Extended Epilogue

Seven Years Later

The grand ballroom of Colborne House shimmered like a fairytale, the crystal chandeliers refracting the light of a thousand candles. The cream of Society mingled, their elegant attire and sparkling jewels a testament to the prestige of the evening. Liveried footmen with trays of champagne balanced on their palms dashed between Duchess and Duke, Viscount and Viscountess, to wherever they were needed, anticipating the guests’ need from the subtlest gesture—a flick of a wrist or even a searching glance around the room.

The afternoon light filtered through the French doors overlooking the gardens, betraying the illusion of a romantic evening Louisa had intended. The light bathed the guests in an angelic glow as they socialized.

The room, filled with the people Louisa loved, seemed to vibrate with anticipation. Lady Langham was sitting with other matrons at the corner, watching their children with pride in their eyes. Isabella and Duncan swept by them, greeting them with their dance, and the matrons cheered in response.

Selina and Benedict exchanged whispers, their eyes sparkling with amusement. Diana, now a married woman, stood with her husband by the corner. They seemed to be deep in conversation about something—unimportant, Louisa assumed from the way they gestured towards the sweets on their plates. Lieutenant Colonel Weston, normally a stern figure, wore a relaxed smile, adding to the sense of joy and celebration that filled the air.

Michael, Louisa and Percival’s son, hopped about with the other children, eagerly sampling an array of sweetmeats, all the while staying close to his nanny. Percival couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the nannies, who were tasked with the formidable challenge of keeping their charges in line amidst the sugary chaos. He grimaced when one of the children—thankfully, not his—collided with Michael’s nanny.

“You’re doing well, husband,” Louisa said as they twirled around the ballroom.

“Just well?” He seized the chance, ducking his head and nipping her neck. “Don’t trivialize my efforts.”

“Oh,” she gasped, feigning horror, “I would never dream of doing such a thing.”

They twirled around and came close again.

Staring up at him from beneath her lashes, she whispered, “Do you intend for all our practice to end the way it always does?”

He twirled her away and then pulled her into him so suddenly that she bumped against him.

“Control yourself,” she hissed in a playful tone.

He swallowed as he pictured tearing her clothes apart, exposing her flushed and sweet skin, and laying her on the marble floor, her hair spread, as they christened their ballroom with a different tango, a sultry and intense dance of bodies, shamelessly driven by carnal desires.

He chuckled low in his throat, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m not sure I can,” he whispered, his breath fanning her ear. “Not when you’re so tantalizingly close.”

The music swelled, and he twirled her again, their bodies moving in perfect sync. This time, when he pulled her close, he pressed her against him, and she felt his arousal poke her belly.

“Percy,” she chided, heat rising to her cheeks.

She subtly glanced down at the bulge in his trousers. Under the bright light, it seemed even more pronounced, straining against the fabric of his trousers. Her eyes darted back to his face, and she was startled by the amusement dancing in his eyes.

“We are parents now, we should behave accordingly,” she said, trying to sound stern despite her own amusement. “We can’t… indulge in such behaviour, especially not in public.”

“I agree, but what are your limitations? Because I do recall that three nights ago, you begged me to take you on the balcony even with the servants around.”

“A mistake I do not intend to repeat.”

“And how many more times do you need to succumb to your impulse before you accept this ‘mistake’ as a trait?”

“I must perform a simple arithmetic,” she rebutted, a glint in her eyes. “How long do you have till your faculties succumb to old age, rendering you impotent?”

He threw his head back and laughed, but the music, a lively waltz, drowned out the sound, leaving only the faintest hint of his amusement. “How dreadful that time would be for you.”

“Not quite. I would do what my married friends have told me to.”

“What did they tell you?”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with ladies’ gossip.”

He leaned in, his voice taking on a more serious, even intimate, cadence. “When this talk concerns my wife, I think I have a right to know.”

“I fear I must strip you of that right, my dear.” She turned up her nose haughtily. “A reputable woman like myself shouldn’t talk about scandalizing things in the presence of a gentleman.”

“Even if that gentleman happens to be your husband?”

“Especially so! I do not want to allude that you married a wanton!” she cried, her shoulders shaking with mirth.

“We’ve been wed for seven years,” Percival countered, his voice low. “In that time, you’ve said and done things that would make even the most seasoned author of filthy literature blush. We are well past the point of pretending to be prudes, my dear.”

“I have no memory of what you claim. I do not appreciate your aspersions.”

He turned away from her, vibrating with frustration. He scanned the faces in the room, intending to weed out the sources of his wife’s corruption, hoping to at least recognize the ladies she had brought to their drawing room for tea and gossip.

