Page 53

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Epilogue - Franny

A few weeks later.

“You are doing fabulously, my dear,” the dowager Duchess of Ironcrest murmured to Franny after the latest guests moved on to join the rest of the revelers in the ballroom.

Franny had been tucked to the dowager’s side for the last hour as they’d received attendee after attendee. Franny was the dowager’s highly esteemed guest, after all. And no one would dare refute the dowager’s stance, even if that stance was supporting a bastard. Someone with tainted blood.

Franny smoothed a black-gloved hand down her red gown. A deep wine red. Blood red. She may have chosen the color when commissioning the dress as an act of defiance. She wouldn’t hide her bastard status. The ton might view it as a black mark on her person, but to Franny, it was a liberation, that she was in no way connected to that man.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I cannot express my gratitude enough that you have thrown your support behind me.”

The dowager winged a thin dark brow, her lips twitching on her perfectly proportioned face. Age had done nothing to detract from the mature woman’s beauty. The threads of silver running through her dark coiffure only added to the woman’s presence: striking, regal, revered.

“Yes, that much is obvious,” the dowager said. “Considering that was, at minimum, the fifteenth time you’ve thanked me.” Her grey eyes were keen, sharp. Franny had known an instant after meeting this woman that she saw more than most. “And also a lie.”

Franny blinked, her mouth slackening. “I-I… I am thankful, Your Grace,” she rushed out.

The woman’s single brow lifted a hair higher, and Franny’s mouth snapped shut. Heavens, the woman could command armies with nothing more than her eyebrows.

They greeted the next pair of guests, and as soon as they were beyond hearing distance, the dowager met Franny’s gaze again. “You think I am fool enough to believe you want any of this?” Her stare traversed the magnificent ballroom, glittering gold chandeliers, Greek-inspired marble columns, intricately carved, gilt covered molding, and then came to land back on Franny’s bold choice of gown. “You do not care what these people think of you.”

As though the fates wanted to prove the woman’s point, another couple in the assembly line stepped up to Franny and the dowager. And this guest did nothing to hide her disgust at being forced into Franny’s presence. She dipped a curtsy to the dowager.

“Your Grace, it is an honor to be here this evening. It is of no surprise that the festivities are truly unparalleled.” She didn’t curtsy to Franny, she didn’t turn to Franny, she didn’t acknowledge Franny.

A clear cut.

And Franny laughed.

It bubbled out of her, unrestrained and unrefined. The dowager caught Franny’s gaze from the corner of her eye, the glimmer there as smug as the curve of her lips. As I said . She didn’t say the words, but she didn’t need to.

The odious lady turned up her nose at Franny, giving her head a little shake, like something foul had assaulted her person. What a joy she must be if a laugh was considered an affront.

“Are you well, Lady Harrington?” The dowager’s delicate brows pinched, concern emanating from her as she rested a gloved hand over her heart.

Lady Harrington’s expression quickly smoothed into a practiced smile. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The dowager matched the woman’s smile. “Oh, what a relief. I had feared you’d taken ill. But I see that it’s merely your natural countenance.”

The woman gasped, but the dowager was already turning and greeting the next guests. Franny’s hand flew to her mouth, and she tried desperately to hold back her mirth. The dowager was phenomenal. The guest glared at Franny and marched off. Good riddance.

Franny blew out a small breath and regained her composure. Pull yourself together, Franny. She plastered a smile back on her face and turned to the final guests in the assembly line. The dowager and a slender mature woman with rose gold hair were holding each other’s hands, genuine smiles splitting their faces. The woman’s stunning blue eyes landed on Franny, and her smile softened. Something about the woman’s presence instantly put Franny at ease. There was no doubt this woman was friend not foe.

“Lord and Lady Bentley,” the dowager said. “May I introduce Lady Rutledge, my most cherished guest this evening.”

Lady Bentley dropped into a curtsy, her pale blue skirts fluttering around her. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Rutledge. And may I extend my felicitations on your recent nuptials.”

A gentleman, equal in handsomeness to the woman’s beauty, stepped to her side. He bowed, his greying amber curls flopping over his forehead, and he flashed her a smile far more boyish than one would think possible at his advanced years. “An absolute pleasure, my lady.”

“And I would be remiss if I didn’t introduce this dashing young gentleman,” the dowager Duchess said. “Lord Mallen. Lord Mallen, this is the newly made Lady Rutledge.”

