Epilogue

June 1815

The beaches in Kent were spectacular.

Louisa had grown up in Melton country, far from the sea, and she luxuriated in the knowledge that her new home was a mere hour away from the coast. The sun was hot on her bare skin, and she closed her eyes at its glare.

They had been married a mere two weeks. After their wedding, rather than the traditional honeymoon, Louisa and Henry had chosen to remain at Beaumont Place, putting her fortune to good work. Perhaps next year, they could go for a belated honeymoon, but this felt enough like a holiday that she had no objections.

In the end, they had opted to marry at the church in the local village, waiting the necessary three weeks for the banns to be read. At the time, she had thought the waiting would be intolerable, but it transpired there were several matters that required her attention. Once Mr Upperton had managed to discover Arabella's address, for example, she had posted to London to meet with him to discuss what should next be done. There, she had also had the pleasure of informing her mother of her upcoming marriage. Their relationship had always been fraught; Louisa now, out of filial duty, provided her mother with an allowance, but that was the end of it.

The meeting was predictably explosive, and resulted in Louisa retracting her mother's invitation to the wedding and vowing not to see her again for the foreseeable future—something she wished she had done a long time ago.

To aid with this goal, Henry had suggested that once they married, they take up residence in Bolton's seat in Wiltshire. At first, she had been tempted to decline on principle, though she had spent little enough time there when married, and almost no time after his death. But Henry had persuaded her that filling the manor with new memories would be just the thing.

It transpired that he was persuasive, when he put his mind to it.

But for now, they were on a delightfully golden, secluded beach with cliffs rising above her and the waves pounding the sand. Nesting birds cawed and cackled on the sea breeze, and she was almost frightfully happy.

She sat up on her elbows, tossing her hair back from her face. London had been her home for the longest time, and she would eventually yearn to go back, but for now she was enjoying the solitude. Just her and her new husband, alone on the beach.

Conveniently alone, given the fact Henry had divested himself of his clothes and strode into the ocean, and was now swimming about utterly naked. Not for the first time, she had been pleasantly surprised by his comfort with nudity. For a man so upright and straitlaced, she had expected him to be somewhat prudish about his body.

Thankfully, he was not, and she had ample opportunity to appreciate him.

That was the purpose of art, after all.

Henry emerged from the surf like Poseidon, striding towards her with long, careless steps. He extended a dripping hand. "My lady."

"My hair will get all salty," she said, trying not to smile.

"Then you can wash it."

"And what about the cold?"

He grinned. "You'll grow accustomed to it."

"This is the army in you," she said severely, "and it is not very becoming."

"And I thought the new Lady Eynsham was always up for a bit of fun," he said, his grin widening. The past few weeks had shown her the man he could have become if only he was shown a little happiness. That was something she intended to spend the rest of her life providing. "Come. After all, it's not one's thirtieth birthday every day."

Scowling, she accepted his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. "I thought I told you to forget that."

"Thirty is an excellent age."

"Not for a bride," she said, as sternly as she could command. Water glistened across his pale chest and shoulders, and she absently ran her fingers along a scar on his ribs—a token from the war.

"I beg to differ," he said. Without warning, he scooped her into his arms, plastering her thin shift to his wet, cold body. She shrieked as he turned and strode back towards the sea.

"Henry Beaumont! Put me down at once."

"This is a necessary rite of passage," he said. "This is the second day you've sat on the shore and watched me swim."

"I was perfectly content."

He smiled down at her. "I wasn't," he said simply, and although she did her best to maintain her scowl, she found it easing in the face of his artless comment. Being adored was taking some getting used to, although she distinctly enjoyed it.

Then he dropped her, fully clothed, into the ocean.

She gasped, sinking straight under, a wave closing over her head. After the almost burning warmth of the sun, the water was shockingly cold, briefly stealing her breath. She uncurled, reaching below with her bare toe until she encountered sand. Her head broke the surface, water flicking a perfect arc of droplets that sparkled in the light.

Henry was laughing, one hand against his chest, and she sucked in a breath to scold him before giggles overtook her, too.

She had thought, before her birthday struck, that with age she would grow increasing staid and sensible. Instead, all she had found was that she'd lacked someone to laugh with.

She splashed water into his face. "That was completely unacceptable, my lord."

"Yes," he said, and took hold of her waist, drawing her closer to him. Her lips were dipped with salt, a seagull screeched overhead, and the sun glinted off the waves with reckless, beautiful abandon.

Her life was full to the brim, and she was happy .

His lips brushed her forehead as he eased them further into the waves, until they no longer broke around them. The swell rose from her chest to her chin, then back down.

Horrifically cold, but as he had promised, she was already growing accustomed to it.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked, his hand cupping her buttocks and giving a squeeze. Despite the temperature, she felt him stir against her stomach.

"Perhaps I could be persuaded to," she said, and he laughed, kissing her again. "Though I am certain my hair is ruined."

"No more so than mine."

She sent his head a scornful look, where he always kept his hair unfashionably short. "I hardly consider you to be a judge."

He merely hummed, turning so the swells rose against his back, not hers. Behind his shoulders, she could see the expanse of the ocean, the sky lightening to the ambiguous shade of the horizon, where distant clouds gathered.

"I wish we could stay here forever," she said.

"You really would get cold then."

She wrapped her legs around his waist. "Perhaps, but I can think of ways to keep warm."

"Not forever," he said firmly, and she laughed.

"I'm expecting Arabella Princely to be back in England next month," she said, and he glanced down at the sudden change of subject. "I should be in London when that happens."

" We should be in London."

"You are interested in meeting her?"

"I'm interested in playing the role of protective husband," he mused. "Perhaps the novelty will wear off, but it will be a nice change."

Her hair, long and loose, tangled about them both as a particularly large swell breached her chin. "I suppose I'll allow it, so long as you keep to your corner of the room and only speak when spoken to."

He smiled against her mouth. "I would never dream of interfering."

"Liar."

His laugh was infectious, as warm as the summer sun. "I would have to be a fool to think you incapable of handling yourself." He licked her earlobe. "But it would give me great pleasure to scowl from a corner."

"You are particularly good at scowling."

"A man must have an occupation." He brushed the strands of her brown hair off his shoulders. "You know," he said, a little too casually, "I was thinking that it might be time for you to start painting again."

"I was painting just this morning."

"I meant to display in the Royal Academy." His eyes met hers, serious once more, the same colour as the sea below and the sky above. A hook straight for her heart; it was no wonder she had never been able to resist him. "Perhaps you can no longer paint as Louisa Picard, but that doesn't mean the world can't know you under a different name."

"The risk is—"

"Negligible. No one will for a moment suspect a thing." He half-smiled. "I would hate to see you give up on your dream just because one man did his best to take it from you."

Her heart thudded in her chest. This was a thought she'd had on occasion after sending Knight back to the country with his tail between his legs. But she had never been able to decide if that was still her dream.

Until Henry offered it to her on a platter, no strings attached, just an earnest wish to see her happy.

How she loved him—how earnestly, desperately, wholly she loved him. "And what name would you suggest?"

"That choice is yours."

With him, her choices always had been.

"Beaumont," she said, and smiled. "Perhaps I could paint as a Beaumont."