant accounts."

Florence rolled her eyes expressively. "Are you certain you're not going inside to read up on the racing that's taking place in York next week?"

It was perhaps a jest too soon. That was one of the things she was still learning about this mercurial husband of hers. Just when she thought she had entirely understood him, there was something else that confused her to no end.

It was riveting. No man had ever caught her attention quite like John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury.

"Most definitely not," said John firmly, looking a little hurt.

Florence giggled. "Because your favorites aren't riding, are they?"

Her husband lifted a wounded hand to his chest. "I can't believe you would say—"

"I'm right, though, aren't I?"

"Well they aren't riding, as it happens," said John with a grin as they trotted into the stable yard. "Mere coincidence, I assure you. No, it's Lindow. He's bought a share in a horse, believe it or not, the fool."

And Florence was assured.

Oh, she wasn't so foolish as to think a man could kick a habit like gambling in a matter of minutes. She knew there would be times when her husband would make mistakes. Knowing John, they would probably be rather large ones.

But she was certain of one thing, Florence thought as they guided their horses around the gardens and into the stable yard. No matter what happened, no matter what opportunities would come his way, John would never betray her. Their marriage bed, sweet and delectable as it was, was somehow above and beyond all the mistakes that John could make.

Anything else... well, he would tell her, and they would work through it. That was the true meaning of love, wasn't it? Making mistakes, and being honest, and being forgiven.

Florence laughed as she glanced over at the man who had taken her heart, and given her... Did he know? Had he guessed?

"Now then," said John, dismounting smoothly from his steed and walking over to her mare, hand outstretched. "By my reckoning, I would say I have about twenty minutes before my steward will be expecting me."

Florence could have dismounted on her own, but she didn't. Instead, she took John's hand in her own, heat pouring through it thanks to their utter disdain for wearing gloves, and ensured she slid down his chest in a most sensuous manner as she dismounted.

"Really? Twenty whole minutes?" she breathed, looking up at him with wide, almost innocent eyes. "Goodness, I can't think of anything I'd like to do for twenty whole minutes."

She almost wasn't permitted to finish her sentence. John covered her lips with his own with a moan, and Florence responded immediately, pulling him close, tugging on the lapels of his riding jacket.

There was something so very heady about kissing one's husband in public.

Well. Not entirely public. The stable yard here wasn't exactly in public, but anyone could come across them.

Not that Florence particularly cared about that. She could only think of the aching heat dripping down her breasts and across her stomach until it settled between her legs—legs that were swiftly no longer on the ground. John had lifted up first one, then the second leg to curl around him, his hands now on her buttocks.

And Florence kissed him. Teased open his mouth with a whimper, lavished her tongue upon his own, trembled as he—

"We shouldn't be doing this here," John said in a ragged voice, pulling away only so he could start to trail kisses along her neck.

Florence tipped her head back and gloried in the connection. It was just her and John, alone in the world. "No one will interrupt us, who would be—"

"Ahem," said a strained voice. "Ah. Oh dear."

Florence froze. So did John, but he swiftly unfroze to place her back on the cobbles of the stable yard.

They both turned.

George Chance, Earl of Lindow and third Chance brother, was standing there with an awkward grin on his face and a hand raised in greeting.

John swore.

"Lindow!" said Florence hurriedly, pulse frantically beating now for an entirely different reason. Oh, Lord, to be caught so by her brother-in-law! "I d-did n-not know—you did not s-send word that—"

"I thought I'd surprise you," said the Earl of Lindow with a grin. "And I suppose I did."

"The house is that way, Lindow," snapped John with a wry shake of his head. "You never heard of knocking on the front door?"

"I thought I'd be useful and stable my own horse," replied his brother as Florence wished the earth would kindly swallow her up, and John too while it was at it. Lindow jerked his head behind him. "But now I see I should have—"

"Yes, you should," said John. There was no unkindness in his words, but Florence tried not to smile as she saw—and felt—the rather hard evidence of his desire for her against his breeches. "Why don't you go up to the house, tell Humphreys you're here, and that my wife and I will be over shortly for breakfast."

Florence glanced up at her husband. "F-For—"

"In twenty minutes or so," said John, glaring at his brother. "Understand?"

When she finally snuck a sidelong glance back at the Earl of Lindow, Florence saw that her brother-in-law most certainly understood.

"Ah," said the third Chance brother weakly. "Yes. Right. You know what, I'll just go up to the house and—"

"Thank you, Lindow," said John resolutely.

