Epilogue

EPILOGUE

THREE MONTHS LATER

“ I still can’t believe Papa cried during his vows,” Isolde whispered, making Arthur chuckle as they watched the newly wedded couple accept congratulations from their guests.

“Like father like daughter,” he murmured in her ear. “Or have you forgotten your tears at our second ceremony?”

She blushed, remembering their intimate vow renewal in Meadowell’s chapel once Arthur had recovered. “Those were entirely different circumstances.”

The Winthorpe ballroom blazed with candlelight, filled with the joyous sounds of celebration. Lord and Lady Winthorpe—how strange to think of Matilda that way now—moved among their guests with matching radiant smiles.

“Isolde!” Octavia rushed forward to embrace her cousin. “The journey from Rome was worth it just to see Uncle Jack so happy.”

“And to see your cousin properly settled, at last,” the Dowager Duchess of Sunderley added, joining them with her usual dramatic flair. “Though I must say, Your Grace,” she turned to Arthur, “you gave us quite a fright with that fire business.”

“Grandmother,” Simon warned.

Arthur smiled. “The important thing is that everyone is safe,” he said, his hand finding Isolde’s. “Though I confess, rebuilding the east wing is proving quite the undertaking.”

“But surely you’re no longer staying in the guest chambers?” Augustus asked, approaching with a glass of wine. “The master suite wasn’t affected, was it?”

“The damage was extensive,” Isolde explained. “But the builders say it should be restored in a month.”

“And what of that dreadful business with Lady Wexford?” The Dowager Duchess leaned forward eagerly. “Is it true that she was caught in Lord Blackwood’s carriage?”

“Grandmother!” Simon protested again, but Octavia’s eyes sparkled with interest.

“I heard they fled to the Continent,” she said, “after Lord Wexford caught them together and demanded a divorce.”

“My dear friend Lady Worthington was present when Lord Wexford discovered them,” the Dowager Duchess continued with relish. “In his own carriage, if you can imagine! Right outside the opera house.”

“After all her sanctimonious behavior.,” Octavia shook her head. “Though I confess, I’m more shocked by Lord Blackwood’s involvement. Wasn’t he meant to marry the Haversham heiress next month?”

“That wedding is most definitely canceled,” Augustus supplied. “Along with both their invitations to polite society any future social events, I should think.”

Isolde felt Arthur’s arm tighten around her waist. “It seems deception carries its own punishment,” she murmured.

“Serves her right,” Augustus declared. “Though I wish Jane could be here to celebrate her downfall. The baby has her confined to bed now.”

“How is she?” Isolde asked quickly, genuinely concerned for her friend.

“Blooming. Demanding. Absolutely perfect.” Augustus’s face softened with love. “Though she sends her congratulations to your father and new stepmother.”

“Speaking of Jane,” the Dowager Duchess interjected, “when can we expect another little duke or duchess? The nursery at Meadowell has plenty of room, I’m told.”

“Grandmother!” Simon protested for the third time that evening.

Arthur merely smiled, pulling Isolde closer. “We’re quite content with our current happiness,” he said diplomatically, though his eyes held a private message for his wife that made her blush.

“Though Mozart might disagree,” Isolde added. “He’s taken to sleeping in the nursery these days.”

“That cat.” Augustus laughed. “I still can’t believe you named him after a composer.”

“It seemed fitting,” Arthur said. “He does have excellent taste in music.”

The new Lady Winthorpe, who had been accepting congratulations from other guests, made her way back to the group. She smiled warmly at the newly married couple, her elegant movement drawing a few appreciative glances.

“Love finds its way,” Lord Winthorpe said, gazing adoringly at his new wife, “even through life’s darker moments.”

The conversation shifted as servants began serving the wedding breakfast. Lord Winthorpe appeared to have something in his eye as he watched Matilda speaking with Jessamine.

“Papa.” Isolde touched his arm gently. “Are you crying again?”

