Epilogue

Four months later

London, July 1816

The wall was filled with paintings—brightly colored landscapes and portraits of distinguished gentlemen bedecked in finery—and in the far corner, near the doorway, a line drawing, with a plain wooden frame.

Monty glanced at the booklet in his hands and read the inscription.

THE

EXHIBITION

OF THE

ROYAL ACADEMY,

M.DCCCXVI.

THE FORTY-EIGHTH

He approached the drawing and smiled. Elegant in its simplicity—yet that very simplicity spoke of the complexity and insight of the artist, who, through a few pencil strokes, was able to capture the essence of the subject.

The likeness was astonishing—it was as if his sister was smiling out from the picture at him. What would she think of being immortalized on the Royal Academy's walls?

Monty flicked through the booklet in his hands, stopped at one of the pages, and ran his thumb down the list, until he found the item he sought.

Exhibit eighty-four. Young woman reclining by E.M. Howard.

Footsteps approached, and an excited voice called out.

"There he is! I told you he'd beat us to it! You couldn't wait to see the picture, could you, brother?"

Olivia rushed toward him, her eyes shining with excitement.

"So you found it," she said. "Doesn't it look lovely? Eleanor, come and see!"

Her companion crossed the floor at a more measured pace, the elegance of her gown not completely concealing the discomfort with which she wore it.

Monty held out his hand, and the discomfort in her eyes disappeared. She took it, and he lifted her hand to his lips.

"Why didn't you sign your real name, Eleanor?" Olivia asked.

"Because my wife didn't want to secure her place in the exhibition merely for being the Duchess of Whitcombe," Monty said. "She wanted to be judged on merit. Unlike my wayward sister, who is only too eager to describe her portrait as ‘lovely.'"

Olivia blushed. "I-I didn't mean…"

"Montague, you mustn't tease your sister," Eleanor said. "You know as well as I how lovely she is. She's bound to cause a stir this Season, so you should concentrate your efforts in warding off suitors."

"At least the worst bachelors have left London," Monty said. "Mr. Moss has left England—rumor has it to evade his creditors. And, of course, Dunton is engaged to Lady Arabella Ponsford."

Eleanor stiffened, and Monty silently cursed himself. Her younger sister was still taking her rest cure after having endured ruination at Dunton's hands. And while he could never forgive Juliette for the damage her jealousy had caused his wife, she was, nevertheless, Eleanor's sister, and Eleanor still cared for her—wherever she may be.

Monty squeezed her hand. Sorry, he mouthed.

She smiled in response, and he captured her mouth in a swift kiss. Desire gleamed in her eyes, and he squeezed his thighs together to temper the flare of need in his groin. They had made love almost every night since their marriage. And several afternoons—his knees were still tender from making love to her that morning on the hearth rug, after he'd devoured her while she lay before him, open and willing, trusting him with every part of her body, as much as she trusted him with her soul each time she looked into his eyes.

She drew in a sharp breath and shifted against him. His mouth watered as he caught sight of two little peaks poking against the fabric of her gown—just begging to be feasted on.

And oh, what a feast it would be!

Then she withdrew, a faint blush on her cheeks. His Eleanor—the woman who gave herself to him with such uninhibited glory each time they made love—now blushed as coyly as a maiden on her first Season.

"Montague!" she chided. "I mustn't act like a wanton in public."

"Quite so," he said, then he lowered his voice to whisper in her ear, "But when we're alone…"

"You're insatiable!"

"Only for you—would you have me any other way?"

Her saucy smile was all the answer he needed.

"And I would not have you any other way," he said. "Now—I think we've earned ourselves some ices. It's such a hot day, and we're all in need of a little cooling off. Come, Olivia."

He offered his arm, and his sister took it. His heart soared to see them standing on either side of him—the two women he loved the most, whom, had he succumbed to convention, propriety, and expectation, he would never have associated himself with.

As he strolled out into the sunshine, he lifted his eyes to the heavens and uttered a silent prayer of thanks that he'd defied convention to secure a blissful union with the woman who, a year ago, was the very last woman he would have chosen—the oddity of the ton, who, through her unique perspective on the world, made him a happier man than he could ever have hoped to be.