Epilogue
Emily was ecstatic. A letter had arrived from Michael. It was short and brought tears of relief to her eyes. The baron and Michael had come to an agreement that it was Michael’s duty as the firstborn heir to learn land management. In the baron’s opinion that included building a breeding stable, the studs for which he and Michael would travel to London to select.
“They’ve made up,” she told Damien wistfully. “And they didn’t need me to help them. Maybe I was in the way all the time.”
“We can visit them whenever you like.”
“They’re coming to visit us,” she said, putting down the letter. “So are Lucy and her parents.”
He narrowed his eyes. “To buy horses, too?”
“No.” She smiled, taking his hand. “Lucy is on a husband hunt, and I’ve promised to help her.”
“You haven’t.”
“Yes, I have. She’s my best friend, and I can’t abandon her to Hatherwood in her time of need. She tried so hard to help me find love.”
“She helped you find trouble.”
“Oh, I could have done that by myself.”
He nodded his head. “You did. And look at how it ended.”
“It isn’t over yet.”
“What do you mean?” he said, a scowl taking the place of his complacent look.
“You’re not about to stay in the country, twiddling your thumbs until the children arrive.”
He sat up slowly. “Are you pregnant?”
“Jane thinks I am.”
He leaned forward, looking at her carefully. “Perhaps you should go back to bed.”
“Damien, you are insatiable.”
“I meant that you should rest.”
Emily smiled, not moving from her chair. “I thought we were going to visit that villa outside Kent with the apple orchards.”
He raised his brow. “There’s a mansion two miles from Piccadilly that has greenhouses and a large nursery as well as a hundred acres.”
“A marriage that began in deception,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Who would have thought it would last this long?”
“It had better last forever,” he said somberly. “I refuse to ever go through such a rigmarole again.”
“You say that now. But look at the ladies who flirt with you and invite you with their eyes. London seethes with temptation.”
“Well, I seethe for you, and I took vows to that effect.” He knelt at her chair and took her hands. “You will have to trust me, and don’t think I haven’t noticed heads turning when you walk across a room. If I weren’t such a polite and well-bred person I’d kick every one of them in the ass through the door.”
“That was quite romantic until that last part,” she said, sighing again. “It did not make you sound either polite or poetic.”
“I have taken several false identities in my past, Emily. However, none of them has been particularly polite or poetic. I have told you this before.”
“Well, if we’re to be truthful to each other, I can’t resist you when you’re impolite, and I can live quite well without the poetry.”
He smiled at her. “Can you live without me? I love you, Emily.”
? ? ?
In time, perhaps, Emily and the earl might respect tradition and behave as befit their status in society. They would not linger abed late every morning, ignoring the punctual knocks at the door to announce the arrival of a breakfast tray or the earl’s morning paper.
For now Emily could live without a lady’s maid to dress her, while Damien insisted it was his right. And although she had no skills as a barber, she was enthralled by the sight of her husband shaving his face as he stood unself-consciously before his mirror in the nude.
In time, perhaps, Damien would again offer his services to England. Or he might buy a country house and invest in Baron Rowland and son’s horse-breeding venture. He could not stay in bed all day with the goddess he’d married. He would read a month or two’s newspapers at one sitting and catch up on the world and its attendant woes.
But for now, Damien and his wife could not live without each other, and their return to society would have to wait indefinitely, or at least until after their child was born.
Keep reading for a special preview of Jillian Hunter’s next historical romance, coming in early 2015!
England
1813
In the five years since her father’s death, Miss Ivy Prescott had held together a household of three younger sisters and a half dozen unpaid servants with the tenacity of the vine for which she was named. “We are a woeful lot,” she said every night before the last candle stub was extinguished. “But as long as we live in Fenwick Manor, everything will work out for the best.”
No one disagreed. No one had the strength. Any latent energy had to be saved for the next emergency. Another leak might spring in the roof, and rain would drip down the nose of an ancestor whose portrait hung in the Long Gallery of the Tudor house. A jackdaw’s nest could clog the chimney flue. Hiring a sweep would be out of the question. As long as Cook managed to coax a kitchen fire to make tea and grill toast in the morning, one summoned the stamina to endure.
“Fenwick Manor will not be sold,” Ivy insisted over her daily triangle of burnt bread. “I’ll work my fingers to the bone to keep our heritage alive.”
Rosemary Prescott, one year younger than Ivy but more an introvert, who scribbled stories in the dark, rallied to the cause. “I shall find work, too, and write of our struggles at the end of the day, no matter how weary I am.”
The torch passed next to Lilac, as fair and as removed from reality as a fairy-tale princess. “I shall meet the perfect man yet. He will be rich and generous and kind. We’ll have a French chef and each of us a lady’s maid.”
Young Rue Prescott’s idea of contributing her part never failed to send her other sisters into disquietude. Rue rarely brushed her thick black hair. Her ink blue eyes mesmerized men young and old. The oft-mended gowns she wore only enhanced her natural curves. She was aware that other people considered her beautiful, even though she found their attention unmerited, if not embarrassing. Nonetheless, she understood the shallow values of society. “I will find a protector,” she said, oblivious to the shock this suggestion induced in her elder sisters. “And with the allowance he gives me, I will rescue us all.”
“Banish that repugnant thought from your mind,” Ivy told her. “That is not an acceptable option. The reasonable choice for a lady of reduced circumstances is to become a governess in a respectable household. I will put a notice in the papers offering my services after I return from London.”
Rosemary scoffed at this idea. “Do you realize we will probably end up waiting on people who once considered us their equals?”
“Perhaps we could let out rooms to wealthy travelers,” Lilac said, her forehead wrinkling at the thought. “Some strangers might pay a heavy purse to pass the night in the bedroom where Anne Boleyn once slept.”
Rue said, “Or to view the hiding place of King Charles the Second.”
“Which is so well hidden,” Ivy pointed out, “that none of us has ever been able to prove it exists.”
“Of course it exists,” Rosemary said. “What good would it have been to a hunted monarch if his hiding place was easily uncovered?”
Ivy could not argue. The house had witnessed revels and masquerades and political intrigues. The sisters considered it a crime to allow centuries of history to crumble into dust. And yet they had sold off one precious heirloom after the next. The harpsichord, a gold watch case, a ruby aigrette, and the silver ewer that had held the wash water of Queen Elizabeth’s mother. Ivy would pawn her mother’s baroque pearl necklace as a last resort.
Neither the interior of the house nor the nature of the Prescott women had followed any predictable symmetry. Their father’s death in a duel in Hyde Park had plunged the sisters into immediate disgrace. Before the viscount had been laid to rest in the family vault, his daughters discovered that they had become social pariahs. Acquaintances who had courted their favor withdrew invitations to parties and balls. Former best friends snubbed the Prescott sisters in the shops and streets of London, where they had been admired.
Their father’s sins had tainted the family name. And it was left to them to restore their own inheritance, a dilapidated Tudor mansion, to its original glory, using whatever talents were at their disposal.