Epilogue

Stacia hurried up the steps to Chatham House and nodded her thanks to the footman who opened the door for her.

She had spent the morning with Selina and Aurelia, the three of them having the final fittings for their court gowns.

Stacia had never dreamed that she would be presented. It had been Chatham who'd suggested it.

"Shelton is my heir and there is a great deal of curiosity about his new wife. Because this is something I am asking for, I would be honored to purchase your court gown, Stacia," the duke had assured her. "It is a garment which you will never wear again, after all."

"That is a kind offer, Your Grace. But Andrew would, I think, be very unhappy if I were to accept your gift, Your Grace."

Chatham had pulled a face. "He is too proud by half."

"Perhaps," she had agreed with a smile. "I will agree to a presentation, but…on my own terms."

Andrew had not been happy when Stacia refused to allow him to purchase the expensive, ultimately useless, garment—at least not a brand new one.

"Lord, Stacia—when I told you that I was not wealthy, I did not mean that I was so below the hatches that I couldn't afford a gown ! I told you that Chatham has managed my inheritance so skillfully these past eleven years that we have no need to live like paupers. A gown, no matter how dear, will not beggar us. Nor will it deprive our tenants and servants at Rosewood."

"I know that, Andrew," she had soothed. Stacia had been proud that her husband's first action when he'd discovered the scope of his inheritance had been to write to the steward at Rosewood and give the man instructions to commence much needed improvements. "I have happily agreed to spend money on new clothes—"

"Happily?" Andrew had scoffed. "I recall having to threaten you with husbandly discipline if you did not comply with my command and purchase some new dresses."

Stacia laughed. "Yes. And I distinctly recall you disciplining me even after I complied." Indeed, just recalling her husband's interesting brand of discipline made her thighs clench. "But I am adamant about the court gown, Andrew. I hate the thought of spending so much money on something that will only be used for a few minutes."

"So, what are you going to do, then? Chatham seems set on this foolishness."

"I have decided to purchase a used gown from the modiste who is making dresses for Aurelia and Selina."

"A used gown?" he'd demanded, his face screwed up in horror.

"Don't be such a horrid snob. The gown was worn one time for only a few hours."

After a bit more squabbling—and after Stacia had told him the cost of a new court gown—he had grudgingly agreed.

The presentation was in three days. Stacia was relieved she would not be alone. Not only were Selina and Aurelia going, but so was Hyacinth—although with considerably less exuberance than her sisters.

Today's fitting had run over and Stacia had agreed to meet Andrew afterward. Evidently he had some surprise that he wanted to give her. She hoped it was not a new wedding ring—which he'd threatened to buy more than once. She loved her silver rose, even though he insisted it was not grand enough.

"Ah, there you are!" Andrew said when Stacia entered the foyer. He was already dressed to go out, Scrapper dancing around his feet.

"Shall I go and change my—"

"You look perfect," he said. "Come along. We don't want to be late."

Stacia stared up at him suspiciously as she took his arm. "Where are you taking me?" She glanced down at the little dog. "And should we leave him here?"

"You will see where we are going. As for Scrapper, he can wait in the carriage." He coughed. "Er, Bently has taken to putting a lap rug and warming pan on the bench for the little beast."

"Oh. Bently has done that, has he?" she taunted, knowing full well who was responsible for spoiling the dog.

Andrew shrugged guiltily but didn't bother to deny it.

"One moment," he said to Stacia after handing her into the carriage. She heard him murmur something to the coachman and then climbed in beside her.

"What is all this mystery about?" she asked, their bodies pressed together even though there was at least four inches of unused seat on his other side.

"I cannot tell you, my love, or it would not be a mystery," he said. And then scooted even closer.

Stacia laughed. "I know you have more seat—I can see it."

He grinned down at her and slipped his arm around her. "How did your fitting go?"

"It is the last one, for which I am very grateful."

"I am eager to see you in the gown."

"You will laugh," she assured him. "I resemble a short, squat toadstool with legs." He laughed, but Stacia was serious. "I will just be glad to get the affair over with," she said, and then looked up at him. "And then I want to go Rosewood."

"Are you sure you don't want to spend at least a few weeks enjoying the Season?"

"I do not." She hesitated. "Unless you do?"

"I do not," he said emphatically.

Stacia sighed with relief. "Good."

He took her hand and gently squeezed it. "You know there will be no rest when we get there? A mountain of work awaits you at Rosewood."

"You have already warned me, Andrew." More than once. More than five times. Her husband harbored a great deal of guilt toward his estate. The sooner they could put it to rights the sooner he could stop flogging himself.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop in front of one of the newer mansions on Russell Square. The houses were huge, and, in Stacia's opinion, had sacrificed elegance for sheer size.

"Who lives here?" she asked as the carriage door opened and the footman put down the steps.

"You will see," he said, handing her down from the carriage and then placing her hand on his arm.

"You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, Andrew," she groused as they mounted the few steps to the house.

"It is something I learned during my brief time on the stage."

