Epilogue

Ten months later

“I see why you like it here,” Henry said as they sat in the gazebo and watched the children play with Admiral. Joshua threw a ball for the dog, who tore after it as though it were a fox or a hare. The dog brought it back and Frances instructed him to “drop it,” then Joshua picked up the slimy ball and threw it again, giving his little brother time enough to praise the beast and receive a slippery lick.

“I’ve never seen so many lilacs,” King said from the seat on Rory’s opposite side. “I can hardly see the house for all the purple bushes.”

“You’ve both been here before,” Rory pointed out.

“It seems different somehow,” Henry said. “More color. More flowers.”

More love, Rory thought, but he didn’t say it. He might admit privately he was besotted with his wife, but he wasn’t about to show how lovesick he was to his friends, even if they were equally as afflicted.

Rory looked from the dog and the children to the blanket on the lawn, where Genevieve sat, her pink skirts spread around her. The other two women were seated beside her, Violet laughing at the dog and Katie holding the baby and cooing at him.

My son, Rory thought, his heart aching with love. His tiny, healthy boy, born only a few weeks before. He’d been christened today, which was ostensibly the reason for this gathering. He was just about as perfect as any infant Rory had seen—not that he’d seen many. He hadn’t spent much time with Frances when she was a baby, as her mother made it clear he was not welcome. Now he and Frances would spend hours holding the child and watching his tiny face as it grimaced or smiled or frowned. Rory especially liked when the baby’s tiny fingers curled around one of his.

“Why Alexander?” Henry asked.

Rory tore his gaze from the women and looked at his friend.

“I thought you’d name him for your father,” Henry said, nodding at his wife and the baby.

“We named him for Genevieve’s father. His name was Alexander Brooking. You heard the other names?”

“Alexander Henry George,” King said. “Why was my name third? Alexander George Henry sounds much better.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Henry argued. “It sounds rubbish in that order. No one even remembers your name is George anyway.”

“Genevieve wouldn’t let me call him King. She said that was a step too far,” Rory said, his gaze drawn back to the blanket where Genevieve was rising and taking the baby, who was starting to fuss now, from Katie. He rose as she moved toward them, and the other men followed.

“Please sit,” she said as she neared. “I’m taking him inside and out of the sun. He needs a change and a full belly, then he’ll go back to sleep.”

The other men sat, but Rory wanted a peek at his son before Genevieve took him inside.

“This is the first I’ve heard him make a sound,” Henry said. “He slept through the entire service this morning.”

“Wait until tonight,” Genevieve told him. “You’ll hear him then.”

Henry looked at King. “Is it too late to find an inn?”

“You might as well get used to it,” King said. “By Michaelmas you’ll have your own screaming bundle of joy.”

Henry shook his head. “The future Duke of Carlisle wouldn’t dare make a fuss.”

“If he—or she—is anything like you or the duchess, Your Grace, I’m sure you’re right,” Genevieve said. “Excuse me.”

“I’ll go with you,” Rory said, putting his arm about her waist as they walked toward the house.

Once away from the gazebo, she looked up at him. “You might have stayed with your friends. Once I nurse him, I’ll turn him over to the nurse and come back outside.”

“The day is pleasant enough. We’ll be sitting in the gazebo all day, I expect.” He ushered her inside just as Gables opened the door. “And I thought when the baby took a nap, we might take a nap as well,” he whispered as they started up the stairs.

She glanced up at him. “I could use a nap.”

Rory frowned. “You understood when I said nap, I didn’t really mean nap .”

“Neither did I.”

He followed her into the nursery, where she sat in her rocking chair and unfastened her bodice so the fussing baby might suckle. The nurse stepped outside, giving them privacy, and Rory admired the curve of Genevieve’s cheek as she looked down at the baby in her arms. He might have also admired the swell of her breasts, very full and lush now, with large, dark red nipples.

When the baby had fallen into a milk-induced sleep, she called the nurse back and handed him over. Then she took Rory’s hand and led him to his bedchamber. Closing the door behind her, she reached for her bodice again, and Rory’s mouth went dry as her breasts were freed.

“And here I thought you liked my derriere,” she said.

“I like that too,” he admitted. “I like all of you. Come here.” He finished undressing her, taking the time to explore every one of her new curves. And when he was inside her, her back arched to meet him, and her moans growing almost loud enough that they might be heard, he thought, not for the first time in these past few weeks, that sometimes a curse could be a blessing.

And he had been blessed beyond measure.