“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
He turned to the innkeeper. Called instructions about Isadora’s trunk. Arranged for her carriage to be sent back to London. Made plans with the efficiency of a man who’d wasted too much time already.
Then he lifted Isadora onto his horse. Climbed up behind her. Wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close.
“Let’s go home,” he murmured against her hair.
She leaned back against him. Settled into his embrace as though she belonged there.
As though they belonged to each other.
“Home,” she agreed softly.
Edmund turned his horse toward Yorkshire. Toward Rothwell Abbey where Lillian waited. Toward the life they would build together now that fear had finally lost its hold.
The sun rose over frosted fields. Golden light warming the world. Burning away darkness and cold.
A new day. A new beginning.
And Edmund Ravensleigh—the Dangerous Duke who’d spent ten years hiding from life—finally understood what it meant to be truly alive.
It meant loving someone more than you feared losing them.
It meant choosing courage over safety.
It meant believing you deserved happiness even when guilt whispered otherwise.
It meant holding tight to the woman in your arms and refusing to let go.
He tightened his grip on Isadora. Felt her hand cover his where it rested against her waist.
“I love you,” he said again. He knew he would never tire of saying it.
“I know.” She turned her head, meeting his eyes with smile that held forgiveness and love and stubborn hope. “I love you too. Even when you’re being an impossible fool.”
“Especially then, I hope.”
“Especially then.”
They rode toward home. Toward Lillian and Mrs. Crawford and the household that had mourned Isadora’s absence. Toward society and scandal and the truth Edmund would finally tell about James’s death.
Toward the future. Together.
And for the first time in ten years, Edmund allowed himself to hope.
Not just hope—to believe that love was worth the risk.
The Dangerous Duke was done hiding. It was finally time to live.
EPILOGUE
“Hold still or I’ll accidentally prune you along with the roses.”
Lillian laughed and danced away from Isadora’s shears, pale blue skirts catching spring sunlight. “You wouldn’t dare. Uncle Edmund would never forgive you.”
“Uncle Edmund has learned not to interfere when his duchess is armed.”
Isadora looked up, shading her eyes. Edmund stood at the terrace balustrade, shirtsleeves rolled despite the early hour, ink stains on his fingers. He’d abandoned his ledgers to watch them work.
