EPILOGUE
Twenty-One Years Later
Had someone told Frances Seton, Duchess of Hargate, the greatest threat to her peace in middle age would be a roguishly charming twenty-year-old with her clever eyes and her husband’s irrepressible grin… she would have laughed.
And then locked up the wine.
The letter arrived in a pale blue envelope, sealed with wax, and heavily perfumed, to Frances’s dismay.
She unfolded it slowly, expecting an invitation or other polite correspondence.
What she got instead was a strongly worded note from her aunt in London.
It seems your eldest son has once again made himself the center of conversation in town. There was a scandal at Lady Featherstone’s supper. A duel threatened (though honor was technically preserved). And an heiress’s virtue is under spirited debate. I believe he is now being called ‘the Scandalous Duke-to-Be.’ You must act at once.
She read the final line twice.
Then she folded the letter, stood from her writing desk, and said aloud to no one in particular, “He is his father’s son.”
From across the sunny parlor, Johnathan looked up from the paper.
“Which one?” he asked, suspiciously cheerful.
Frances gave him a long, arch stare. “The eldest, Johnathan.”
He grinned. “Ah. Our future heir and current scandal-in-training.”
“He is running wild through London. And someone named Lady Agatha claims she caught him kissing her niece behind a rose trellis. At a garden party.”
Johnathan looked utterly unbothered. “That boy always did like horticulture.”
Frances groaned and collapsed into the seat beside him. “It is not amusing.”
“It is a little amusing.”
“Johnathan.”
“Frances.”
She glared.
He folded his paper with a snap and leaned closer. “I was once a rogue. A rather infamous one, if memory serves.”
“I remember. I was there. I was dodging bullets, scandal, and overzealous gossips.”
“And now,” he said, slipping his hand into hers, “you are the very picture of dignity and duchessness.”
“I am not.”
“No, you are better.”
Frances snorted but did not pull away. “We have five children. Five. And not a single one inherited my restraint.”
“Our second son has a fondness for gambling dens, I will admit,” Johnathan said, “but at least he wins. And the third? He plays piano so charmingly he could seduce half the peerage with a single sonata.”
“And the girls?” Frances asked, though her lips twitched.
Johnathan pressed a kiss to her hand. “They are dangerously clever and utterly beautiful.”