An identical boyish grin flashed at Franny, and her mind went blank. She stared dumbly at the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was the exact replica of Lady Bentley, except with the amber coloring of Lord Bentley. The man took her hand and bowed low over it. “A pleasure, my lady. And felicitations. Your husband is a most fortunate gentleman.”

“Oh,” was all Franny could manage.

She was greeted with three breathtaking smiles, and then Lord and Lady Bentley and their son glided off.

A hand patted her arm, and she blinked out of her stupor. The dowager’s lips twitched, sympathy and amusement glittering in her expression. “That family’s beauty could be used as a weapon. You are not the first to be struck mute.”

A breath burst from Franny. “Oh, thank goodness. So, it is not just me then? I swore I lost all ability to form coherent thoughts.”

The dowager chuckled softly. “They tend to have that effect on people. Kinder, more genuine-hearted people, you will never meet.”

A dark movement at the entry of the ballroom drew Franny’s attention, and a trio of gentlemen dressed in black from the tips of their shoes all the way to their cravats stepped into the ballroom. And this time, not only was she unable to form words, she was unable to breathe.

Broad shoulders rolled back, his imperious and commanding presence on full display, her husband looked every inch the Prime Minister his viper of a mother had trained him to be. Except this man was most definitely not one who followed the rules. This man broke them. His two sentries flanked him, slightly taller, both darker, and slightly uncivilized with the Duke’s scar and the Marquess’s unfashionably long shaggy hair.

The dowager hummed softly at Franny’s side. “And that is the reason you are truly here, my lady. You may not care about other’s opinions of you. But it took but a minute of being in your and your husband’s presence for me to discern you would go to any lengths for that man.”

It was the truth. He may not want to be Prime Minister, but he had parliamentary ambitions. And Franny was determined to be a help, not a hindrance, to her husband’s aims. And it started here, an attempt to mitigate the impact of her bastard status.

Rich brown eyes locked on Franny, and she nodded to the dowager, still not able to coax her mouth to form words. Not now that her husband was striding toward her, bearing down on her like she was his target. Which she was. A thrill raced over her skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

“Now, if only you could convince my grandson or Lord Dunmore to settle down with a woman like yourself,” the dowager muttered quietly.

Franny’s gaze flicked to the woman. “I don’t mind assisting in that area, Your Grace.”

The dowager’s dark eyes glinted, her gaze narrowing slyly. “Oh, I knew I liked you, Lady Rutledge.”

The three men stopped before Franny and the dowager, all gazes aimed at Franny. And goodness, what a display of masculine virility. All directed at her. Franny fanned herself, the temperature in the ballroom escalating from slightly uncomfortable to scorching.

A throat cleared delicately next to her, and that imperious brow arched again. The Duke and Lord Dunmore shrank into chastised boys before Franny’s eyes, dark and broody bravado evaporating. They scrambled forward and bussed the dowager on the cheek in unison, the Duke on her right and the Marquess on her left.

The woman’s lips curled into a pleased smile. “Much better.”

Yes, this woman most definitely could have commanded troops.

Rupert stepped forward and bowed over the dowager’s hand. “Thank you, Your Grace. I cannot put into words what your support means to me. Throwing this ball in my and my wife’s honor. I will forever be in your debt.”

“Nonsense, Rupert. And enough with the honorifics. That mother of yours may have prevented you from being around as much as Derek, but you know I consider the both of you as de facto grandsons.”

Rupert stiffened, nearly imperceptibly, but Franny caught it, as attuned to him as she was. The cords of his neck went taut, and he tapped his thigh twice. Her heart squeezed, and she fisted her hand to keep from reaching for him. To offer comfort. He still struggled with any mention of his mother.

He smiled, though it was tight. “I truly appreciate that, Dorothea,” he murmured. “We hope to be around much more often now.”

“I am glad to hear of it. You are always welcome here. As is your lovely wife.” The dowager glanced at Franny and sent her a subtle wink.

The Duke stepped forward and bowed low over Franny’s hand. “What an absolute treat, finally meeting you, my lady.” He dragged his lips over her knuckles, and her eyebrows shot off her head, surely lost somewhere in the ceiling.

A throat cleared—a very displeased throat clearing—from behind the Duke, and his lips flashed in the briefest wicked grin. Her gaze flicked to meet the Duke’s, and a chill stole over her. His grin spoke volumes, but his eyes were empty.