Only when the younger of the two brothers had turned the corner and disappeared from sight did Florence allow herself to lean her head on her husband's shoulder. "Oh dear."

"Oh dear is only the half of it," growled John, his hands swiftly returning to her buttocks. "Now, where were we?"

"John!"

"What? I want to kiss my wife," said John, nuzzling her neck in a way designed to produce the most confusion.

And it was working. Heady desire was flooding Florence's mind, quickly dulling all concern that they had been caught most scandalously in their own stable yard. And that they had a guest waiting. And the steward too, now, probably. And breakfast.

And yet . . .

"John—"

"I never should have invited him," said John heavily, hanging his head and looking morosely into her eyes. "All I wanted was to have a few quiet weeks with my wife—"

"Quiet?" Florence raised an eyebrow.

Her husband flashed a wicked grin. "Well. I didn't intend to keep you quiet that much, truth be told. When I told Lindow he should come up for a week's shooting, I meant late October, not now! I'll have to pack him off to Bath to be with his precious racehorse, or something. Try to keep him distracted."

"Well, he's here n-now," Florence said with a sigh. "It would be cruel to send him back. It's such a long way to Bath, and... well, he m-might be lonely."

As expected, John snorted. "Lonely? Lindow? He has a different woman in his bed every week, and—"

"Sounds like a lonely man to me," Florence said serenely.

That was one of the things she adored about John. He would look at her sometimes, usually after she said something calm, benign, and utterly dull, and would find treasure in it as though she were some sort of saint.

It was most endearing. Utterly mad, yes. But endearing.

"You are a very good person, you know that?" John said.

"I don't feel like a good person when your fingers are squeezing my buttocks like that," Florence pointed out with faintly burning cheeks. "Still, it's not easy for him—"

"Not easy for him?" Her husband rolled his eyes. "What about me?"

Florence blinked. She had been unaware John was having any difficulties—he certainly hadn't mentioned any to her. "What do you mean, what about you—what's wrong?"

"It isn't easy, you know," John said, a teasing grin flickering across his face. "Trying to keep my hands off my wife."

And all the tension that had suddenly bunched in her stomach disappeared. Most of it, anyway.

Florence glanced about them for a moment. It was a very public place to be kissing. Stable hands and groomsmen and gardeners usually roamed about this place from morning until night.

But for now, it was empty.

Perhaps now was the right time then. It probably wasn't the best place, but that was by the by.

"Well, I am afraid, John, you w-will have to keep your hands off m-me in a few months' time," Florence said, some of the shyness that was always rippling under the surface appearing again.

John's fingers halted their delightful teasing of her buttocks. "Dear God, why?"

Florence swallowed.

She was sure. As sure as she could be. Even the doctor was sure, and that meant that it was time for John to know, too. Though as much as she had rehearsed this moment, words had escaped her and all she could do is look up into his blue eyes and say...

"J-John," Florence stammered, hardly knowing why her voice had failed her now. "I... I am with child. I mean, I think. Probably. Almost definitely."

John stared.

And it was like that meeting, in the Knights' drawing room, all over again. A moment of connection across a crowded room, her gaze meeting his own, and knowing, even if she didn't understand it, that the rest of her life was going to be changed. That nothing she had yet known was going to be like what was still before her.

And that she would be sharing it with the very best man. Oh, the best man she had ever met.

Then John was hugging her, pulling her into a tight embrace that knocked the very air from Florence's lungs.

"Oh, Florence—really? T-Truly?" His breath fluttered in her ear, a shake to it she had never heard before. "A-A baby? You're a-absolutely certain?"

Florence pulled back with a laugh. "Goodness, you sound like me again!"

Only then did she see that her husband, the bold man with the bravado of a king, was dashing away tears.

"John!"

"I'm fine, it's just... oh, Florence," whispered John, his hands now tight on her waist, holding her up, as though she could fall at any moment. "A baby."

"I know, it is all very sudden," said Florence in a rush. "I know we have not been married long, and you probably wished to spend more time enjoying our—"

John kissed her hard on the mouth—but this was not merely a kiss of lust, of desire that could only be completed one way.

No, this was a kiss of adoration: of truest love, an affection deeper than a mere flight of fancy.

When he pulled away Florence was dizzy, and rather glad for the steadying hands at her waist.

"I love you, Florence Chance," John said seriously, though there was still a hint of mischief in his eyes. "And I promise you, I will not ruin this second chance you have given me."

"Good," said Florence firmly, heart singing, knowing she had found the happiness she had always thought would be denied her. "Because I won't let you."