Page 34 of Her Duke of Scandal (Scandalous Conveniences #2)

Five Years Later

“Papa, Papa! Look what Tom taught me!” Arthur’s four-year-old son, Jack, trotted across the lawn on his pony, his blonde curls catching the summer sunlight.

Arthur watched with pride as Tom—now head groom at nineteen—walked alongside the pony, ensuring his young charge’s safety while allowing him the illusion of independence.

The boy had his mother’s grace in the saddle, though his fearlessness was pure Eagleton.

“Splendid form, young lord,” Tom praised as Jack pulled the pony to a perfect halt. “Just as we practiced.”

“Did you see, Papa?” Jack beamed. “Tom says I’m the best young rider in all of England!”

“Indeed?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, and the boy had the grace to look sheepish. “And what would your cousin George say to that?”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Augustus’s heir came tearing across the lawn, followed by Simon and Octavia’s twins. Their nurses hurried after them, looking harried but resigned to their charges’ exuberance.

The annual Meadowell summer fête had drawn quite the family gathering. Under the shade of ancient oaks, the Dowager Duchess held court with Jessamine, both women watching the newest generation with matching expressions of satisfaction. Lord and Lady Winthorpe sat nearby, still holding hands after five years of marriage.

“Your son takes after you more each day,” Augustus observed, joining Arthur at the edge of the impromptu riding display. “Though thankfully, he seems to have inherited Isolde’s temperament.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” Arthur agreed, watching as two-year-old Sylvia toddled toward them on unsteady legs. He scooped his daughter up in his arms, breathing in her sweet baby scent. “But this one, I fear, has my stubborn streak.”

“Heaven help us all.” Jane laughed, appearing with Isolde.

Both women were carrying sleeping infants—Jane’s newest daughter and Arthur’s three-month-old son, William.

Arthur’s heart swelled as Isolde approached. More than five years of marriage had only enhanced her beauty, motherhood adding a gentle radiance to her features. She still looked at him as though he hung the moon, still played the piano with him in the evenings, and still made him thank God daily for second chances.

“The tenants have outdone themselves this year,” she said, nodding toward the fair taking shape in the meadow. Colorful stalls displayed local crafts and produce, while children ran between games and attractions. “Mrs. Collins’s roses won first prize again.”

“As if anyone else stood a chance.” Arthur chuckled, remembering the fierce competition in the flower show. “Though I heard Harrison’s daughter may give her a run for her money next season.”

From his vantage point, he could see all of Meadowell spread before him. Not just the house, restored to its former glory after the fire, but the thriving community it sheltered. The east wing gleamed with new stone, its windows reflecting the summer sun. More importantly, the people below moved with the easy confidence of those who knew they were valued and protected.

Isolde came to stand beside him, little William sleeping peacefully in her arms. He moved Sylvia to his other arm, wrapping his arm around them both, marveling at how natural such gestures felt now.

“A penny for your thoughts, my love?” Isolde asked softly.

“Remembering,” Arthur replied, watching Jack demonstrate his riding skills to an awed George. “More than five years ago, I wouldn’t have believed that this was possible. All of this.” He gestured to their growing family, the restored estate, and the happiness that seemed to fill every corner of their world.

“And now?”

“Now, I can’t imagine a different life.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing in her familiar lavender scent. “Though I still wake up sometimes wondering if it’s all a dream.”

“If it is, we’re having the same one.” She leaned into him, just as she had that night in the music room when everything changed.

The Dowager Duchess’s voice carried across the lawn. “I heard the most delicious gossip from my companion in Paris. It seems Lady Wexford—or should I say, the former Lady Wexford—was seen working as a governess for a merchant’s family!”

“Grandmother,” Simon sighed, but everyone leaned in to hear more.

“Quite the fall from grace,” Jessamine commented. “Though perhaps caring for other people’s children will teach her something about kindness.”

“And Lord Blackwood?” Octavia couldn’t resist asking.

“Married a wealthy widow in Italy, I believe.” The Dowager Duchess sniffed. “Though she keeps him on quite a short leash, from what I hear.”

Arthur felt Isolde shake with suppressed laughter. “You’re not feeling sympathetic?” he teased.

“Let’s just say I believe in poetic justice,” she replied, her eyes dancing. “Speaking of justice, did you see the new roses Tom planted over…” she trailed off delicately.

Ah yes. Morton’s final resting place, now marked only by a thriving rose garden.

The official investigation had ruled his death an accident—caught in a fire he caused, a victim of his own malice. The estate had flourished since then, as if shaking off an old curse.

“The east wing looks even grander than before,” Augustus noted, as if he had read their thoughts. “Though I dare say the renovation costs were significant.”

“It was worth every penny,” Arthur stated firmly.

The renovated east wing stood as a testament to survival, to rebuilding something stronger from the ashes of the past. Just as he had.

Jack chose that moment to dismount his pony and run toward them with childish enthusiasm. “Mama! Did you see? Did you see me ride?”

“Carefully, darling,” Isolde cautioned as he barreled into her skirts. “Mind your brother.”

