Epilogue

B ella lay on the bed, her gaze wandering across the ceiling—the paintings depicting rosy-cheeked cherubs with their serene smiles and soft, feathered wings. Her body still thrummed with the ripples of her climax, and she squeezed her thighs together, chasing the pleasure that had made her scream with ecstasy only moments before, savoring the delicious soreness from her husband’s attentions.

Chatter and laugher filtered through the house. No doubt the wedding guests were gossiping about how the groom, as soon as the toasts concluded, had tossed the bride over his shoulder and carried her upstairs, like a barbarian eager to bed his mate.

And what a bedding it had been! Her discarded wedding gown lay torn on the floor, unable to withstand his fervor as he forsook gentility and thoroughly claimed her as his.

And she had relished every moment.

She yawned and stretched, and a warm hand caressed her face. Then light fingertips traced an invisible path toward her neck and down her throat, until, finally, the hand cupped a breast. A fingertip flicked her nipple, and she caught her breath at the pulse of pleasure in her center.

“Mmm… Is my wife ready for me again?”

“Lawrence, you’re an insatiable beast.”

“Beast, am I?”

He caught her wrists, and the bed shifted under his weight as he mounted her, then he thrust forward, and she let out a low cry of pleasure.

“Ah… What greater delight is there for a man than to bury himself inside his woman?” His low growl reverberated in her chest, and she arched her back, parting her legs further. “Beast I may be,” he said, sliding out before plunging inside her once more, “but I’m your beast.”

“Lawrence…” she panted, “the guests will—Oh!”

A small burst of ecstasy ignited in her center, and she looked up into her husband’s eyes, which glazed over with satiation as the newlyweds came to pleasure.

At length, he captured her mouth in a kiss and then climbed off the bed. She rolled onto her side, feasting her eyes on his body—the toned, muscular form, the broad chest that tapered to his waist, and the firm, sculpted buttocks she’d clung to while he drove into her with such primal fervor.

How could she have ever believed that fulfilment could be had in the staid, genteel world of a lady?

He turned to face her, and she lowered her gaze to that part of him that had given such pleasure, nestled among a thatch of dark blond curls. When she lifted her gaze to his eyes, she saw a wicked glint in their depths.

He reached for his breeches and slipped them on, then he picked up her wedding gown and sighed.

“You must forgive me, love—perhaps Connie can mend it if it’s not too badly torn.”

“I love the rips,” she replied. “They’re the marks of your desire.”

“They’re evidence that Lady Arabella Ponsford has married beneath her.”

“No, Lawrence,” she said. “Rank, position—that’s nothing. In everything that matters, we are equals. You think I’d have been happier married to a duke? They make the worst husbands.”

“Not all dukes,” he said. “Whitcombe dotes on his wife. They could hardly keep their eyes off each other today.”

“Whitcombe’s an exception because he chose the perfect wife,” Bella said. “Eleanor’s a delightful creature—quiet and unassuming, but when she does say something, it pays to listen. They’re utterly in love.”

“Unlike Dunton and your aunt,” Lawrence said with a chuckle. “‘Miserably ever after,’ Trelawney said when they married. It was generous of you to invite them to our wedding.”

Bella grinned. “I’ll not have the world admonish the harpy of the ton for being ungenerous toward her only living relative. And I confess a wickedness in wanting them to witness our happiness. Aunt seems satisfied enough as Dunton’s duchess, but I wonder if she knows he only married her at Whitcombe’s insistence to preserve his liberty. An unusual punishment—but Whitcombe’s an unusual man.”

“That he is—and in forcing Dunton to marry your aunt, he’s ensured that London’s debutantes are safe from being debauched, and their fortunes are safe from being squandered. With little income and not a soul willing to give him any credit, Dunton must live a very quiet life from now on.”

Bella glanced at the mantel clock. “We should return to our guests,” she said. “They’ll think us poor hosts.”

“Our guests will delight in our love.” He looked up and down her body and curved his mouth into a hungry smile.

She glanced at the bulge in his breeches. “Lawrence—we can’t!”

