There was nothing—nothing—he could have said that would have meant more. He was the best of men. She should never have doubted him, not even for a moment. She never would again.

He said, “Daniela and my mother will get on like thieves, I suspect.”

The image made Pauline smile through her tears. “Goodness. The shopping trips alone.”

“Never mind the shopping. Imagine the knitting.”

They laughed together.

She touched a hand to her brow. “It’s too much. You’re being too perfect. Quickly, say something horrid so I know this isn’t a dream.”

“Very well. I have a creeping skin condition, and I hoot like a barn owl when I reach orgasm.”

She laughed. “But I know very well those things aren’t true.”

“They weren’t true a few months ago. I think you’d better strip me naked and make sure nothing’s changed.”

“Hm. I might know of a quiet hayloft.”

He leaned across the counter and kissed her. Warmly, leisurely. It was possibly the best kiss he’d ever given her.

It was an everyday kiss.

“I love you,” he said.

“It’s truly going to be all right,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

His lips quirked, and he squeezed her hand in his. “Sometimes it will be all right. But for the most part, it’s going to be wonderful.”

And it was.

Epilogue

Five years later

“Do you have a name picked out for her?” Victor Bramwell, Lord Rycliff, reclined in his chair at the Bull and Blossom and stacked his arms over his chest.

“Her?” Colin echoed. “How do you know the babe will be a ‘her’?”

“It’s certain to be a girl,” Bram said. “Susanna calls it the Spindle Cove Effect. There’s my Victoria. Thorne has little Bryony. Susanna even had a letter from Violet Winterbottom—twins. We’ve all had firstborn girls.” He cocked his head, indicating Griff. “Save for Halford, of course.”

Griff didn’t correct him by mentioning Mary Annabel—this wasn’t the time—but took a thoughtful sip to her memory.

“I wouldn’t place any bets,” Colin said. “Nothing about this has gone according to custom or reason. Minerva wasn’t supposed to give birth for a month yet. We wouldn’t have imposed on Halford for a visit otherwise.”

“Just as well you’re here, and not in London,” Griff said. “In Spindle Cove, she has her friends around her. And there’s certainly space enough at the house.”

They’d razed the crumbling old Whittlecombe farmhouse years ago, replacing it with a home that was grand enough for a duke and his duchess, but not too overwhelming for Daniela or too ostentatious for the neighborhood. He and Pauline thought of it as the honeymoon cottage to their larger homes in Cumberland and Town. It was the one residence that was all theirs—not populated by generations of history.

And most of the year, it was home.

But while it boasted twenty rooms and the finest in modern construction, the house wasn’t soundproof—nor big enough to contain three anxious noblemen while a woman suffered through childbirth upstairs.

Susanna, exhausted by assisting the midwife and replying to constant requests for updates, had shooed the men down to the village for a drink. She promised to send word as soon as there was anything to report.

Cowardly as the retreat might have been, all three of them took it gratefully. Griff bought round after round of ale in the cozy, familiar tavern, and the hours stretched. If this dragged on until nightfall, he suspected they’d need to move on to something stronger. Brandy or whiskey, perhaps.

“You’ll have a girl,” Bram said again. “So have a name ready.”

“Minerva insisted I leave the naming to her.” Colin drained his tankard. “She said I’ll undoubtedly call the child everything but her proper name anyhow.” He blew out his breath and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “How many hours will this take? As long as Min and I waited to start a family, I find my patience is exhausted. This is torture.”

“Think how your wife is feeling, my lord.” Becky Willett served them a fresh round. Fosbury hadn’t lost his weakness for smart-mouthed serving girls.

“He is thinking of his wife,” Griff said softly. “That’s why it’s torture.”

If anyone thought Colin’s moaning was excessive, they should have seen Griff the first time Pauline began her labor pains. He’d been a right bastard. Barking for doctors, shouting orders at the maids, prowling up and down the corridors. He’d needed to put up a strong front, lest anyone see the sheer terror eating him from the inside. If anything had happened to her . . .

“Trust me,” Bram told Colin. “When it’s over—once you see she’s well, and the midwife places your red, shriveled female offspring in your arms—all this worry will be forgotten.”

Griff hoped that would be the case for his old friend. It certainly hadn’t worked that way for him. He hadn’t slept for a fortnight after his son’s birth. He’d hovered over the cradle, walked the halls with him swaddled in his arms.

Finally, Pauline had found him in the library one early morning.

He’d nodded off in a chair, little Jonathan tucked into the crook of his elbow. When he awoke, it was to the vision of his lovely wife, her hair unbound and haloed by new sunlight. So beautiful, she could have been an angel.

She didn’t say a word—just took their child from his arms, kissed the cheek Griff hadn’t shaved in days, and smiled.

In that moment a sense of peace had descended on him. For the first time since they’d learned Pauline was with child, he stopped worrying about everything that could go wrong and began looking forward to everything that would go right.

Almost four years now, and he hadn’t looked back.

He was sure his peers would look at his life here and find it highly confusing. The duchess kept a circulating library and remained best of friends with the dry goods shopkeeper. Their children frequently wore lumpy, ill-knitted jackets, and they played with children of farmers and fishermen. To balance his charitable work for the local school and St. Ursula’s parish, Griff hosted a weekly card game that was legendary.

It was an unconventional life for a duke, perhaps. But an unquestionably happy one.

“Well, if it isn’t young Lord Westmore.” Fosbury’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “And her grace and little Lady Rose with him.”

“No sweets, please, Mr. Fosbury.” Pauline’s voice. “Their grandmother spoils them enough. No, Rose. You mustn’t touch.”

Griff smiled to himself. So many years since she’d worked in this tavern, and his wife—his duchess—still entered the establishment through the rear door.

And even with frazzled hair and two small children in tow, she still took his breath away. Every time.

Colin shot to his feet. “How is she?”

“Which ‘she’?” Pauline led Jonathan by one hand and had little Rose propped on the opposite hip. “Do you mean your wife or your daughter?”

Bram thumped the table, triumphant. “Told you it would be a girl.”

“They’re both well,” Pauline hurried to add. “In excellent health and enjoying some hard-earned rest.”

“I . . . That’s . . .” Colin paled and dropped to the chair again as his knees gave out. “Oh, God.”

Pauline came to Griff’s side and nodded at Colin’s dazed state. “Is that from the drink or the shock of fatherhood?”

“Both, I suspect. Give him a moment, he’ll recover.”

She released Jonathan’s hand and shifted Rose from one arm to the other. “Will you watch them while I pop over to see Sally? I’m expecting a new parcel of books for the library.”

“Of course. But I expect a reward for my trouble.”

She kissed his cheek and whispered a husky, “Later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He caught Rose and lifted her into his arms, tweaking the snub of her tiny nose. “Look at you, darling. You’re all spangled with sugar.”