“Certainly not,” he protested, though his voice was suspiciously thick. “Just remembering… Your mother would have loved this. All of it. Seeing you so happy, seeing our family grow.”

“She would have adored Matilda,” Isolde agreed softly.

“Just as she would have approved of His Grace,” Lord Winthorpe added, making both of them look up in surprise. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, my boy. Anyone can see you’ve brought my daughter the happiness she deserves.”

Arthur’s hand tightened on Isolde’s waist. “She is the one who taught me what happiness truly means.”

“And on that sentimental note,” Augustus interjected, “I believe it is time for another toast. To love that transforms, to second chances, and to walking through fire to find one’s heart’s desire!”

“To love,” everyone echoed, raising their glasses.

As the celebration continued around them, Arthur drew Isolde slightly away from the crowd.

They watched the dancing resume, crystal glasses catching the candlelight like stars brought down to earth.

Lord and Lady Winthorpe took to the dance floor, moving as one, completely lost in each other.

“Remember when we could barely stand to be in the same room?” Arthur murmured in her ear. “Now I cannot bear to be apart from you.”

Isolde leaned back against him, propriety forgotten as his thumb traced circles on her palm.

Three months ago, she wouldn’t have believed that such happiness was possible. But now, feeling his solid warmth behind her, seeing their family whole and joyful around them…

“Dance with me, wife?” he murmured, as if he could hear her thoughts.

She let him lead her to the dance floor, marveling at how natural it felt now to move in his arms.

There was no more hesitation, no more careful distance—just the warm certainty of being exactly where she belonged.

“What are you thinking?” he asked as they twirled beneath the chandeliers.

“About how far we have come. About how grateful I am that you came back that night.” She met his eyes, seeing in them the same love that made her heart soar. “About how sometimes the best love stories do not start with poetry and roses, but with healing and trust.”

“And walking through fire?” He flashed her that smile that he reserved solely for her.

“And that.” She leaned closer, propriety be damned. “Though, I would rather you didn’t make a habit of it.”

“No need,” he murmured. “I have already found my greatest treasure. Even so, I wouldn’t mind taking you home and showing you exactly how precious you are to me.”

Heat bloomed in her chest at his tone. “The celebration has barely begun.”

“Then perhaps we should make our excuses.” His eyes darkened with promise. “After all, we have our private celebration to attend.”

They made their farewells as discreetly as possible, though Isolde caught Octavia’s knowing smirk and Augustus’s wink. Lord Winthorpe was too absorbed in his new wife to notice their early departure, which suited them perfectly.

The carriage ride seemed interminable, though Meadowell was barely an hour from London.

Every bump in the road jolted them closer, every glance heightening the tension between them.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Arthur murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on her gloved hand. “But I confess, I have been thinking about getting you out of that gown since you first came down the stairs this evening.”

“Have you, indeed?” Her voice was breathier than she had intended. “And here I thought you were paying attention to all those business discussions with Simon.”

“I can conduct business and admire my wife simultaneously.” His thumb found the sensitive spot on her inner wrist. “I have become quite skilled at it, in fact.”

The silvery moonlight streaming through the carriage windows caught his hair, reminding her of that night in the music room so long ago. How far they’d come since then—from a marriage of convenience to this all-consuming love that made her burn for his touch.

“Almost home,” he said softly as Meadowell’s gates came into view.

The east wing’s scaffolding was visible in the moonlight, but Isolde barely noticed it. Her attention was fixed on Arthur’s face, on the heat and promise of pleasure in his eyes.

The carriage had barely stopped when Arthur helped her down, his touch lingering longer than what was proper.

They moved through the quiet house, past sleeping servants and familiar rooms, until they reached their temporary chambers in the guest wing.

Arthur closed the door behind them, and the air seemed to thicken with anticipation. When he turned to face her, the look in his eyes made her breath catch in her throat.

“Now then, my love,” he said, advancing on her slowly. “Where were we?”

Isolde backed away with deliberate grace, a smile playing on her lips. “I believe you mentioned something about this gown?”

