Page 18 of Christmas with the Earl (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #1)

A FEW YEARS LATER

T he first roses of the season had bloomed early.

Nell bent over a pale blush blossom near the arbor, brushing dew from its petals with a careful touch.

The garden had come into full life again this spring—more vibrant, more abundant than she had ever seen it.

Perhaps, she thought with quiet satisfaction, love had found its way into the soil as well.

Behind her, a small voice called out. “Mama! Look—look what I found!”

Nell turned as a pair of small boots thundered toward her. Thomas Jr.—still insisting he preferred Tommy —held up a lopsided posy of wildflowers in triumph, his cheeks flushed with sunshine and excitement.

“For the table,” he said gravely. “Like Papa does when you look tired.”

“Oh, my darling,” Nell murmured, pulling him close.

From the path, Thomas approached with a walking stick in one hand and the estate’s ledgers in the other. He was trying—without much success—to review accounts while supervising their son’s enthusiastic explorations.

“You’ve turned him into a sentimentalist,” he said mildly as he leaned down to press a kiss to Nell’s temple.

“I take no responsibility,” she said, though her eyes shone with amusement. “He’s all yours.”

“Then I’ll count myself lucky.”

He offered her his free hand, and together they walked through the blooming garden, their son racing ahead to chase butterflies among Isabella’s beloved rose beds.

Greystowe Hall stood in the distance, its windows catching the light, its chimneys trailing pale curls of smoke. From somewhere inside, Lady Greystowe’s voice carried faintly on the breeze, scolding the cook for too much nutmeg and not enough common sense .

Nell paused to take it all in—the flowers, the sun, the quiet joy of belonging—and felt, again, that subtle awe that never quite faded.

Love had taken root here. And it was still growing.

The End