Her head whipped up. "Are you—oh," she said, scowling when she saw his grin. "You are so odious!"

"I cannot help myself, darling. You snap at the lures I cast so readily."

" Hmmph. "

Still smiling, he lifted a hand to the knocker and rapped twice.

After a long moment the door was opened by a footman wearing a powdered wig and the sumptuous blue and gold livery of an older age.

"The Marchioness and Marquess of Shelton to see Lord Clayton. He is expecting us," her husband said, using a haughty tone that Stacia had never heard him employ before.

It took her a second to realize the name he'd just spoken.

Again her head whipped up. This time Andrew was looking straight ahead, his expression of aristocratic ennui so complete she would have laughed if she'd not been so thunderstruck.

The footman hastily stepped back, bowing low as he admitted them into a gaudy foyer, the gilt and mirrors like something from Versailles.

"What are we doing here?" she hissed at Andrew as they followed the servant up the broad white marble stairs.

He merely smiled. "You will see."

"I am going to discipline you for this, my lord."

He grinned.

The servant stopped outside a pair of white and gold doors and opened the left-hand one. "Lord and Lady Shelton."

"Show them in," a voice Stacia had not heard for four years called out, although it sounded slightly different, more…nasal.

The moment Andrew guided her into the room Stacia gasped at the reason for her cousin's altered tone. There was a large bandage where his nose should be and his left eye was black and swollen shut.

Geoffrey Martin, the sixth Viscount Clayton, gave a sickly smile and gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Once they were seated Geoffrey gingerly took his own seat, moving like a man who was in pain. "You are looking well, Stacia."

"I wish I could say the same for you, Geoff. What in the world happened?"

His eyes—or at least the one that still worked—slid toward Andrew and then rapidly back. "I, er, ran into a door."

Stacia did not comment on his improbable answer.

Geoff cleared his throat. "Er, thank you so much for coming. I regret I have not been able to see you sooner." Again he glanced briefly at Andrew before swallowing and gesturing to a large lacquer box on his desk.

Stacia had not noticed it until then. "Oh! It is Papa's jewelry casket." She looked inquiringly up at her cousin and then at her husband—Andrew still wore his haughty mask and was staring straight ahead. "What is this about, Geoff?"

He leaned forward and pushed the chest closer to her. "This is yours, Stacia. I—er, everything is still as it was when, er, your father died." He cleared his throat again and gestured to a stack of crates beside his desk. "Those are your father's books. Er, most of them. I have sold one or two items. The money I received—and the names of the buyers—is in here." He slid a fat packet tied with string across his desk.

Andrew cleared his throat.

A look of terror flitted across Geoff's face, and he hastily added, "I am deeply sorry for keeping these items from you four years ago, Stacia."

Andrew coughed.

"I have had my man of business contact Lord Needham," Geoff said, speaking so fast his words were tripping over each other. "It would be my pleasure, and my honor, to make good on the settlement he negotiated on your behalf."

"Oh." She blinked rapidly and frowned, looking from her cousin to her husband, who still looked like a stranger with his reserved, languid air. "Erm, thank you, Geoff, that is remarkably handsome of you." Stacia ignored the slight snort that came from beside her.

Geoffry nodded stiffly. "I shall have all these crates delivered to Chatham House unless you have another direction?"

"Chatham House will be perfect, thank you."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, Geoff looking like a cornered rodent.

"Thank you for receiving us at such short notice Clayton, but I'm afraid we must be on our way," Andrew said, his words causing the other man to jolt and make a small squeaking sound. "No need to bestir yourself," he said, even though Geoff appeared to be frozen to his chair. "We can see ourselves out."

"Goodbye, Geoff," Stacia said, taking Andrew's arm when her cousin merely nodded.

Not until she was bundled in rugs in the carriage, Scrapper snoozing on her lap, and they were rolling along did she look up at her husband. "I take it you were the door my cousin ran into?" she asked.

Andrew gave her the same haughty look he had used to make Geoff squirm. "I am sure I don't know what you mean, my dear."

"That was very bad of you!" Stacia shook her head but couldn't help laughing. She took his hand in both of hers and gazed up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "It was bad, but it was also the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you, Andrew."

He gently squeezed her hand. "I think that is only fair as you've done the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me , my lady."

Stacia's lips were already curving in anticipation of his likely teasing, possibly scandalous, answer. "And what is that, my lord?"

"Loving me."

Stacia caught her breath as she stared into his eyes. "Oh, Andrew."

"No crying," he said with mock sternness, wiping a tear from her cheek and then adding, with a boyish grin, "I can't say that my behavior in this instance was entirely unselfish."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that thrashing Clayton was one of the more pleasurable activities I've had in town this Season."

" Andrew!"

"I'm sorry, my love. Was that a terribly vulgar thing to admit?"

"Yes. But mostly I am upset you did not invite me to watch."

Andrew gave a loud hoot and pulled her into an embrace, kissing her soundly. "And here I thought I could not love you more than I already do, my bloodthirsty little wife."

Really The End