“Ah yes.” His eyes darkened as he followed her. “Though I confess, I am torn between wanting to remove it immediately and wanting to savor every moment.”

He caught her around the waist, drawing her close enough to feel her gasp. His fingers found the first pearl button at her neck, lingering there as he brushed his lips against her throat.

“Arthur…” Her head fell back, offering him more access to her neck.

“Patience, my love.” He unfastened the button with tantalizing slowness. “Some treasures deserve to be unwrapped slowly.”

Each button revealed another inch of skin for him to worship. By the time he reached her waist, Isolde was trembling, her hands fisted in his lapels.

“You are wearing too many clothes,” she murmured as he pushed the gown down her shoulders.

“Am I?” His smile held a wicked promise as he shrugged off his coat. “Perhaps you should do something about that.”

Her fingers made quick work of his cravat, then moved to his waistcoat buttons. The silk of her undergarments whispered against his lawn shirt as she pressed closer to him.

“Beautiful,” he purred, watching the candlelight dance across her exposed shoulders. “My golden Duchess.”

When she was down to just her chemise and he to his shirt and breeches, Arthur lifted her into his arms and carried her to their bed. She reached for him as he joined her, pulling him down for a kiss that held all the passion of their shared memories—music room encounters and moonlit gardens, tender moments and fierce desires.

“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Show me,” he replied, before he claimed her mouth again.

He deepened the kiss, and Isolde wanted more of him.

Desire thrummed through her veins. She arched against him, but he pulled away.

His lips nipped and suckled her earlobe before leaving a trail of fire down her neck. He cupped her breast in his hand, and her nipple stiffened at his touch. His thumb strummed the hardened tip, and she let out a soft gasp.

His fingers danced down the soft swell of her belly until they reached the soft petals between her thighs. He caressed her slick folds while his mouth sucked her right nipple.

The pleasure was too much. It was her turn to show him her love.

She gently pulled away from him. He groaned in protest, but it was soon replaced by a sigh of pleasure as her hand found his arousal.

Without hesitation, she gently caressed the tip with her thumb as he had done her pearl of pleasure.

Isolde felt a tremor run through him, and she tightened her grip on his manhood. It throbbed in response, and she stroked the velvet skin.

“Isolde—”

She silenced him by pushing him down on the bed and straddling him. His hands instinctively grasped her waist before sliding down to cup her bottom.

Without thought, and guided only by instinct, she slowly sank down onto him until he filled her. The pleasure was exquisite.

Isolde stared into Arthur’s emerald-green eyes as she slowly moved up and down. With one swift move, Arthur thrust upwards into her, and the sweet ecstasy shattered her restraint. She began to rock her hips, pulling him deeper into her. Arthur held her hips and allowed her to ride him. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, and she threw her head back and let out a wild cry as she reached the crescendo.

Arthur let out a roar, and with one hard thrust, he spilled his seed deep into her. When his movements stilled, Isolde collapsed on his chest, trying to catch her breath.

“I love you,” she murmured against his skin, feeling his arms tighten around her.

Arthur pressed a kiss to her temple, his breathing still ragged. “And I love you, my brave, beautiful wife.” His fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine. “Though I am beginning to think we should leave family celebrations early more often.”

She laughed softly, shifting to look up at him.

Even in their temporary chambers, with scaffolding visible through the windows and the east wing still under repair, his face held nothing but contentment.

“Are you happy?” she asked, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead.

“Impossibly so.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Watching your father today, seeing how love transformed him… I understand it now. Why you never stopped hoping for that kind of happiness.”

“We created our own kind of happiness,” she whispered, thinking of their unconventional journey to love.

“And we will keep building it,” he promised, drawing her closer. “Just like Meadowell—stronger for having survived the fire.”

Outside their temporary chambers, the repaired parts of the house stood as a testament to renewal and second chances.

Inside, a duke and his duchess had found their perfect harmony—one composed of trust and tenderness, of passion and healing.

And of love that had proved stronger than any flame.

The End?