Another month passed before they made Caverely House their official residence. Primrose and Glynnis returned to bring a carved rosewood cradle for the nursery and to select a sunlit bedchamber for their future visits. Then, to Ravenna’s surprise, they hastened back to London without further interference. This was not typical of their nature. She’d half-expected them to stay for months.

According to Isolde, the aunts hurried departure had nothing to do with Ravenna. In their view she no longer needed their intervention. They would meddle again right before the heir was born. Until then they had evidently decided to embark on a wife-hunt for Rhys.

“Poor fellow,” Simon murmured. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Rhys had purportedly been warned of their intentions and had volunteered to travel to Scotland in search of the evasive Brandon Boscastle. Heath had implied that an element of danger might be involved in the mission. Rhys understood and planned a long stay to forestall the inevitable wedding trap.

As Ravenna’s pregnancy progressed she felt a bit like a helium balloon and eager to meet the tiny being inside her. She took regular walks in the woods with Simon. She would not slip on a patch of toadstools in his care.

In most aspects he had not changed at all. His scowl still gave her pause. His smile rendered her susceptible to his every whim. How could she resent him when he only wanted the best for her and their unborn child?

“It’s time to turn back,” he announced, squinting into the horizon. “Caverely House is not a castle, my love, but it is home.”

“I love it more than I do the castle. But think of the adventures our children will have in Wales. And we have half an hour before the sun sets.”

“Didn’t we ask Dr. Brewster and his wife for supper? I’ve invited them to the christening. Oh, and Kieran has selected the sire for our son’s first pony. I’m having a cart designed by my coachmaker.”

“At the rate of your imagination, Simon, we shall have grandchildren before we finish our walk.”

“What sort of parents shall we become?” he mused.

“The worst, I fear. Isn’t that usually the case with those who ran wild in their youth? We don’t want our children to repeat our mistakes, but we do have wildness in our blood.”

He grinned. “You and I are not a mistake.”

His hand gripped hers. The scent of impending rain hung above the trees. The numerous chimneys of the house below puffed the smoke of home fires into the sky. “You are good to me,” she said. And she knew that he would be the best father possible, stern but gentle, capable of turning the pain of the past into wise instruction. The losses of their early years had taught them both to treasure what they had once taken for granted.

“I wish,” he said, “that I had told my sister I loved her. I didn’t. Not once.”

“My brothers have never said the words to one another, but I believe it’s understood. Susannah knows.”

He guided her back toward the leaf-strewn path. Mist enshrouded the estate. Figures moved about like characters in a fairy tale. The undergardener chased a dog out of the vegetable plot. A scullery maid threw a carrot at him and ran off laughing.

Timpkins strode towards the bakehouse with his monthly budget book under his arm. Isolde’s pretty face peeped out from behind the bedchamber curtains. He stopped and acknowledged her with an impertinent bow. She promptly disappeared.

Simon and Ravenna smiled at each other.

The family tree would grow. The future would unfold one branch, one leaf, one bud at a time. Their offspring would give them silver hair, sleepless nights, and unimaginable happiness.

Sorrow might come.

Scandal, however, was assured.