Page 34 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)
EPILOGUE
ONE MONTH LATER
“I believe, Your Grace, that we have successfully scandalized the entirety of country Society,” Emma murmured, her lips curved in a smile that conveyed both amusement and contentment as she gazed up at her new husband. “A lady looked positively apoplectic when you insisted on kissing me before the bishop had fully concluded the ceremony.”
Victor’s answering smile transformed his usually severe countenance, the scar on his cheek diminishing beneath the radiance of genuine happiness.
“Then my primary objective for the day has been accomplished,” he replied, one hand resting possessively on the small of her back as they surveyed the assembled guests who had gathered at Westmere Hall for their wedding breakfast. “Though I confess I harbor additional ambitions that may further distress some lady’s sensibilities before the day is through.”
The ballroom of Westmere Hall had been transformed for the occasion, its medieval grandeur softened by garlands of summer roses and sprays of delicate wildflowers gathered from the estate grounds.
Sunlight streamed through the ancient stained glass, casting jewel-toned patterns across the assembled guests—a collection that represented the curious intersection of Victor’s reluctant aristocratic connections and Emma’s more eclectic circle of friends and supporters.
At the opposite end of the room, the Athena Society members had claimed territory around a table laden with champagne and delicacies. Their animated conversation was punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter that caused the more ‘decorous’ guests to cast disapproving glances in their direction.
Tristan moved among them with the ease of long familiarity, his formal attire lending him a maturity that tugged at Emma’s heart even as she delighted in his evident happiness.
“Perhaps we might steal a moment of privacy,” Victor suggested, his voice dropping to a timbre that sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. “I find myself unaccountably eager for solitude with my Duchess.”
“Patience, my love,” Emma chided, though her pulse quickened at the heat in his gaze. “We have obligations to our guests for at least another hour.”
“An unbearable amount of time,” Victor grumbled, though his expression held more indulgence than true disgruntlement. “Though I suppose I might endure it, given sufficient incentive.”
Emma arched an eyebrow. “And what incentive would Your Grace require?”
“A moment’s respite from a dowager’s detailed recounting of every ducal wedding since the Restoration,” he replied promptly. “Perhaps a brief tour of the eastern conservatory? I believe the camellias are particularly fine at this time of year.”
The suggestion was delivered with such perfect innocence that Emma could not help but laugh.
“Very well,” she conceded, her tone mock solemn. “In the interest of preserving your sanity, I shall resign myself to this botanical excursion.”
* * *
The eastern wing of Westmere Hall was less frequented by the wedding party, its long corridor leading to a glass-domed conservatory that Victor had recently restored to its former glory.
“I had begun to fear we might never secure a moment alone,” Victor confessed as they turned down the corridor, his hand warm against hers. “The demands of a ducal wedding are surprisingly relentless.”
“The price of your exalted rank, I fear,” Emma teased, leaning into his side with a familiarity that still held the thrill of novelty. “Though the transition from country widow to duchess presents its own peculiar challenges. Lady Pettiford insisted on addressing me as ‘Your Grace’ no fewer than fourteen times during our brief conversation.”
Victor chuckled. “A tactical error on her part. Had she limited herself to perhaps eight or nine instances, her obsequiousness might have passed unnoticed.”
Their progress toward solitude was halted, however, by the voices coming from a small antechamber adjacent to the conservatory entrance—one male, one female, engaged in what appeared to be an intimate conversation not intended for outside ears.
“I cannot possibly accept such a proposal,” came Joanna’s voice, pitched lower than her usual forthright tone but unmistakable to Emma’s familiar ear. “You must understand the impossibility of the situation.”
“I understand nothing of the sort,” replied Nathaniel, “I am in possession of sound mind, moderate fortune, and an affection for you that surpasses any I have previously experienced. To me, these facts seem entirely compatible with matrimony.”
Emma halted, her hand tightening reflexively around Victor’s arm.
Before they could withdraw, the chamber door swung open to reveal Joanna and Nathaniel, both startled into momentary silence by the discovery of their audience.
“Well…” Nathaniel recovered first, his usual insouciance reasserting itself with visible effort. “This is deliciously awkward. I don’t suppose you can pretend you heard nothing and allow me to continue proposing in dignified privacy?”
“You were proposing?” Emma could not prevent the question from escaping, her gaze darting between her aunt’s red cheeks and the Marquess’s uncharacteristically solemn expression.
“Attempting to,” Nathaniel confirmed with a rueful smile. “Though I fear Miss Joanna has reservations about my suitability as a husband.”
