“That we do.” He brushed her hair back with his fingers. “Did you get what you wanted?”
“No,” she said. “I know now that you aren’t the end I need to achieve. You aren’t a battle I’m going to win.
“What am I, then?”
“You’re the life I choose to live.”
He’d never heard more perfect words…
“Iloveyou, Rayne.”
…Until now.
Unwieldy sentiments dammed beneath his eyes. He’d no hope of containing them for long. But, for once, they weren’t the kind of sentiments that wrought destruction but the kind that built hope.
“I love you, too.” He touched her face. “We’ve both said the words,” he continued, “we’ve both negated the other. But the fact still remains. Iwillprove I love you. Over and over and over, if it takes the rest of my life.”
“I believe you.” She rocked up against him and raised her brows. “And I believe a part of you isveryinterested in proving something else right now.”
“Chafing, minx.” He chuckled softly. “Simple friction.”
“Well, I’d hate to waste. How quickly can we get home?”
Home.He liked the sound of the word on her lips.
He’d prepared himself for the worst, for her rejection.
She’d been there all along, waiting for him to take possession—not of her or of his home but of his other birthright, every human’s birthright—the will to shape their destiny.
She’d once served as his destruction, but everything she’d destroyed had been artifice. All along she’d scared him so badly because she embodied the life hecouldhave chosen if he had reined in his hurt and resentment.
And he’d never again be ruled by fear.
He’d thought the only way to protect those he loved was to remain apart…to cling to the meaninglessness of it all.
Now he knew the answer—to love you have to believe.
You have to feel.
You have to indulge in a little delight.
And sometimes, you have to knock on the ceiling of your carriage and request that your coachman hasten the pace.
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Epilogue
A month had passed, the old year had receded into Rayne’s memory, and the new year had just begun. New. Fresh. Full of possibility. Every day he—through service—slowly absorbed the breadth of his duty, the consequence of his authority.
Making dusk of his shadow and Julia’s light was neither self-evident nor simple, but quietly fulfilling. They did fit—in ways both mundane and incomprehensible.
Christmas celebrations had eased his first bumbling attempts to unite their extended families.
Bromton, Katherine, Markham, and Clarissa had come to the Grange to pass out wassail, and, on Christmas Day at Bromton Castle, they’d cheered together as an increasingly round Katherine brought in the pudding. Bromton had reintroduced him to his mother and her husband—the renowned artist Bromton had once maligned.
Rayne had taken the opportunity to quietly commission a painting.
Finally, the day had come for his surprise. Everyone but Julia had been part of the planning.
