Epilogue
Three weeks later…
Kellits Hall
“And you were about to drown?” Alexandria asked with a gasp, her hazel eyes rounded with awe and a good deal of admiration for Daphne.
His wife leaned against the edge of their rowing boat and crossed her legs, the freedom of the tan breeches she had scandalously donned for their outing allowing her much freedom. Several tendrils escaped her chignon to curl along the slope of her cheeks, and her lips curved into an irresistible grin. She had a smile like sunshine, and it filled him with heat and pleasure.
“Oh yes, I thought my life was over, and then your uncle charged in on a magnificent steed and rushed to save Gulliver and I.”
“How did he do it?”
Sylvester smiled as his wife proceeded to embellish their tale of courtship into a romantic story that held his niece enraptured, with overly dramatic sighs slipping from her at intervals, the dark ringlets of her hair bobbing with her enthusiastic nods of approval. She was bound to complain of a sore neck later.
All thoughts of fishing were apparently abandoned when he had to rush forward and grab Alexandria’s fishing pole that was about to topple into the waters. As the small boat rocked precariously, Alexandria giggled, and his countess laughed.
“Oh, please tell me more, Aunt Daphne.”
Of course, his countess complied, the story taking on a grander romantic sweep. His sister strolled by, arm in arm with her husband, and waved. His family visit had been a weeklong affair at their country estate. The first afternoon tea between his wife and sister and mother had been filled with a terrible awkwardness. His countess had smiled at him gently over their heads, and her eyes had communicated the need for privacy. He had departed to take tea with his niece, and when he had returned an hour later, all the ladies had been laughing.
It hadn’t been seamless, but he could say with confidence that all the wounds of the past were healing. Sylvester had invited her brother down to Kellits Hall for the week. Though Henry had sent a note of apology for his behavior, the viscount had declined the invitation. There was work there to be done, and Sylvester was willing to extend his arm in friendship to the young viscount and offer him financial advice to climb from the debt in which he had sunk himself. His wife had little family left, and he wanted her more than content with life. Her happiness meant everything to him.
“Oh, Uncle Syl! You were so brave.”
“That honor belongs to Aunt Daphne, who jumped into the raging waters to save Gulliver.”
As if he heard his name, Gulliver’s barks echoed across the lake from the bank. The irrepressible dog bounded down the grassy slope into the waters and started to paddle across toward the boat. And some madness of his countess prompted her to lower her fishing pole and dive into the water to meet her dog.
Alexandria chortled, her joy bringing a lump to his throat. “Uncle Syl, I think it was a brilliant notion for Aunt Daphne to wear breeches on our outing today.”
He arched a brow, and the little imp grinned mischievously. “And wasn’t it wonderful that I, too, was allowed to wear the breeches she made for me?”
Then she clasped her hands together, her breath held in anticipation, her eyes laughing and beseeching at Sylvester. A pang tore through his heart. There would possibly come a day when society would dare to treat her less because of the circumstances of her birth. Despite Hartington claiming her as his child, his act of honor would not be enough to shield her forever. Secrets always had a way of revealing themselves, though Sylvester pray this one would stay interred.
“Go,” he said with a smile, wanting her to remain this joyful child with her infectious laugh and happiness for as long as possible.
With a shriek of joy, Alexandria launched herself from the boat into the lake waters, landing with a tremendous splash.
His countess’s eyes locked with his. I love you, she mouthed, before swimming toward Alexandria.
Sylvester put aside the fishing pole, contented to watch as his countess, his niece, and Gulliver romped in the water without an ounce of decorum. He doubted he had ever seen a more agreeable and relaxing picture.
…
A few days later…
The ton declared the Countess of Carrington’s ball a success even before it was over. Despite the stunning crush, and the fact that Daphne had been bold enough to invite Riordan O’Malley—a man who the polite world considered wholly unsuitable to mingle with the ton—the impropriety of Sylvester dancing most of the dances with her would no doubt take precedent in the morning scandal sheet. Daphne laughed, delighted with him and their love, which had somehow been so evident it had set the ton on its ears.
Her earl spun in a full arc, the heat of his fingers burning through her dark green ball gown.
A whisper floated in the air.
“How improper…”
“This is the fifth dance with his countess. I cannot credit such behavior.”
“Isn’t their love grand?”
“Grand? Scandalous is what it is. It is not seemly for a husband to dote so publicly on his wife. And Lady Carrington displays a similar attachment that is vulgar.”
The gossips of the ton took pleasure in discussing Daphne and her earl, some with shock and others with open admiration. Since the night her earl had declared his love, Daphne had never felt such contentment. They laughed, they loved, they healed, and then they laughed and loved some more. Each moment in his arms had been a lesson in scorching pleasure, and she found herself enjoying him more daily. The beauty of being able to envision their life without fear of being hurt was a treasure she held close to her heart. The only ache was the six years wasted, but she’d promised herself not to dwell on the past, only the joyful possibility of the future.
They worked together. She’d hosted a ball, a soiree, and a few of his political dinners. He had taken her to the gambling hall Asylum, where she had been dazzled by the world of sin and vice. She read his arguments for Parliament; she helped him write his articles on the horrors of slavery and its threat to humanity. And they had lively and spirited discussions. Then they would make love again and again.
The waltz ended. Sylvester placed a steady hand on the small of her back and guided her through the crowd to a secluded terraced window, then down the stairs and down the brick path to their large garden lit with several lanterns. He locked their fingers together as they strolled farther away from the laughter and music spilling from the ballroom.
They stopped, and he took her into his arms, pressed her chest to his, and danced with her wickedly close.
“Have I told you recently how much I love you, my wife?” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
“Only this morning,” she replied, lifting her face to his, already anticipating the heat of his kiss. It came as a gentle glide across her lips. Daphne sighed happily, wondering how her husband managed to infuse such love, comfort, and sensuality into a mere touch. “I adore you, my husband.”
She had yearned for his love and respect, dreamed of it, but nothing compared to the reality of being loved so ardently by Sylvester. Happiness had swallowed her whole, and she never wanted it to release her from its beautiful clasp.
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