“Not your suitability,” Joanna corrected, her voice steadier than her complexion would suggest. “Your judgment. I am six-and-thirty, Nathaniel. Well past the age when most women contemplate motherhood and firmly established as a spinster of independent means and habits. What possible advantage could marriage to me provide that a younger, more conventional bride would not offer tenfold?”
“The advantage,” Nathaniel replied softly, “of being married to the woman I love. A consideration that outweighs all others, in my estimation.”
The simple declaration, delivered without artifice or calculation, caused a visible softening in Joanna’s carefully maintained composure.
Emma, witnessing the exchange, felt a surge of affection for this man, who had been her husband’s staunchest ally and now offered such unguarded honesty to her beloved aunt.
“It was Joanna who urged me to speak with you about Sidney Bickford’s machinations,” Nathaniel continued, addressing Victor with uncharacteristic directness. “When my initial attempts to reason with you proved ineffective, it was her suggestion that more… dramatic revelations might pierce your self-imposed isolation. I believe we all owe her a debt of gratitude for her insight.”
“Indeed, we do,” Victor agreed, regarding Joanna with newfound respect. “Though I confess I am curious about the nature of the acquaintance that facilitated such collaboration.”
A flush rose in Joanna’s cheeks, lending her an unexpected youthfulness that Emma had rarely observed in her practical, self-possessed aunt.
“We encountered one another at Pembroke’s bookshop,” she admitted.
“Emma mentioned it once,” Victor said.
“Yes, well, she should have also told you that we’d make an unlikely pairing in all respects,” Joanna agreed, her tone suggesting she still harbored doubts about the potential union. “Which is precisely why?—”
“Which is precisely why it has proven so remarkably successful,” Nathaniel interjected, taking her hand with a gentleness that belied his usual flippant demeanor. “We complement one another, Joanna. Your practical wisdom tempers my impulsiveness. My frivolity lightens your seriousness. We are better together than apart—a truth I recognized from our first conversation.”
Emma exchanged a glance with Victor, recognizing in Nathaniel’s words an echo of their own unlikely partnership: the scarred, reclusive Duke and the independent, wary widow, each bringing balance to the other’s life in ways neither had anticipated.
“If I may be permitted an observation,” Emma said carefully. “I have never seen you so animated as in the Marquess’s company, Joanna. Your eyes positively sparkle when engaged in debate with him—something I noticed even before understanding the full nature of your acquaintance.”
Joanna’s expression softened further, a vulnerability appearing that Emma had rarely witnessed in her usually composed countenance.
“I-I did not expect this,” Joanna confessed, the words seeming torn from her despite her customary reserve. “At my age, after establishing a life of independence, to find myself in love… it is most disconcerting.”
“The most worthwhile experiences often are,” Victor pointed out, his hand finding Emma’s with unconscious ease.
Nathaniel seized upon this unexpected support with evident gratitude. “Precisely! If the formidable Duke of Westmere can abandon his fortress of solitude for matrimonial felicity, surely the prospect is not entirely without merit.”
A reluctant smile curved Joanna’s lips.
“You are impossible,” she scoffed, though the fondness in her tone belied the criticism.
“Impossibly devoted,” Nathaniel corrected, lifting her hand to his lips.
“I would give you my blessing, Lord Knightley,” Emma said impulsively, “but I suspect Joanna would not thank me for presuming to grant permission regarding her future.”
“Your blessing is nonetheless appreciated,” Nathaniel assured her, his expression suddenly serious. “Though I would have you know that I approach this union with the utmost respect for your aunt’s independence and intellect. I seek a partner, not a possession. And please, call me Nathaniel.”
“See that you remember that,” Emma replied, infusing her voice with a hint of steel that her new husband recognized with evident amusement. “For I shall hold you accountable for her happiness, Nathaniel. Duke or no, Victor will not prevent me from exacting retribution should you fail in your obligations.”
The Marquess placed his free hand over his heart in a gesture of exaggerated solemnity. “I tremble at the prospect of your displeasure, Your Grace.”
Joanna shook her head, though her eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter.
“Perhaps we might postpone announcements until after today’s celebrations,” she suggested, pragmatic as ever despite the momentous nature of their discussion. “It would be entirely improper to divert attention from the bride and groom.”
“What impropriety?” Tristan’s voice came from the corridor behind them, curiosity evident in his tone as he approached with the natural entitlement of youth. “Are you sharing secrets without me?”
He was accompanied by Annabelle, whose shrewd eyes took in the tableau before her with characteristic perspicacity. A knowing smile curved her lips as she noted Nathaniel and Joanna’s still-joined hands.
