Anthea laughed—a watery, broken sound, but genuine. "I do not deserve you."
"Yes, you do," Gregory said firmly. "You deserve all the happiness in the world. And I intend to spend the rest of our lives proving that to you."
"That is a very large promise," Anthea said.
"I have never been good at doing things halfway," Gregory reminded her.
She smiled against his chest. "No. You certainly have not."
They stayed like that until Anthea's breathing evened out, until exhaustion finally claimed her. And even as sleep pulled her under, she felt safe. Protected. Loved.
Gregory held her through the night, keeping his promise.
Never letting her be alone again.
Epilogue
Six Months Later
The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the drawing room at Everleigh Manor, illuminating three sisters who sat arranged on various furniture like a portrait of contentment.
Anthea occupied the chaise by the window, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach—five months along and just beginning to show properly. Across from her, Veronica perched on the edge of the settee, her own pregnancy more advanced at seven months, her hands folded protectively over a belly that had become quite pronounced. And Poppy sprawled in the largest armchair with the particular gracelessness of someone in their third month, when nausea was still a daily companion.
"I still cannot quite believe it," Poppy said, reaching for another ginger biscuit from the tea tray. "All three of us. At the same time. What are the odds?"
"Apparently quite good when all three of us are happily married," Veronica said with a soft smile. She shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Though I confess, I did not expect it to happen quite so quickly."
"Oliver is thrilled," she added. "He has already begun sketching nursery designs. I think he plans to paint a mural of the countryside on every wall."
"Henry is terrified," Poppy admitted cheerfully. "He keeps asking if I am certain I am well enough, if I need anything, if he should send for another physician. I told him yesterday that women have been having babies since the beginning of time and I am unlikely to be the exception who requires constant medical supervision."
"And what did he say?" Anthea asked, amused despite herself.
"That he did not care about other women, only about me, and would I please stop being so cavalier about something so important." Poppy grinned. "It was rather sweet, actually. Annoying, but sweet."
"Gregory is no better," Anthea said. "He has forbidden me from riding, from walking too far, from lifting anything heavier than a teacup. I caught him yesterday trying to carry me up the stairs because he thought I looked tired."
"Did you let him?" Veronica asked.
"Absolutely not," Anthea said. "I can still manage stairs, thank you very much. Though I confess, the concern is... touching. If occasionally excessive."
She felt her child move beneath her hand—a flutter that was becoming more frequent, more insistent. A reminder that her body was creating life, that in four months she would be a mother.
The thought still terrified her sometimes. But it also filled her with a joy so profound it made her chest ache.
"Are you hoping for a boy or girl?" Poppy asked.
"Healthy," Anthea said immediately. "That is all I want. A healthy child who—" She stopped, emotion catching in her throat.
"Who you will love and protect and raise to be extraordinary," Veronica finished softly. "Just as you loved and protected us."
Anthea felt tears prick her eyes. Pregnancy had made her absurdly emotional—she cried at everything from beautiful sunsets to particularly moving poetry.
"I am going to be a terrible mother," she said, trying to make it sound like a joke but landing somewhere closer to genuine fear.
"You are going to be a wonderful mother," Veronica said firmly. "Because you will love your child fiercely and teach them to be brave and honest and kind. Just as you taught us."
"I did not teach you those things," Anthea protested. "You already were those things."
