“Because I will die soon, and I wish to make amends,” Amberley snapped. “My heart is ailing, my body betraying me, and I…I am responsible for Willingham. For what he became. I am also bequeathing everything that is not part of the entail to you and your heirs.”
Frederica gasped.
Duncan’s reaction was equally swift and strong. “I have built my own fortune, and I do not want or need anything from you, old man.”
“You will have it whether you want it or not.” Amberley paused. “Regardless, you are my son.”
There it was. The acknowledgment Duncan had been longing for.
Years and a lifetime of heartache too late.
Frederica ached for him.
“There was a time when I would have given anything to hear you say those words, Amberley,” he said, “but that time is long gone.”
Amberley inclined his head. “Fair enough, Mr. Kirkwood. But you shall be hearing from my solicitor, whether you like it or not.” He offered a stiff bow. “Good day, Mrs. Kirkwood.Son.”
And then, he turned on his heel, and with achingly slow steps and the clack of his walking stick on the polished floor, he made his exit. When he had gone, Frederica drew Duncan into her embrace, still clutching his mother’s ring tightly in her hand. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling, his arms wrapping around her waist.
“I dreamt of this day as a lad,” he whispered. “The day he would say I was his. The day he would call me son.”
“Oh, my love,” she said softly, stroking his back, kissing his cheek. “I am sorry it took all this for you to have that day.”
“I am not.” He pressed a kiss to her throat and then raised his head, gazing down at her with so much tenderness she trembled. “For if I had not experienced every day of my life that led me to you, I never would have found you. I would not now be holding you in my arms. I found my happiness in loving you, Frederica. I do not need the Duke of Amberley or the mantle ofsonor a moldering heap of stones for that. All I need is you.”
“And all I need is you, my darling man.” She could not resist rising on her toes and kissing him.
Epilogue
Frederica sat inthe yellow salon, a cheerful room she had transformed into her daytime writing office. It boasted another large, beautifully carved desk like the one in her chamber, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the charming little garden, and golden walls dotted with paintings she had chosen herself.
Sunlight splashed everywhere, particularly in the afternoons, and she adored the brightness. After so many nights scrawling her work with nothing but a lone candle for accompaniment in the evening, so much light was most welcome, and being within the space never failed to fill her with a sense of gratitude.
She dropped her quill back into its inkwell and surveyed her desk. Her latest manuscript was neatly stacked, complete with all its corrections and deletions. Her foul copy was often scarcely legible, and she knew it. But at least her next book was well underway, and not a moment too soon as the book she had retitledThe Silent Dukewas due to be printed any day now.
Even so, as thrilled as she was that Duncan’s publishing company was about to make her novel come to life, there was another reason for the happiness bubbling up within her. Indeed, she could scarcely concentrate upon the scene she had been attempting to write.
It was incredible. Frightening. Thrilling.
It was everything, all at once, but she ought not to be surprised, because she had married Duncan Kirkwood, and each day with him was an adventure of the best sort.
A knock sounded on her door, and she rose from her chair, needing to stretch. She had been writing away for at least three hours, and her knees were protesting, growing stiff. “You may enter,” she called out.
Their hulking butler Pretty entered the chamber, bearing some parcels. Another of Duncan’s good deeds, the butler was still growing accustomed to his position, but he was nevertheless progressing nicely. “Good day, my lady. We have received another delivery from Her Grace.”
Dear heavens. She certainly hoped her mother had not bought her more inkwells. Frederica strode to the servant, accepting the packages. “Thank you, Pretty. That will be all.”
He bowed and left once more. Frederica opened the first package and found a sterling silver inkwell, along with a note from her mother. It was engraved with a rose motif and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Quite lovely, and dear, too, she was sure. Before she could inspect the other parcels, the door opened once more.
And there stood her husband, so handsome he made her ache. She could not wait to tell him her news. “Duncan, you are home.”
“Hazlitt is running the club for me today as I have more important matters to attend to. Namely, my wife, who is looking utterly fetching in this sunlight.”
He moved to her and she to him, and they met in the middle of the chamber. They kissed with the frantic urgency of lovers who had been parted for a decade rather than a man and woman who had last kissed mere hours before. But that was the way of it with them, always had been and always would be. Frederica had been so caught up in his arrival she had neglected to relinquish her latest inkwell, and it pressed between their chests as their lips devoured each other’s.
Duncan broke away first, caressing her cheek, his gaze trailing over her with so much heat she swore she would turn into a smoking heap of ruins at his feet. He looked down at the inkwell her mother had sent, already forgotten.
“What have you there?” He dropped a kiss on her cheek.