“Perhaps not yet,” he said. “But when the guests are gone, I intend to claim you as mine in every room in this house.”

“It’s not properly furnished yet,” she said. “The drawing room’s empty, and—”

“It has a serviceable rug, yes? And the dining room has a sturdy table. As for the stables, just think of those bales of hay we can bury ourselves in while I bury myself in you among the soft scent of grass, with the fresh air on our skin as we come to pleasure…”

She caught her breath at the image before her—her beast of a husband riding her like a stallion while she howled her pleasure like a mare in heat.

“Hmm,” he said. “We must explore that idea further once we have the house to ourselves.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And I must cover up that delicious body of yours before I lose control and take you on the carpet, here and now. Shall I send for Connie to find you another gown?”

“Leave her be,” Bella said. “Today she’s our guest. Besides—Ned’s with her, and he’ll not forgive us.”

“How come, Bella, love?”

“He’s smitten with Connie—or so Millie said. I can dress myself, you know.”

She crossed the floor into the dressing room, aware of her husband’s gaze on her body. But she was no longer ashamed of the scars adorning her thighs—not when he’d worshipped every inch of her with his hands and mouth.

A pink day gown had been set out. Dear Connie must have slipped upstairs during the toasts. Bella put it on. As she brushed her hair, her husband appeared over her shoulder, resplendent in his newly tailored jacket, which he filled to perfection.

“My wife’s attire is incomplete,” he said, pulling something out of his pocket. “May I?”

She nodded, and he reached forward and placed a necklace around her throat—a simple gold chain with a single pearl pendant.

She caught her breath as her gaze settled on the familiar, beloved object she thought she’d never see again.

“Is that…”

“Yes, my love,” he whispered, his breath caressing her neck as he secured the clasp. “Your mother’s necklace. It broke my heart when I realized you’d sold it out of necessity to pay for my son’s spectacles. I think that was the moment I understood the depth of my love, and I resolved to return it to you one day. What better day than this—the day we declared our love to the world?”

She blinked, her eyes blurring with moisture, as the pearl glistened in the sunlight.

“I have another gift for you,” he said, reaching for a trinket box on the dressing table.

“I want no gifts,” she said. “You are all I need. You and the children.”

“Who are, most likely, stuffing themselves to the brim with wedding cake,” he said with a grin. “Consider this a token of my love, nothing more.” He opened the box and pulled out the contents.

Ribbons—dozens of them—in every conceivable shade of pink.

“I-I don’t understand,” she said. “That story about our courtship, though it touched my heart, was a lie.”

“Aye,” he said, “and it fair broke my heart to see the love in your eyes when I told you that story. It made you so happy, and I wished beyond anything that it could have been true. But my love for you is true. I love you enough to seek out every ribbon in Midchester as a gift for the finest woman in the world.”

He dipped his head and brushed his lips against her neck.

“So, here I am, my love, with my token for the finest woman in the world. May I choose one for your hair?”

She nodded, and he plucked a pale pink ribbon, then secured it on a lock of her hair.

“I doubt it looks fitting for a lady.”

“But it’s perfect for your wife,” she said. “Lady Arabella Baxter I may be by title, but in my heart, I’m your Bella. Your lover and helpmate—mother to your children and, I hope, many more in the future.”

He placed his hand over her belly and smiled. “Perhaps, even now, another member of Nelson’s band of brothers is on the way.”

She grinned. “We’ll have much work to do—there were fifteen sailors in total, if you recall.”

“I shall relish our efforts,” he said, licking his lips. Then he offered his arm. “Come on love—it’s time we returned to our guests.”

She took it, and they exited the bedchamber and descended the stairs to rejoin the wedding party. As they passed a window, Bella glanced out and caught a glimpse of a shirtless gardener digging a border, lifting up spadefuls of earth.

To think—the first time she’d glimpsed a semi-naked gardener she’d been a bitter harpy, taking pleasure in asserting her superior rank over her subordinates. But now, with that same gardener on her arm, she had shed the mantle of the lady and found fulfilment in the love of a good, honest, hardworking man.