Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Four Months Later…

In the stifling heat of the carriage, Agnes feared she might perspire right through the beautiful, periwinkle wedding gown that she had spent weeks admiring in the looking glass, eager for the day she could wear it in front of George and her family and Lady Finch and anyone else that her mother had eagerly invited.

“Would you sit still!” her mother chided, fanning herself furiously, her brow glistening with sweat.

“I am about to melt, Mother!” Agnes shot back, desperate for a sip of water or perhaps, an entire lake to plunge herself into.

Rose, who was infuriatingly composed and mysteriously untouched by perspiration, chuckled. “It is unseasonably warm, but His Grace will consider you the most beautiful creature in Christendom, even if you were to walk in there resembling a drowned rat.”

“Do I?” Agnes groaned, sinking into the squabs.

“No, of course you do not,” her mother remarked. “You look exquisite. You are the very picture of beauty, but your complaints do not become you.”

Agnes sat up, stunned. “You think I look beautiful?”

“Exceptionally,” her mother replied, almost shyly. “I have always thought you were remarkable in your intellect and your appearance, but… I suppose I have not said it nearly enough. Indeed, at times, I have deliberately not said it though I have never understood why. In a way, I think… I have been envious of you.”

Agnes stole Rose’s fan and began to flap it close to her face, wondering if she had succumbed to heat sickness or if this was truly happening. “Envious of me?”

“You were always so beloved by your father,” her mother explained hesitantly. “You both were, of course, but you resemble him so much, Agnes—not just in your appearance, either, for you have his intellect, you have his humor, and you have his kindness and unyielding loyalty. Just being near to you used to be so painful, and when you began to care for Rose as if she were your own, I suppose I became bitter, somewhere through the years. I… am sorry for that, Agnes. I understand that an apology is not enough, but… I hope you will give me the chance to earn your forgiveness.”

Agnes leaned forward and pressed her palm to her mother’s brow. “Are you unwell, Mother? Have you a fever?”

“Do not mock me, Agnes.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I have done a great deal of reflection since your engagement was announced, and… now that you are to be married and you will soon be leaving me, I do not want us to part with regrets. If I did not apologize, if I did not attempt to repair all the damage I have done, I would regret that for the rest of my days. Of course, if you cannot give me that opportunity, I will not blame you, but… I am nonetheless hopeful.”

Agnes squinted at her mother, feeling the familiar tingle of a thousand witty retorts dancing upon her tongue, but as she took in the ageing, sad-eyed, sincere figure sitting upon the squabs opposite, the urge to tease retreated. “We can begin with a truce and see where it leads,” she said instead. “I just wish you had explained sooner, so I might have understood your behavior somewhat.”

“As do I,” her mother replied quietly.

Just then, a footman opened the carriage door, letting in a rush of warm air that was, at least, marginally cooler than the heat of the interior. And though there was more that Agnes wanted to say, she sensed that leaving some things unspoken might be for the best if they were ever to heal their fragmented relationship.

Allowing the footman to help her down, Agnes paused and drew in a breath as she peered up at the grand church, listening to the gentle music that drifted out.

After four months of worry and unrest, the day had finally come—the beginning of the rest of her life. To make it all the sweeter, Rose had begun a tentative courtship with the Marquess of Finch’s son, and “Lord Morton” would never blight anyone’s happiness ever again.

In the time that had passed since the events at the hunting lodge, Agnes, George, Rose, and Lady Finch had made it their mission to dredge up every morsel of information they could find about the mysterious, vile impostor. It did not matter that Seth apparently intended to respect Agnes’ warning and had disappeared from society, for she did not want him to trick any other vulnerable young lady into believing his wicked lies.

A month ago, they had finally found him and a long, awful list of every wrongdoing. His real name was Seth Deane, and he was the youngest son of a Scottish Baron who had disinherited him a decade earlier after he had been caught in flagrante with another nobleman’s daughter. After that, it seemed he had toured England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, pretending to be someone he was not—sometimes, pretending to be a real lord, sometimes one he had conjured up himself. And from his wicked deeds and deceptive schemes, he used blackmail to bolster his coffers and keep young ladies silent, so he might continue his spree of wretchedness.

Unfortunately for him, a special print of the scandal sheets had entered society three weeks ago, detailing everything about him with only the names of his victims redacted. A sketch of his appearance had been included, to assist young ladies in avoiding any future traps he might lay for them. And while Agnes had anticipated revenge of some kind, it appeared that Seth had finally accepted defeat—last she had heard, he had absconded to the Continent, no doubt to begin his treachery again on foreign shores. But, for now, the women of the British Isles were safe.

