Epilogue

EPILOGUE

" P lease tell me that this time, at least, they're all staring at you," Grace mumbled as she came to stand beside Frances at her wedding breakfast. "Surely, today they must be staring at you."

Frances swatted at her friend. "Don't wish that upon me. It's my wedding day. Be nice."

" I'm not the one who is meant to be nice to you on your—" Grace cut herself off with a grimace. "Never mind. I just remembered you married my brother." She gave an exaggerated shudder.

Frances gave a laugh, half due to her friend's antics, half due to the wonder that yes, indeed, she had married Evan that morning in a moderately small ceremony (for a duke's son, at least) at St. James' Cathedral.

She was, officially, Lady Frances Miller, Marchioness of Oackley.

"Stop smiling like that," Grace groaned, swatting her back. "It's awful."

But her friend didn't sound like she meant it. She sounded happy for Frances, even if the stresses of the past several weeks had left her looking exhausted and a touch frayed around the edges.

Grace's return had taken the ton by storm.

After Frances had accepted Evan's proposal—or, rather, once she'd done so with her parents as witnesses, as her actual acceptance had been a private matter—Lord and Lady Reed had given up on trying to curtail her movements or her correspondences.

"Tell whomever you like!" Laura had trilled, actually throwing up her hands in glee. "My daughter is going to be a duchess."

"A marchioness," Frances corrected, mainly because she could have gotten away with anything in that moment and intended to milk that for all it was worth.

"Yes, well, the current duke will die eventually, won't he?" she said offhandedly, then paused, her eyes darting to Evan, who still sat in their drawing room, looking entirely at his leisure. "Though not for many years, I'm sure," the marchioness added deferentially.

"I'm sure," Evan echoed, inclining his head in a gesture of forgiveness that the marchioness had taken fully to heart, given that she'd spent the weeks leading up to Frances' marriage shrieking in frequent joy over her daughter's future duke.

Frances had taken full advantage of her newfound liberty and had immediately gone to tell Diana and Emily of Grace's return. Grace had been witnessed arriving at Diana's home shortly thereafter, and Society's gossip channels had ensured that, by nightfall, every soul in London knew that Lady Grace Miller had returned.

The Duke of Graham, both Miller siblings had reported dryly, had been less than pleased that he had not been able to control this information, though he'd overcome this disappointment when whispers suggested that he was blessed by God himself to have had his daughter back after so many years with her lost.

"Do you think he really believes that God brought me back home?" Grace had asked Frances and Evan one afternoon while they took tea.

Well, the other two took tea. Frances had been rekindling her love affair with the Miller's cook's lemon cakes.

"It's hard to say," Evan allowed, tone just as dry as his sister's. They really were remarkably similar at times—but like Grace's preference for not thinking about Frances and Evan's marriage, Frances tried to never look too closely at these similarities.

"On one hand," Evan said, gesturing accordingly, "he certainly would think himself worthy of divine blessing. On the other, I suspect he's usually smart enough not to fall for his own lies."

"Wouldn't that make Evan God?" Frances asked between nibbles. "Since he did the work to find you?"

It really was a perfect cake. Tart and sweet, light, with the creamy snap of a beautiful curd. She loved Evan, she truly did, but it would be worth marrying into the family for these cakes alone.

"No," Grace snorted at the same time that Evan said, "Absolutely not."

"He might think himself God," Grace mused. "He has the ego for it."

Evan had snickered into his tea. Frances, still a little intimidated by the grand, important Duke of Graham—even though he'd been naught but stiffly polite to her since her engagement to his son and heir—did not join in, instead happily returning to her lemon cake.

Society's jubilation around Grace's return had quickly soured, however, as it so often did. There was nothing worth gossiping about, after all, in a happy ending.

Speculation soon began, shared in whispers behind fans in crowded ballrooms. Where had Grace been? Why had they kept her? What had happened?

And then the accusation had dropped into things, rippling outward in echoes: ruined, ruined, ruined.

Lady Grace Miller had been, after all, three years without a chaperone. What could anyone call her but ruined ?

Grace had been trying to hold her head high, but the whispers came from every direction, and Frances could see what it cost her friend to keep a stiff upper lip after all she'd experienced.

Which was why, for all her teasing—and her continued discomfort in large groups—she hoped that the gathered guests really were staring at her, not at Grace. Goodness knew Grace deserved a respite.

Frances laced her arm through her friend's.

"You know you don't have to stay by me," she told Grace in a low voice. "You can join Diana and Emily." She nodded to where their other two friends stood with their husbands across the room. "Everyone is properly terrified of Andrew—and Benedict, to tell the truth—so they shan't bother you if you're in their company."

Grace shook her head, a pained expression dawning for a moment before she forced a smile.

"No, I shan't abandon you," she said loyally, clutching Frances' arm more tightly.

Frances squeezed her back. "I'm glad you're my sister now," she told her.

Grace's smile started to look authentic at that. "It's the only not-horrible part of you marrying my brother," she teased.

Frances pouted. "And here I thought two people you love being happy might not be something you called ‘horrible'…"

Grace nudged her with her shoulder, hard enough that Frances might have stumbled if Grace's arm wasn't still holding her up.

"Unhand my bride at once."

Her new husband's voice was so stern it nearly made Frances jump, but Grace merely rolled her eyes.

"Don't think that just because you've married her that she belongs to you more," Grace informed him. "She was my friend first. I'm ahead of you by years ."

"It means exactly that," Evan retorted, stealing Frances' arm from his sister. "She has my name. My wife. Mine."

"Miller is my name too, you ninny," Grace returned.

"It won't be Miller if you marry," Evan pointed out. "Mine always shall be."

Grace's smirk felt like bravado. "Yes, well, I can't say that seems likely now, can you?" Evan frowned, no doubt to apologize or ask about Grace's wellbeing, but she gave him a soft look. "Oh, don't mind me; I'm fine, really. Go dance with your wife."

"You're certain?" Frances asked.

Grace flapped her hands. "Yes, yes. I'll go stand with Diana and Emily and their scowling shadows."

"Again," Frances said, "I truly wish to be present if you ever say that to their faces." She let Evan begin to pull her out toward the middle of the room, where some couples were gathering to dance while the musicians struck up their instruments. "Oh, and Grace?" she called over her shoulder.

"Hm?" Grace looked up at her, a half-smile on her mouth.

"I've decided that you both belong to me ," she said, whipping around to turn her back on her friend's laughter.

Several well-wishers—mostly political allies of Evan's father or those who wished to be political allies of Evan's father—stopped them on their way to the dance floor, but eventually the newlywed couple found their place among the dancers.

They moved in leisurely movements, the dance allowing them to hold one another closely.

"Hello, wife," Evan said, smiling down at her.

"Hello, husband," she returned. She nearly missed a step. "I must warn you," she said. "I'm not a very accomplished dancer. It comes with being the most dreadful wallflower; nobody ever asked me, so I'm awfully out of practice."

"Oh, dear," Evan deadpanned. "What if you stumble against me? I should probably hold you scandalously close to forfend such a possibility."

"Careful," she warned. "Let yourself get drawn into a scandal and, the next thing you know, you'll end up forced to marry someone."

He leaned down with a wink and—very scandalously, indeed—stole a kiss.

"I think I'll risk it," he murmured, his head still bent down low toward her. "After all, look how wonderfully it has gone for me so far."

She smiled at him and let him sweep her around the room, holding her safe and secure and very improperly close.

The End?