“I see congratulations may soon be in order for another happy couple,” she observed, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. “How delightfully scandalous, Joanna. I believe we shall have a great deal to discuss at our next Athena Society meeting.”
“Perhaps we should return to the wedding breakfast,” Emma suggested. “Our absence will soon be noted.”
“Indeed,” Victor agreed, his hand settling possessively on her waist once more. “Though I confess I am reluctant to surrender this moment of relative privacy.”
The small party made their way back toward the ballroom, Tristan leading the procession with the boundless energy of youth, peppering Nathaniel with questions about his intentions toward “Aunt Joanna” with a directness that caused both adults to flush anew.
The scene that greeted them upon their return reflected the curious amalgamation of their social circles—the Athena Society members were now mingling with Victor’s more traditional connections, their initial wariness giving way to a cautious exchange of opinions on literature, politics, and the social dilemmas of the day.
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Pennington approached, her expression conveying both pleasure and concern. “We have been discussing the future of our little society. With your new responsibilities as Duchess of Westmere, we fear we may lose your guidance.”
Emma smiled reassuringly at the older woman. “I assure you, my commitment to the Athena Society remains unchanged. Though I may need to rely more heavily on Annabelle’s assistance in organizational matters.”
“A responsibility I am delighted to assume,” Annabelle confirmed, her expression suggesting she already had plans for expanding the Society’s reading selections in directions that might scandalize their more prudish members.
As the conversation flowed around them, Victor bent to murmur in Emma’s ear, “I have received confirmation that Sidney and his household have indeed established themselves in Edinburgh.”
The news settled over Emma like a warm cloak, the last vestiges of uncertainty dissolving. Her son was now safe from Sidney’s influence.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the simple phrase encompassing far more than mere gratitude.
Victor’s hand tightened briefly on her waist, acknowledging the depth of emotion beneath her restrained response.
“He shall never threaten either of you again,” he promised, the steel in his voice a reminder of the implacable will that had driven Sidney out of their lives.
Their exchange was interrupted by Tristan’s return, Argus bounding at his heels despite the staff’s evident efforts to maintain decorum by excluding the hound from the formal proceedings.
“Papa!” he addressed Victor with a naturalness that suggested the title had already become habitual, “Argus has discovered a rabbit warren near the east terrace. Might I investigate? Mrs. Peabody says I must not soil my new clothes, but I promise to be exceedingly careful!”
The simple domestic request, delivered with the confidence of a child secure in his place within a loving family, brought a suspicious moisture to Emma’s eyes.
Victor, sensing her emotions, squeezed her hand gently before addressing his son with mock gravity.
“I suggest a compromise,” he proposed. “Perhaps you might change into your riding clothes first? A gentleman honors his promises to the staff, after all.”
Tristan considered this suggestion with the seriousness it deserved before nodding in agreement.
“A sensible precaution,” he conceded, the phrase so clearly an echo of Victor’s manner that Emma could not suppress a smile. “I shall return shortly!”
As he darted away, Emma leaned into her husband’s solid warmth, contentment washing over her in a wave so powerful it momentarily robbed her of speech.
“He is so happy,” she murmured. “So secure in your affection. I had not dared hope for such a transformation.”
“The transformation is mutual,” Victor assured her, his gaze following Tristan’s retreating figure with undisguised fondness. “He has given me a gift I had thought forever beyond my reach—becoming a father.”
The simple admission, offered without reservation or artifice, reminded Emma of how far they had both come from their first contentious meeting—from wariness and distrust to a partnership built on mutual respect, shared vulnerability, and deepening love.
“Speaking of gifts of that nature,” she said, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the surrounding conversations to share the news she had confirmed only that morning. “I believe we may expect another present by late spring.”
Victor stilled, his expression transforming from confusion to dawning comprehension with a swiftness that might have been comical under different circumstances.
“Emma,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion rarely displayed in public. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain,” she confirmed, joy bubbling up within her at his evident delight. “Though perhaps we might discuss the matter more privately once our guests have departed.”
His hand moved instinctively to rest against her still-flat abdomen, the gesture so unconsciously possessive and protective that Emma felt tears threatening once more.
“You have made me the happiest of men,” he murmured, propriety forgotten as he bent to claim her lips in a kiss that undoubtedly provoked the more prudish guests.
Emma returned his kiss without hesitation, conscious of the whispers and stares but finding, to her surprise, that she did not care for Society’s judgment.
For she and Victor had weathered far greater storms than mere gossip.
And they would face whatever challenges the future held with the same courage and unity that had brought them to this moment of perfect happiness.
The End?