Epilogue

Clarissa held open the curtain and gripped the strap as Rayne’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of the small country church near the Southford Estate.

She turned to Rayne and smiled.

Her brother had insisted he deliver her to the steps of the church in a carriage decorated with the family crest. Which was odd, for a man who had proclaimed, when he first returned, he wanted nothing to do with his title or his name.

“Thank you for giving me away.” Clarissa placed her hand over his. “It means a great deal to me that you are here.”

“I haven’t been the best of brothers…” Rayne started.

“But you are the only one I have.”

He held his hand over his heart as if wounded. “Damned by faint praise.”

“I’m serious. I’ve noticed how careful you’ve been with Julia, Markham, and Katherine,” she said. “And I thank you for the effort.”

Rayne squinted and looked away. “There’s still time to change your mind. The coachman can turn the carriage around and you can come North with me.”

North, not home.

She could not imagine the Rayne estate ever feeling like home—not to her, not to Rayne, not to anyone.

She glanced back to the church. Even in the gray of early winter, the building appeared so charming and quaint.

Her heart did a funny, anticipatory dance.

This was the place where she’d sign the register for the last time as Lady Clarissa Laithe.

The place her future children would be baptized.

The pace where her spirit could find peace.

“This is my home.”

“Yes.” Rayne smiled wryly. “You’ve rather a besotted glow about you.”

“Are you sure you must leave just after the wedding breakfast? I know your last visit wasn’t quite what one might wish, but everyone has been rubbing along much better than I expected and—”

“A disaster,” he interrupted. “My last visit was a disaster.” He squeezed her hand. “And the Stanley siblings and I have not been rubbing along as much as pretending nothing ever happened. The effort’s exhausting, truth be told. I’m here to see you properly wed, and then I will quickly—and gratefully—head North to settle matters with the new steward.”

She searched his face.

If his presence today was as much as he could give, she’d take it. But having him leave so soon felt wrong.

He adjusted his gloves. “Chin up, soon-to-be Lady Markham. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

It wasn’t true. They were only just getting to know each other.

On the other hand…this was her wedding day. And her wedding night. And then her wedding trip.

No siblings allowed.

No one else allowed, in fact. Just her, Markham, and a little cottage in Wales. Markham had promised to serve as lady’s maid, cook, and butler and had sworn he had a talent for making hot buttered rolls.

Her lips turned up in a small, secret smile, and she sighed.

“That’s better,” Rayne said. “I wish you and Markham every happiness.”

She wanted to wish Rayne happiness as well. Instead, she replied with a simple, “Thank you.”

Whatever Rayne was seeking, she had no idea how to help him.

“Shall we go in?” he asked.

She nodded, turning her full attention to the task at hand—her wedding.

Village boys opened the chapel doors, beckoning her with the start of a new life.

…

In the vestry, Markham shifted from foot to foot, occasionally glancing out into the main chapel beyond. He didn’t sway enough for anyone else to see, just enough to match his internal swerving sensation.

If he closed his eyes, he could recreate the sanctuary in a second. He knew the walls, the scent, the pews, the stone Norman arch over the altar that predated the rest of the building, even the particular slant of morning sunlight through the glass windows—which changed slightly from month to month.

There, in the room beyond, he had experienced every sacred ritual of his life, and he was about to experience the most sacred of all.

A small quiver of panic rose in his throat.

What if she didn’t come?

Worse—what if she came and he—and he—?

He didn’t even want to imagine Clarissa unhappy.

Behind him, Julia’s skirts rustled. “Look!”

He nearly jumped. “Fiend.”

Julia rolled her eyes and then handed him an open book. “I found it.”

“Found what?”

She tapped her finger against the page. “The entry for our parents’ marriage.”

He glanced down, easily picking out his father’s tight, slanted script beside his mother’s looping, extravagant one. Opposites, forever united.

He stared at his mother’s signature and frowned. He couldn’t be sure, but the accent aigu had an odd shape, a shape he thought he recognized.

He lifted the book.

The small little mark looked as if it had been formed into an intentional heart.

“What do we have there?” The rector entered through the side door.

Markham had specifically requested that the rector who had married his parents—and baptized all three Stanley children—preside at his wedding, though Southford now had a vicar who tended most of the day-to-day needs of the parish.

The elderly man came to Markham’s side and glanced over his shoulder. “I remember that day. The blushing bride’s excitement. The beaming lordship’s pride.”

Markham swallowed roughly.

Sometimes he still had a hard time imagining he’d been wrong all this time—that his distressed memories had been born of his own sense of guilt and inadequacy and not the truth. But he’d asked questions of those who had known his parents and the answers confirmed Katherine’s version of their past—until his mother had fallen ill, she’d been an active, loving, and happy member of the parish.

He’d seen only what his fear and grief and guilt had allowed.

And he would have carried on believing just that, had it not been for one woman’s scowls and his ill-advised attempt to protect her from a scoundrel.

The doors to the church opened, and the stark winter sun poured into the sanctuary, filling the corners with light.

Beside him, Julia’s breath stopped.

He glanced at her.

She returned his glance with an over-expressed smile. “She’s beautiful is all.”

Julia took the register from his hands and carefully placed it back on the shelf. Then she kissed Markham on his cheek.

“Time to step right into the parson’s trap.” She sighed. “And not a moment too soon. I thought you and Clarissa would never come to your senses.”

Markham chucked her under her chin and moved into place.

He felt the collective love of their siblings and close friends—Katherine, Bromton, Julia, Rayne, Farring, Lord and Lady Darlington, and Mrs. Van Heldt, but he saw only Clarissa. As his bride walked down the aisle, he abandoned his former rules and mottos. There would be only one rule between he and his wife.

And that rule would be love.

…

Clarissa couldn’t have imagined a more joyful wedding breakfast. There’d been hot rolls and ham, eggs, bread, and drinking chocolate. And, in the end, a brandy-soaked cake smeared in almond icing and topped with bergamot-flavored chips.

The latter had been a surprise, and well worth the trouble; she’d never forget Markham’s blush-tinted grin.

In fact, she’d wrapped two extra pieces in cloth and hidden them in the bedchamber.

She had a feeling they’d be hungry in the night.

And now, dusk was descending, and the manor had grown quiet.

Bromton and Katherine had departed in a convoy with Farring, Katerina, and Philippa and her husband. Katherine had decided to stay in Town for her confinement. Julia had successfully petitioned to stay with the local spinster, Mrs. Watson. Rayne had returned to The Pillar of Salt, and would begin his journey north in the morning.

She and Markham were alone.

Finally.

“Thank you for the chips.”

She smiled, cockeyed. Would she ever tire of the sight of her naked husband?

She doubted she would—especially when he was leaning against the back bedpost rubbing hearts into the soles of her feet with his long, strong fingers, a content smile gracing his lips.

“You’re odd, Percy Stanley.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You’re odd”—she pulled back her feet and crawled to his side—”and you’re mine.”

“I do love it when you get that look.”

She smiled a wicked smile and withdrew a black satin sash from the pocket of her dressing gown.

“And,” he continued, “I love it when you get ideas.”

She straddled him, looped his arms behind his back, made good use of the bedpost and the sash, and claimed her lapin in a kiss that went on forever.

So long, in fact, neither one of them noticed what was happening in the courtyard below—Julia’s horse, guided by what appeared to be a short, top-heavy footman, slowly disappearing in the direction of The Pillar of Salt.

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