Epilogue

Two years later, in a colorful cottage in Kent

T he fireplace in their cottage crackled, and all was right in the world. Dorian wrapped his arms around his wife and spread his fingers over the dome of her belly.

After a little over a year on the Continent, they'd realized they were expecting and returned home. Prinny had been happy to release Dorian from his assignment since the war was drawing to a close. Besides, no one wanted Caro anywhere near battlefields and soldiers' camps when she carried the child to a dukedom without an heir. And everyone knew Dorian would march through hell before he'd leave his wife.

Sweat cooled on their skin from their lovemaking. Caro tugged the quilt higher over their bodies just as he began to feel the chill. They'd barely made it to their bed before he was inside her, insatiable for each other as ever.

"Happy birthday, Dorian."

He smiled against her nape and laid a kiss on the soft skin. "Thank you."

"How do you feel being thirty-eight?"

"Even more grateful than when I was thirty-seven. This will be a wonderful year."

She covered his hands on her belly. "A lot of changes."

"Yes, but we are ready. If you can march with soldiers across Europe, charm diplomats, and win over my mother—all while writing novels—then you're ready for motherhood."

She laughed. "You said we were ready, but that list was all about me. What about you?"

"Yes, well. I marched with you, I didn't punch the diplomats when they were too thoroughly charmed, and I didn't say ‘I told you so' too often when my mother finally thawed. I didn't write any novels, but I don't think that should disqualify me from our next chapter."

"You inspired novels, though. There's a part of you in every hero I write. Oh, don't let me forget to bring that copy of A Soldier for Samantha to your mother."

"She always gets the first signed copy. I remember."

He pushed onto his elbow, then dropped a kiss on her nose, her pointed chin, and finally her lips. When she pushed him onto his back, he rolled and brought her with him. She straddled him, gloriously round and full, with her tangle of dark curls draped over her shoulders.

"God, you're the most gorgeous sight I've ever seen."

Her smile was sweet, but he knew it could turn wicked in a blink. And he loved her for it.

The tips of her breasts brushed his chest when she kissed him. Alas, the possibility of deepening the kiss disappeared when she sighed, then shifted to roll off the bed.

"I'm hungry. If you want to make love again, we need to eat first." Caro walked, naked, out of the bedroom. A moment later, cupboards in the kitchen opened and closed, then something hit the floor and she cursed. It didn't sound like anything broke, but bending and getting up again was a bit of a process for her these days.

"Whatever it is, leave it. I'll be there in a minute," he called as he searched the floor for the breeches he'd abandoned earlier, then hastily pulled them on.

Tomorrow they'd return to London until the baby was born. Their search for a midwife Caro trusted had been a bit of an adventure, but they'd finally found one—a no-nonsense woman who didn't coddle his duchess but did have an excellent record of safe deliveries. They'd agreed on that midwife, because after meeting her, Caro had slept peacefully for the first time in weeks. That had been enough for Dorian to put the woman on retainer and set aside thoughts of hiring a doctor.

Besides, if they didn't go to London, their cottage would be bursting with friends and family within a week, and no one would leave until the child turned five. As it was, they'd often had visitors since their return from the Continent. And when they weren't visiting, her cousins sent letters and newspaper clippings with their commentary written in the margins. Caro had a collection of them she'd saved from the last two years.

One had been particularly memorable. In October 1814, the Horse Shoe Brewery near St. Giles flooded. The article explained that the brewery's wooden vats burst, sending hot beer pouring into the streets, drowning several people. Newspapers enjoyed their grisly details, and whoever wrote the article took particular glee in reporting the deaths of two of the victims. Sherman Snyder, who was found impaled with a piece of wood, then drowned in beer. His companion, also drowned, was identified as Timothy Parker. Above the article, Constance had written, I didn't do it . Hattie scrawled under that, I didn't either. But he deserved worse .

It had been a macabre sort of justice. Far better than what Dorian could have imagined. At the time, Caro had shaken her head and said she wished she could think of endings like that for her villains.

As much as she'd miss the cottage, Dorian knew Caro was excited to see her cousins again. Martin House was hosting an event next week to celebrate the release of her latest book. In a bid to avoid too much speculation, she'd made this hero blond, missing an eye, and she had him walk with a limp. A dashing and handsome war hero, obviously, but one bearing no physical resemblance to Dorian.

"Did we eat all of the cheese Jeffrey brought over last week? I could have sworn there was…" Caro's voice faded to mutters.

Jeffrey and Bryan were their neighbors—delightful gentlemen farmers with a talent for making goat cheese. Jeffrey often dropped by to share his latest flavor experiments with Caro. Bryan had taught Dorian to bake bread and how to chop wood without breaking his back or risking losing a toe to the axe.

"I used the rest of the rosemary-and-lemon-balm spread on my toast, but there was a little of the apricot honey you like in the larder. Look behind the pickled beets."

"You ate the rest of the rosemary? That's it. I'm killing you in the next book."

The toothless threat made him grin as he padded through the main room. Caro had insisted they leave Mrs. Adams's brightly painted wood trim as it was and decorated their home with colorful art and textiles from their travels.

There wasn't a bit of crystal or marble to be seen, except the crystal whisky glasses she'd bought for his thirty-sixth birthday. Because, she'd explained with the dark humor they'd adopted for the subject, if he died young, she'd need to get drunk while still looking like the lady she was now.

The love of his life was in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she sliced fruit and cold chicken, then placed it on a plate with the rest of the cheese. All of that bare skin was a delightful temptation, but he restrained himself to a playful nip on her shoulder.

"I'll put the kettle on." He stoked the fire, then gathered a few more items from the pantry to round out their simple feast.

Naked afternoons were truly the highlight of his life thus far, and he refused to give them up. After all, their rooms in London had locks, and he intended to use them.

Soon enough, they'd be surrounded by servants who'd be shocked to see a duke and duchess making their own meal, much less their own bread.

Curious onlookers in the ton struggled to understand why his and Caro's world didn't revolve around the latest on dit circling the ballrowom, or who'd lost their vouchers to Almack's since the last Season.

But then, no one needed to understand. This was their haven. Where they weren't Blanche Clementine, or a former bookseller, or a duke and duchess.

Here, they were Dorian and Caro. And that was enough.