Epilogue

 

 

 

Once Juliet was feeling better she made the short journey to Litchfield Park where the Hargrave’s annual house party was well underway. To her pleasant surprise, she was welcomed with open arms by Grant’s entire family. The duchess was elated her youngest son had finally fallen in love, and the duke was happy that his wife was happy.

Grant joined her three days later (he’d remained in London until Mallack was sentenced) and they spent the next month and a half frolicking about the estate like children.

They still argued at least once a day, but neither one of them would have it any other way. Especially since their arguments almost always ended in a passionate embrace. With so many guests in attendance they’d had to get a bit creative with where they had their trysts – Juliet still had a crick in her neck from one particularly adventurous romp in a broom closet – but that only made it all the more exciting.

Two nights ago they’d snuck down to the pond with the notion of a sultry midnight dip in the water (sans clothes, of course) whereupon they’d discovered Grant’s parents had had the same idea.

Juliet still couldn’t look at the duke without blushing.

Then, on the night before they were due to return to London, Grant asked her to marry him. Following in the footsteps of the rest of their courtship, the proposal was – in a word – unusual. Instead of presenting her with a ring, Grant hid it somewhere in the estate and gave Juliet a series of clues to its location.

It took her the better part of two hours, but eventually she discovered the ring was in his pocket in the entire time.

“That’s cheating!” she accused, batting him playfully on the shoulder.

“It was all there in the clue. ‘You’ll find diamond’s fire with what you most desire’.”

“I thought you meant your mother’s jewelry. What?” she said defensively when he lifted a brow. “She has a very nice collection.”

“You didn’t take anything, did you?”

“Of course not. I’m a reformed thief, remember?”

“And now you’re my fiancée,” he growled possessively before he snatched her up by the waist and whirled her around. She felt his arousal as he slid her slowly down the length of his body and she squealed when he pinched her nipple.

“Not now,” she hissed, her gaze darting to the door. “The ball is about to begin.”

“No one will notice if we’re late,” he said huskily as he lowered his head and began to kiss his way down her neck.

“Everyone will notice if we’re late.” But she was fighting a losing battle, and they both knew it. With a roguish grin Grant swept her up in his arms and carried her to the sofa. Gently lowering her down onto the cushions, he slid his hand up her skirt…and soon the ball was the furthest thing from her mind.

 

Meanwhile, in London, Bran was indulging in a similar activity with a delightfully flexible barmaid when he heard a frantic pounding on the door. Frowning, he untangled himself and stood up.

“Where are you going?” the barmaid protested. “We were only getting started.”

They’d been tupping like rabbits for two hours, but who was keeping track?

“Someone’s ‘ere. Take this.” He tossed a small pistol onto the bed and tucked another into his waistband.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“If anyone comes into this room who ain’t me, shoot them.” Arming himself with a knife for good measure, he trotted down the steps two at time. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he called out irritably when the pounding intensified.

Who the devil would come knocking at his door at this hour? Jules was in the country, and all his mates were still getting drunk down at the tavern where he’d found the barmaid. Maybe she had a jealous husband or lover she’d forgotten to mention…

Cocking the pistol, he unlocked the door and slowly opened it towards him.

“Lilly?” he gaped, nearly dropping the gun when he saw who was standing on his doorstep. “What the hell are ye doin’ here? Are ye all right?”

As soon as he got a good look at her it was clear she was far from all right. Her pale blonde hair was in wild disarray and her bodice was torn. There was mud splattered across her skirt, as if she’d run all the way here, and there was a gash in her cheek that looked as though it had come from the sharp end of a blade. 

“What happened?” he said sharply when she fell, sobbing, into his arms.

“It’s – it’s The Slasher,” she gasped, lifting terrified violet eyes to his. “He’s trying to kill me.”