Epilogue

The autumn light glowed in softly through the windows as Annabelle woke in her husband's bed.

Her husband's. That would take some getting used to—but in the delicious, decadent way one accustomed oneself to a rich dessert. Chocolate. Jacob Barrington, Lord Sunderland, was chocolate to her unsophisticated palette, and she found herself taking great delight in savouring it. And him. Frequently.

She stretched out her limbs, gilded in the hazy morning light. A frost lay across the lawns, crisping the grass, and the sky was a clear, arching blue. Beside her, Jacob did not even stir as she rolled away from him and slid out of bed. One arm was flung to one side, where it had been wrapped around her before she had wiggled free. They had stayed up late all last night, talking about their plans for the future, talking and giggling until he had lowered himself over her body and all conversation had been exchanged for something that was no longer new but just as wonderful. Her body felt stretched, full. She was replete.

Throwing a robe around her nightgown, Annabelle slipped from the room, walking through the silent house. It was still early enough that only the scullery maids were awake, lighting the fires and warming the cold rooms, but Annabelle had no intention of remaining inside—although she had come to love every single tiny part of this house.

Herhome.

Something else she had yet to accustom herself to. She, little Annabelle Barrington, nee Beaumont, was the Marchioness of Sunderland, and she had a host of responsibilities placed upon her head. Once, she might have thought herself unable to fulfil them, but now she knew better.

She had Jacob.

But while he was not an early riser, she often found her heart and mind too full to sleep much past dawn, and so she had taken to crossing across the gardens to the lake, which today was still and soundless under the November sky, trees dyeing the surface with shades of orange and red. There lay her personal library.

Jacob had given her the only key, but she'd had several more made—one for him, one for the housekeeper, and one in case of emergency. As always, however, the door was locked, and she took great delight in unlocking it.

Inside, it was dimly lit. Bookshelves rose through the gloom, more in them than before, although they were far from full. That would take a while, for books were not cheap, but Annabelle hardly minded. This was her library, to fill as she would, with novels and stories about adventure and chronicles of life abroad under hot suns that did not resemble her own.

For many newly wedded couples, it was customary to visit Italy or Spain, but they had only spent a few heady days in Yorkshire before turning home.

Perhaps, though, she would suggest a trip to one of the places she read about in her books. They could write their own stories there, of love that transcended every obstacle that was flung their way.

Although, she was more than happy with the life they were forming together. He was becoming the man he had always secretly wanted to be, and through his strength, she was finding her own. She was unafraid to defy convention occasionally in favour of happiness.

She was not afraid to let the world know she loved a rake.

Selecting Sense and Sensibility, one of her favourite novels, she sat by the window to read, time passing in fits and starts every time she looked up. Dawn gave way to day, birds chirped, the world came alive around her, and the last of the frost was banished by the November sun.

After an indeterminable amount of time had passed, the door creaked open, and she looked up to find Jacob's tall figure leaning against the doorjamb, a tray in his hands.

"You could wake me, you know," he said, still adorably tousled as he made his way into the cold room. He had dressed, but not fully, with a waistcoat and coat but no cravat, and his hair imperfectly brushed. A crooked grin crossed his face at the sight of her in her nightgown and robe, reading by the light of the windows. "Though I should have known you would hardly have noticed my absence."

"You like to sleep," she said, placing a silk bookmark in her place and closing the book. "And I like to read."

"Then read in bed." He prowled closer, placing the tray—hot chocolate and toast and fruit, by the looks of it—to one side. "So I am not obliged to find my wife every time I wake."