Epilogue

Several Months Later

Whitethorn

Stacy heard a tentative scratch on the library door and leapt to his feet.

"Come," he called, his voice rough from disuse.

It was Soames. "The countess is asking for you, my lord." His lips twitched and Stacy could see he was struggling to contain a smile.

He stared at his generally somber butler and opened his mouth. And then closed it. And then opened it again. "Thank you, Soames, I shall be up directly." He remained standing and staring at the door even after it had closed. He'd wanted to be upstairs with her for hours and now, quite suddenly, he was . . . nervous.

Robert lowered the paper he'd been reading and regarded him with an amused, tolerant smirk. "Well, are you ready, old man?"

Stacy looked at his brother—his younger brother—his mind a whirl. Poor Robert had not had an easy time these past months. He'd stayed to manage their father's holdings, but Kitty had wanted nothing to do with him. Fortunately, he'd seen their daughter, April, quite often, even bringing her to Thurlestone to meet their aunts. Stacy and Portia had met the girl, as well, but Kitty never brought up the subject of his brother, and Stacy did not feel right about prying. Who knew what would happen between those two after such a tortured past?

"Are you just going to stand there all day, Stacy?"

He shook himself, and took a deep breath, Robert's laughter following him from the room.

Stacy was only vaguely aware of the faces of most of his servants as he made his way toward the master suite. It felt as though the distance between the library and their bedchambers had tripled at some point during the last twenty-two hours. He took the steps two at a time and almost collided with his sister Mary at the top of the stairs.

She beamed and seized his hand. "Come, they are waiting."

They? Oh, yes, it wasn't just Portia he was going to see.

There seemed to be a hundred people in Portia's bedchamber: her friends from the academy—all but Miles and Honoria—had made the long journey and had been here almost a week. Stacy had met all of the former teachers during a visit to London last Christmas, and he liked all of them—even the far-too-handsome Miles. He was glad her friends had been here for her, but right now he only had eyes for his wife. Portia was propped up on a mound of cushions, her wild black hair loose about her shoulders, her beautiful face exhausted but glowing with pride.

She held out her hands. "Oh, Stacy!"

He kissed her brow and squeezed her hands so hard she winced. "How do you feel, darling? You look beautiful. They would not let me in. Frances and Serena stopped me at the door and would not let me pass."

She laughed and glanced over his shoulder and he turned.

Frances held a child in her arms.

And so did Serena, Portia's closest friend, a fiery young widow much like his own wife, and a woman he was coming to like very much.

Stacy's jaw hit the floor. "Two?"

"Our son and daughter, Stacy." Portia's voice was soft and full of wonder.

"Twins?" he asked stupidly. A chill expanded in his chest; were they like him?

He got to his feet slowly and approached the bundle Frances held. He looked down on a pink face with a scant fluff of black hair and smiled.

"This is your daughter, your first-born," Frances said. "She is twelve minutes older than your son."

Stacy touched her tiny pink cheek with one finger and she squirmed but continued sleeping.

He turned to Serena. The usually gregarious Frenchwoman was even more disheveled than usual, her long, wild hair sticking out in all directions. She met Stacy's eye with an uncharacteristically solemn look. "This is your son, my lord."

Stacy pulled back the blanket. His son was not sleeping. He was pale with no hint of color except for his eyes; eyes that were a pale, pale blue. Stacy stared into those eyes for a long moment, his emotions a confusing welter of love, joy, fear, and a little sadness at what his son would have to face. He swallowed hard at the thought of the boy's future. He would endure the same stares and cruelty as Stacy had and his life would never be easy. But then, whose life was? And at least he wouldn't have to face it alone.

His son gurgled and his hand shot out and grabbed Stacy's finger, his grip fierce for such a tiny thing.

Stacy laughed and looked toward the bed, meeting Portia's worried gaze. "He's got your hands. Our children are beautiful, my love. Both of them."

Relief flooded her face and Stacy frowned. Had she been worried he would not love his own child?

Had he been worried about the same thing?

He turned to Frances and Serena, who were both grinning broadly, and held out his arms.

"Both of them?" Serena asked, hesitating.

"I'd better become accustomed to it."

They felt so light in his arms; they weighed nothing but had already changed everything.

He sat on the bed with a baby carefully balanced in the crook of each arm and looked at his wife.

"You were wise to stop with two, Portia, I do not have another arm to spare."

She gave a tired chuckle and looked from their daughter, to their son, and then at him, her dark eyes glowing with love. "They are perfect, Stacy."

Stacy looked at the woman who'd brought so much light and joy into his colorless life and nodded.

"Yes, my dear, they are perfect. And they will grow up together and know the love of their parents, family, and each other."