“Do not keep him waiting, dear.” Agnes’ mother nudged her in the ribs, urging her toward the church doors.

“As I am perspiring horribly, I thought I ought to make him stew a little,” Agnes teased, striding forward to meet her future.

* * *

“You must stop carrying me like I am a wayward sheep that has escaped your fields!” Agnes laughed as George wielded her through the darkened forest toward the hunting lodge. At least, that was where she assumed they were headed.

He flashed her a grin. “Never.”

“Our absence will be noticed,” she insisted, looping her arms around his neck. “They will think us terrible hedonists, stealing away into the night in secret.”

He shrugged. “Let them believe what they want to. Now that we are husband and wife, they can say what they please, and no one shall have a ruined reputation.”

“Ah, I must confess that is a blessing.” Agnes rested her head against her husband’s shoulder. “Lady Finch will be glad of it. I think she was beginning to regret her hopes for us after the library incident.”

George arched an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“You know the one.” Agnes flushed at the memory, for while the joyful couple had tried to restrain themselves at the Dowager House, there had been several occasions where they could not resist one another and could not escape to the hunting lodge. Fortunately, Lady Finch had only walked in on them once, had turned sharply around and walked back out again, never to mention the incident again.

Just then, Agnes noticed something up ahead, glowing between the trees. “Are the gentlemen out hunting at this hour?”

“I certainly hope not,” George replied, laughing as he carried her toward that strange glow.

Breaking through the trees, Agnes’ eyes widened as she looked upon the most beautiful scene she had ever beheld. Candles were arranged in a circle around a peaceful glade, the grass covered in a patchwork of blankets while two large wicker hampers took pride of place in the center.

“Who did this?” Agnes gasped. “You have been at my side all day.”

George chuckled, stepping over the ring of candles. “Rose and Lady Finch. A wedding gift.” He kneeled with Agnes in his arms, laying her down upon the blankets. “But if you get too cold, I believe there are more surprises awaiting us at the hunting lodge.”

“Might you warm me first?” she asked silkily, lifting her head up to catch his mouth with hers.

He kissed her back as if they had not seen one another for weeks, pressing her into the blankets, pausing only to push the hampers out of the way, for if they were to eat, they needed to conjure an appetite first.

Before long, they were naked and entwined beneath the canopy of the trees and stars, protected from the darkness by the warm glow of the candlelight that danced across their tangled limbs and sweat-slicked skin as they moved together in harmony.

After four months of love, there was nothing Agnes did not know about him, and nothing he did not know about her, yet that intimate knowledge only served to make their explorations more exciting. If they had mere minutes to enjoy one another, they made every thrilling, risky second count. If they had all night, they luxuriated in each other, taking their time, relishing every moment until the sun came up.

Teasing her, George withdrew, smiling as she gasped and tried to pull him back down. But it was her turn to smile as he rolled her onto her side and lay down behind her, holding her close to his chest as he eased himself inside her. She pushed her buttocks against him, urging him deeper while she twisted her head to steal a kiss from his lips.

As he moved inside her, taking his time to ensure her pleasure, his hand slipped over her stomach and down between her thighs. There, like a familiar, beloved instrument that he never tired of playing, he tapped and circled and strummed her swollen bud until her back arched and her breath became ragged.

“Oh, my love!” Agnes cried out as their forest opera transformed into a crescendo of drama and passion, her body singing the powerful coda that would bring it all to a trembling end.

His pace did not quicken, his attentions never faltering, until that mighty conclusion roared through her, her entire being thundering a rapturous applause that went on and on in wave after delirious wave, rising and falling with every skilled touch of his fingertips upon her and push of his length inside her.

But as the roar abated, and Agnes relaxed into his embrace, she noticed he had paused in his measured strokes, content to just hold her and be joined with her as he nuzzled her neck.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, pressing back against him.

He shook his head, smiling against her skin. “Everything is perfect… and I intent to make our first union as man and wife last all night.”

“Is that so?” Stifling a gasp as she pulled away and turned to face him, she draped her leg over his hip and stroked his sculpted cheek. “I thought you might have grown weary of me now that we are wed.”

He chuckled. “Do not speak such nonsense. I might occasionally be tired because ofyou but never of you.” He bent his head to kiss her. “Are you happy, my love?”

“More than I ever thought I could be.”

He gazed down at her for a moment, tucking his favorite strand of hair behind her ear. “Solid bones?”

“Unbreakable,” she replied.

The End?