Arthur watched his wife balance both children with practiced grace, remembering how he’d once feared becoming a father. How could he parent when he’d had such a poor example? But Isolde’s love had taught him that the past did not have to dictate the future.

“Papa?” Sylvia tugged at his coat. “Will you play the piano for us tonight? The special song?”

“The one about the brave Duchess?” Jack clapped his hands together excitedly. “Please, Papa!”

Arthur smiled, remembering the lullaby he’d composed after William’s birth—a melody that spoke of love’s triumph over fear, of walking through fire to find one’s heart’s desire.

“If your mother will join me.”

“Always.” Isolde’s voice held the same tenderness it had the first time she’d watched him play.

The afternoon light turned golden as their guests made their way back into the house.

Tom led Jack’s pony away, the boy already begging for another lesson tomorrow. Augustus and Jane gathered their brood, while Simon helped Octavia wrangle the twins. Lord and Lady Winthorpe preceded everyone inside, followed by Jessamine and the Dowager Duchess, who were still trading gossip.

Arthur lingered with his family, savoring the moment. Below them, the fête continued—tenants and villagers celebrating another bountiful summer. The sound of laughter and music drifted up from the meadow, mixing with the gentle evening breeze.

“I love you,” he said softly, the words coming easily now after years of practice. “More each day.”

Isolde’s smile still had the power to make his heart stutter and flip. “And I love you, my duke who walks through fire.”

“Though preferably not literally,” he drawled, making her laugh. “Once was quite enough.”

Later that evening, after the children were asleep and the house had quietened, they would play their special duet that spoke of second chances and hard-won happiness. Their guests would hear the music and smile, knowing the story behind it.

But for now, Arthur simply held his family close, thanking the heavens for giving him the courage to love. His father had been wrong about so many things, but most of all, he had been wrong in believing that love was a weakness.

For love was the fire that forged strength from fear, the fire that built something beautiful from broken pieces.

And as the sun set over Meadowell, painting the restored east wing in shades of gold and rose, Arthur knew with absolute certainty that he was exactly what he was meant to be—not his father’s son, but his own man. A duke who had learned to love, a husband who had found his strength in tenderness, a father who would teach his children that the greatest courage lay in opening one’s heart.

The master of Meadowell was home, at last, surrounded by the love he’d once feared to claim. And in the end, that was the greatest restoration of all.

That evening, as promised, Arthur found himself at the pianoforte, with his family gathered around. The music room, like their love, had emerged from the fire stronger than before. New wood gleamed in the candlelight, but the instrument itself—his mother’s beloved piano—remained untouched by the flames, as if protected by some higher power.

“The Duchess song, Papa!” Jack settled at his feet, while Sylvia climbed onto the bench beside him, her small fingers reaching for the keys.

“Gently, love,” Isolde reminded her as she took her usual place beside them, William sleeping in her arms. “Like Papa showed you.”

Arthur watched his daughter pick out a simple melody—the same lullaby his mother had taught him so long ago. How different this scene was from his childhood memories of secret playing and punishment.

“Did your mama teach you this song?” Sylvia asked, looking up at him with Isolde’s hazel eyes.

“She did.” Arthur caught Isolde’s gaze over their daughter’s head, seeing understanding there. “And now I’m teaching you, just as you’ll teach your children someday.”

“And they’ll teach their children,” Jack added solemnly. “Tom says that’s how important things stay alive—by passing them down.”

“Tom’s becoming quite the philosopher,” Isolde observed with a smile.

“He’s becoming quite a lot of things,” Arthur agreed proudly. “Your grandfather suggested that we sponsor his studies at Cambridge next year.”

The suggestion would have scandalized his father—a tenant’s son at university. But Arthur had learned that true nobility had nothing to do with birth and everything to do with character.

As if reading his thoughts, Isolde shifted closer, her free hand finding his on the keys. Together, they began playing their duet—the piece they’d played that first night, now transformed into something richer, deeper. A love song written in musical notes and shared memories.

Jack’s eyes grew heavy as they played, and soon he was curled up like a cat at their feet. Sylvia fought to stay awake longer, determined to watch their fingers dance across the keys, but eventually, she too succumbed, her head resting against Arthur’s arm.

“Shall we put them to bed?” Isolde whispered as the final notes faded away.

“In a moment.” Arthur couldn’t bear to break this spell just yet. “Do you remember the first time we played together?”

“How could I forget? You were trying so hard not to feel anything.” She smiled. “You failed rather spectacularly at that.”

“Thank God for that failure.” He brushed a kiss across her lips. “Though I dare say it took walking through fire to finally admit it.”

“Some things are worth burning for,” she murmured.

Looking at their sleeping children, at the life they’d built together, Arthur couldn’t help but agree. Every scar, every conquered fear, every shattered wall—all of it had led to this moment. To this love that grew stronger with each passing day.

The candles burned low as they carried their children to bed, but the music lingered in the air like a promise, like a love story that had just begun.

For the Duke and Duchess of Meadowell had learned that the greatest symphonies require time to compose, that the sweetest melodies are often born from discord, and that true love—like true music—speaks what mere words cannot express.

And in the end, that was all the poetry they needed.

The End.