“Very much.” She wove her arm through his. “I don’t need a bag. I only need you.”
Oh, this woman had daring to spare. He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with her.
“Us against the world?”
“The world doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I love you, Isabel Galante.”
“I love you, Lord Percival Bretagne.”
He took her hand in his, and they walked into their future.
She was his addiction.
She was his cure.
She washis.
And he was hers.
Epilogue
London
24 March 1827
The quartet struck bows across strings into the opening notes of a Diabelli composition, and electricity lit the air alive.
A scandalous waltz was on its way.
And not just any waltz, but the first official waltz of the newly wed couple these elevated members of thetonwere gathered to celebrate beneath the sparkling chandeliers of the Duke of Arundel’s resplendent ballroom in the first ball of the Season.
As Lord Percival Bretagne led Lady Percival to the center of the floor, a rapt silence descended. They were the sort of couple who evoked such a response. He, tall and lean and possessed of the specific dark eyes and curly locks that set female hearts aflutter no matter their age, for which the world had Lord Byron—God rest his soul—to thank.
And she, well, she was the sort one wanted to hate on sight with her lovely face and assured green gaze and skin that only glowed to greater advantage the longer it soaked in the sun, unlike her English counterparts whose skin only grew pink.
Yes, it was agreed by all they were an enviable couple who quite belonged to one another. That Fate could have it any other way was inconceivable.
The dual forces of momentum and effervescence carried them along as their feet found the buoyant rhythm ofone-two-three . . . one-two-three. She smiled up into his eyes, and he down into hers.
“Husband,” crossed her lips.
“Wife,” responded his.
They weren’t a couple given much to words. It had been remarked upon.
The hot glances they laid upon one another . . . Well, those had been remarked upon, too.
“Oh, dearest dear,” murmured Lady Bertrand Montfort, who had been forced to attend the ball without her husband, who had been tragically injured some months past and therefore unable to accompany his wife.
The Duchess of Arundel paid no mind, by now accustomed to her friend’s prim exclamations. Even so, she couldn’t help but silently agree. It might be indecent the way Percy was holding Isabel, hand pressed into the lowest point at the small of her back, the full length of his body tight against hers as they moved in perfect unison. They appeared to be but oneone-two-threeaway from taking each other, here, in the center of the dancing floor.
Oh, dearest dear, indeed.
Young ladies were present.
She nearly said as much to the Duke at her side, but the expression on his face was so happy and contented as he tapped out the rhythm with his feet that she let the matter pass, unremarked.