His eyes studied each face, beginning from the matrons seated in the corner, whose piercing eyes observed the youthful revelers with a knowing glint, watching as they danced their hearts away. These women were the most dangerous, with knowledge gained from years of experience.

His gaze then drifted to the wives of men he knew to be pottymouthed and lewd, men who would teach their wives things reserved for mistresses and escorts—a clique to which he himself belonged. The realization only added to his growing unease.

He didn’t undermine the wallflowers, a cluster of spinsters and decorous debutantes who simpered and whispered amongst themselves. Their eyes, shining with a mix of innocence and mischief, betrayed the fact that they had devoured more than just the gossip columns. Their minds had surely been expanded by the scandalous novels hidden beneath their skirts.

Louisa had once belonged to that clique, coyly couth, eyes wide and glinting with innocence. Realization instantly dawned on him.

When he turned to his wife, he realized the extent of her duplicity. She had deceived him, making him believe that every woman in the room—every woman but herself—was the antagonist, while her mind, fantasies, and predilections were the aggressors.

Her lips quirked up, but she hadn’t realized just what he knew. He realized that he hadn’t pushed his wife to her limits.

“Calm down, I was only joking. You look like you’re about to put everyone in the room to trial.”

“I am only flummoxed that my wife is fantasizing about the things she would do in my delicate state.”

“I am also in a delicate state,” Louisa pointed out, her voice dripping with sly amusement, “and that hasn’t stopped you.”

“That’s because—” he began, only to stop at her sly grin. “You’re in a delicate state?” he echoed, his voice laced with disbelief.

He stopped dancing and gazed at her in wonder. He held her at arm’s length, his eyes roaming over her face and body with a mix of surprise and curiosity. Her constitution, always healthy and resilient, showed no signs of sickness.

For a moment, he wondered if he had been remiss in taking care of her, so much that he had not noticed any changes. She has been busy for weeks, planning the ball. Deciding on curtains, planning menus, visiting florists, hiring musicians, and meeting interior designers.

He wanted her to relax. He had voiced his concern to her, but she had insisted that everything needed to be perfect. It was their seventh year together, after all. His worry—interpreted as indifference to that milestone—was met with umbrage.

The mischievous glint in her eyes told him that this was no illness she spoke of.

A smile slowly spread across his face, breaking through the haze. Her happiness was catching, like a cold shared between lovers. It was attracting, like a flame to a moth.

She nodded enthusiastically. “I am with child. Our Michael will soon have a little brother… or sister.”

By the time she uttered the last word, she was practically bouncing up and down, her composure abandoned in her unbridled joy, but his Duchess could do whatever she wanted.

Percival stared at her, his mind reeling from the news. “Are you being serious?”

It was as if time had stood still, and he was transported back to the day she had announced her pregnancy with Michael. He recalled the shock, the sheer surprise of it all. It had been her birthday. He had been planning a surprise for her, whilst she had a surprise of her own in store. One that would forever surpass anything he could ever give to her.

She had been taken aback, her heart skipping a beat by the grand romantic gesture. It was precisely the kind of sweeping, sentimental display she adored, and he knew it. Over the years, he had made it his mission to learn her every preference, every dream, and every weakness, and to indulge them all with thoughtful, loving precision.

But when she approached him and wrapped her arms around him, it was not to hug him but to announce that she had a child in her belly. His knees had buckled, his ears had grown hot, and his heart had skipped a beat.

It was as if the very foundations of his world had shifted, and he was left stumbling to find his footing. And now, here they were again, on the cusp of a new chapter in their lives.

He felt the same sense of awe, the same thrill of anticipation, as he struggled to wrap his mind around the news.

“Is that why you worked so hard to make this ball perfect?” He was suddenly aware of her cunning and shocked that he hadn’t realized earlier that something was up.

She liked grand gestures.

“Yes. I wanted it to be a night to remember.”

“You always do,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, as he wrapped his arms around her, pushing aside all concerns about propriety.

The crowded room, the watchful eyes, the whispers of the guests—all faded into the background as he pulled her close and claimed her lips in a tender, yet fierce, kiss. Time stood still, leaving only the two of them, lost in their love.

They parted, gasping softly, their faces alight with joy. The room held its breath, witnesses to the unbridled passion that had flared between them.

Louisa’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she whispered, “I can hardly believe you just did that.”

“If you tempt me,” he breathed, “I would do it again, and again, and again.” His eyes, burning with adoration and desire, held hers captive.

Louisa’s heart skipped a beat as she gazed up at him, seeing his unbridled love and longing.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“Let’s go announce the news so everyone stops staring at us.”

Then, she took his hand in her own and led him to the center of the ballroom.

The End