A low growl.

Franny’s attention snapped over the Duke’s shoulder to where her husband looked seconds away from strangling his friend. And then the Marquess of Dunmore shouldered the Duke out of the way and repeated the very untoward greeting. Her husband seethed.

But Franny giggled. It was so obvious his friends were pulling his leg. But poor Rupert couldn’t handle even a jest when it came to another man touching her.

Lord Dunmore stepped back and leaned toward the Duke. “She’s delectable, Rafe. What a shame Rupe got to her first.”

The dowager’s eye twitched, and Franny had the faintest inkling the woman was desperately trying to avoid rolling her eyes.

Rupert shoved through his friends. “That is quite enough,” he bit out. “And unless you both have a wish to be put six feet under, do not ever touch my wife again.” With that, he tucked Franny to his side and led her to the dance floor. Though led might be a mite generous. Dragged was much more fitting, but that was splitting hairs.

The faint notes of the orchestra settled over the ballroom and the thrum of chatter ceased, all attendees’ attention drawn to the two lone guests on the dance floor, she and Rupert.

He bowed low and brushed a kiss over the back of her glove. His lips danced over her hand, sending shivers coasting up her arm as he murmured something she couldn’t quite hear, something that felt very much like the word mine .

She dipped a curtsy, but he didn’t let go. He retained his hold on her until she rose, then he pulled her into his arms. The music picked up, and he whisked her into a waltz. Her eyes flew wide. A waltz was scandalous .

“Rupert!” she whispered. “What are you doing? This will not help your reputation.”

It wasn’t as though the waltz was entirely forbidden. There had been other notable hostesses who had embraced the provocative dance, but if they were trying to quell the scandal, this hardly seemed to be the best battle plan.

His gaze never left hers, and it was heady, untamed emotions spilling from its depths. “I am not hiding myself any longer, Franny,” he murmured, nearly inaudibly. “This is us. So, this is what they will see. They will do with it what they will.”

Something expanded in her chest, warm and glowing. She could hardly believe it. Which was why it took Franny’s mind so long to register the melody of the piece the orchestra was playing. Her mouth parted. Her song. The one she hummed to herself when she snuck to one of her favorite places in the middle of the night. Only ever hummed there. Her fairy tale waltz in the ruins.

He spun them around, her skirts drifting around his legs. He led so assuredly, so strong and confident. His stare dropped to her mouth and back up, his lips tugging up in a half-smile.

“Surprised?” he asked softly.

“How do you know of this piece? Of—”

“I have been enraptured by you for a very, very long time, Franny. Though I know up until recently my behavior has suggested quite the opposite.”

Her heart took on the same rhythm as their swiftly moving feet.

“I stumbled upon you there once when we were younger.” The other side of his mouth tilted up. “I had been sitting at my window, frustrated that I couldn’t seem to rid myself of thoughts of one maddening raven-haired hellion, when I spotted a flash of white rushing into the forest.” He shook his head as they made their way around a turn. “I knew it was you. And because of that, I was helpless to not go after you.”

Her knees were dangerously weak now. But Franny no longer needed to be strong at all times. She finally had someone to lean on. And he supported her, guided her through the waltz, with the strong press of his palm at her back and his reassuring grip on her hand.

“I searched for you in that clearing more often than I’m proud to admit.” He winced. “It was somewhat obsessive.”

She bit her lip, and she bounced slightly in his arms. His head tilted slightly in question. “You were obsessed with me. I knew it. I knew it! Proper Pompous Perty was smitten with me.”

He groaned and looked heavenward, but it quickly morphed back into a smile. “Frustratingly smitten. How could I not be with that hoyden? Her tree climbing skills were unmatched. She was a fair hand with a racket. And I’ve learned recently she’s a crack shot with a peach…”

The notes of the piece mellowed, melding with her own soft laughter, before both faded away.

His face sobered. “Oh, but her laughter,” he said quietly, bringing them to a stop. “Her laughter is captivating, and I consider myself the luckiest of men to be granted the privilege of hearing that melody for the rest of my days.”

His knuckles gently traced her cheekbone. “She’s a tempest, a whirlwind that swept me off my feet, turned my world upside down, and when she finally set me down, she placed me where I’ve always belonged.”

“Where?” she whispered.

His pupils flared, enveloping his brown irises. “By her side.”

“Rupert?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes, love?”

“When can we leave?”

His face broke into a grin.