Epilogue

EPILOGUE

It was a year, more or less, reflected Sophie, since she’d first met Rafe in his grandmother’s chamber at Wyverne House. In that time, her life had changed completely, and so, for that matter, had his. And that was why they found themselves standing in a crowded, stuffy room in Buckingham House, waiting – it wouldn’t be a long wait, because after all he was a marquess and she was a marchioness, and rank must be observed in these circumstances – to be presented to Queen Charlotte.

There was already a great deal of whispering among the crowd of finely dressed people, and she could not doubt that much of it was centred upon her. Rules had been broken, conventions set at naught. It was possible to tick them off on one’s gloved fingers. The new Lord Wyverne and his family had not gone into deep mourning for their father. It was rumoured that they had not gone into mourning at all, which was shockingly irregular. And then, far from appearing prostrated with filial sorrow, His Lordship had celebrated his marriage, albeit very quietly, some three weeks after his parent’s demise. Less than a year had passed since these events had taken place, and here the pair were, bold as brass, in the presence of royalty.

Although the new Marchioness was of illustrious French lineage, nobody could recall setting eyes on her between her emergence into society nine years ago and her most unexpected marriage. It couldn’t be supposed that she had as much as a penny to her name. It was known that her parents had died in the missing years, but as to how or where the young lady had lived after her sad bereavement – it was a mystery. The rumour was that she had been a humble governess in some obscure part of the kingdom, though it couldn’t be denied that she didn’t look in the least like one now. Some people said she’d been an actress, or worse, but fair-minded persons pointed out that this was most unlikely, and might be some form of confusion with her appalling stepmama-in-law, who had recently resorted to treading the boards once more, her circumstances being much reduced. At the mention of that woman, ladies still shuddered and rolled their eyes.

And yet… much could be excused, it seemed, even by royalty, if the circumstances were special enough. Lady Wyverne was being presented by her husband’s relative, Lady Keswick, whom nobody had ever dared to accuse of immorality, or even of having a sense of humour. The Countess had embarked upon a masterly scheme of rehabilitation, in which she’d told the shocking (and, better still, true) tale of Rosanna’s treatment of Rafe to a few dozen of her most intimate friends in strictest confidence. As she had intended, every member of the haut ton knew every salacious detail within three days, and there was no doubt that the revelation altered the case. The question was posed by a few daring free-thinkers – did a parent who encouraged that sort of behaviour and himself perpetrated Even Worse Crimes really deserve the conventional tributes due to a normal, loving parent?

And then, the new Marquess, who’d been so rarely seen in society for many years that most people had forgotten what he looked like, was so very handsome, and much might be excused the handsome. He didn’t have the appearance of a man who’d carry on a scandalous affair with his stepmama, being quite austere in appearance until he smiled, and then… and then ladies tended to lose their train of thought, and regret they hadn’t met him much sooner.

And his wife, undeniably, was a beauty. Sophie had long since washed out the brown dye that had rendered her hair so unremarkable, though she continued subtly to darken her brows and lashes. Her glorious, shining red-blonde tresses, defiantly unpowdered, were piled up on her head now, and she was wearing a court gown of silver tissue and costly lace. About her regal neck, nestling between her breasts – and perhaps this accounted for some of the whispers – was a magnificent jewel, the spectacular pink diamond known as the Stella Rosa.

The huge diamond sparked fire as Sophie – her true name was Clemence, of course, but it was understood that for some private reason her besotted husband always addressed her as Sophie – sank down into a superbly graceful curtsy before the smiling Queen Charlotte and her many daughters. It seemed as though the room held its collective breath, though this was no doubt an illusion. And then she rose at the Queen’s gracious nod, flashing an intimate smile at her husband, and moved forward to converse a little with the royal ladies, who were all friendly condescension. And so it was over.

Having done their duty and taken grateful leave of their sponsor, Lady Keswick, and Lady Amelia, who had accompanied her aunt for her own presentation and would return home in her carriage, Rafe and Sophie managed at last to extricate themselves from the crowded staterooms of the palace and gain the privacy of their own vehicle with the Wyverne dragon crest upon the door.

‘Thank God that’s over!’ exclaimed Sophie as she attempted with little success to arrange herself comfortably upon the seat. ‘I’ve never in my life looked or felt so preposterous!’

Lord Wyverne was seated opposite her. The feathers in Sophie’s hair brushed the roof, and the hoop of her court dress was so enormous that it occupied the whole seat and prevented her husband from sitting by her. There had been no question of Amelia sharing the coach with them; there was simply no room for her. ‘You look very distinguished and romantic in all your embroidered finery,’ the Marchioness said resentfully, ‘but I resemble nothing more than a pineapple.’

‘A very lovely pineapple,’ he responded firmly, lips twitching. ‘From the waist upwards, you are entirely delightful, as ever, apart from the feathers, which are undeniably silly. From the waist down… There’s a certain perverse charm to it, I admit. I could hide myself away under the hoop, could I not? Set up home there, and never emerge. Bring small pieces of furniture, so that I might be comfortable.’

‘Was that what you were thinking, as you made your bow and the princesses simpered at you from behind their fans?’

‘It was one of the things I was thinking, certainly, my love. But chiefly I was wondering if the new strap arrangement was successful, so that your weapon stayed in place. I must presume it did, since it did not clatter at your feet and frighten the Queen and the whole court.’

‘Why don’t you go down and check, my lord?’ Sophie asked demurely. ‘I certainly can’t. Look at me! I’m just a helpless pineapple.’

The Marquess said, ‘I’ve always been partial to pineapple,’ and pulled down the blinds with a firm, decisive tug.