Epilogue

Nathaniel Blakely Sterling Harte, the seventh Duke of Beswick, paced the corridor, a fine sheen of cold sweat coating his forehead. God, he’d never been so nervous in all his life. He glanced at his pocket watch and then went back to pacing. His valet watched him, not hiding his amusement, as he trampled the same stretch of carpet for the fortieth time.

“Perhaps you should have some brandy,” Fletcher suggested. “You’re going to wear a hole in the rug.”

“It’s taking too long,” he said. “And since when do you care about carpet? You’re turning into as much a fusspot as Culbert.”

“Bite your tongue, Your Grace,” Fletcher said, looking horrified. “And in any case, her ladyship is a duchess.”

Thane scowled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything,” he said dryly. “Ah, here she comes.”

Thane perked up at the sight of his beautiful and pregnant wife, accompanied by his precocious six-year-old daughter, Lady Philippa Harte, and her younger brother, Lord Maxton Harte, the four-year-old Marquess of Locke, who were both supposed to be sleeping. He knew that because he’d fed them dinner and put them to bed ages ago, as he did almost every night.

Astrid smiled. “I had to kiss the children good night, and they wanted a story. Since we aren’t going to be back until tomorrow after the race, I said yes.”

He frowned fondly at his naughty daughter, whose eyes were twinkling with mischief. He had a good idea who wanted another story. “I’d already read them several stories and put them to bed. Why are the two of you little crumpets still awake?”

“We wanted to say good night to Mama,” Pippa said, while Max nodded his sleepy head fiercely. “And she’s always writing in her study.”

“I’m sorry, darlings,” Astrid said. “It won’t be for much longer, I promise.”

It was true; his brilliant wife had been busy of late. After the publication of a few polemic literary essays on the significance of women’s voices, including those of writers like Wollstonecraft and Mary Shelley, who had indeed come out as the author of Frankenstein a few years before, his duchess had made quite a stir in the beau monde. Some did not agree with her controversial stance that a woman was only as bad as the man behind her, but many did. She was now working on her first novel, a story about a man trapped in a woman’s body and the intersection of male and female ideology. It was a bold effort, but if anyone could do it, his intrepid duchess could.

“The coachman is ready, Your Graces,” Culbert announced, walking into the room. “Good gracious, I haven’t been this nervous about anything since the young master was born.”

“It’s just a race, Culbert,” Astrid said.

Fletcher shook his head, his expression as delirious as the butler’s. “It’s not just a race, Your Grace! It’s your champion, and he is going to win.”

Several years ago, she had bred Brutus and Temperance, and the resulting foal had exceeded all expectations. The colt had been magnificent—a perfect combination of strength, stamina, and speed. She’d named him Dante, and now, the racehorse was unbeatable on any terrain of any length. Tomorrow would mark a monumental day of racing at Ascot. They planned to stay at Harte House overnight.

“Will you tuck us into bed before you leave, Mama and Papa?” Pippa asked, her sweet voice hopeful.

“Come on, quickly then, my little crumpets,” Thane said, lifting Max up and tossing him into the air, making him squeal. He knelt and pulled Pippa in for a hug. She was the image of her mother. With a head full of glossy dark curls and in possession of the golden Beswick eyes, Thane had no doubt she was going to be a beauty.

“Why can’t we go, too, Papa?” Max complained, tugging at Thane’s coat. “I want to see Dante race.”

Thane set Max on his hip and ruffled his dark-blond hair. “Because the racecourse is no place for young striplings, but I promise to take you both when you’re a bit older.”

“Me too, Papa, even though I’m a girl?” Pippa said with wide eyes.

He winked at her with a grin. “Being a girl never stopped your mama, and I’m willing to wager it won’t stop you, either, Pippa bean.”

“Yes, dearest, you can do anything you put your mind to,” Astrid chimed in.

They took their children’s hands and shepherded them back toward their rooms. Thane lifted Pippa into bed, kissed her, and then did the same with his son. A pair of somber ice-blue eyes stared back at him, and it was clear Max was holding back his disappointment and doing his best to be brave about it.

“Tell you what,” Thane said to him, fishing into his pocket for a sixpence. “We’ll bet this on Dante from you and Pippa, and if you win, you can share all the winnings. How’s that? That way, it’s like you could almost be there.”

“Truly, Papa?” Max said.

“Yes, truly.”

He met Astrid’s amused eyes as she kissed their children good night and wished them sweet dreams. “We’ll be back soon, my darlings. Sleep well. Tomorrow night, we can read one of our old favorites, La Belle et la Bête.”

The old French tale of the beauty and the beast was a Harte family favorite for obvious reasons. Thane smiled and met his wife’s tender gaze from where she stood beside the bed. He couldn’t fathom that she loved him so much and that after seven years of wedded bliss, she still made his heart beat faster.

His own feelings for her had grown and matured, though she could still flay him with a word and make his body leap with the flutter of an eyelash. As was evident by the small mound of her stomach, it was nigh impossible to resist her charms. She was his brilliant, beautiful duchess—his wife, his love, the mother of his children, and his light in the darkness.

“Papa?”

Thane paused at the door. “Yes, Pippa bean?”

“My favorite part of the story is when Beauty is brave enough to tell Beast she loves him,” his daughter said shyly.

“That’s my favorite part, too,” he told her, his chest tightening with emotion as he gathered Astrid close. “As your very clever mama once wrote: Love is one part courage, one part choice, and one part luck. And like anything worth fighting for, it’s worth it in the end.”

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