Gabriel and Eden shared their first dance as husband and wife, swaying gently to the soft strains of a waltz played by the quartet. The music laced through the warm air like a familiar lullaby, tender and slow, echoing the rhythm of their joined hearts. Eden closed her eyes for a moment, letting the notes settle around her, wrapping her in the tender hush of the moment, feeling as though the day itself had paused to cradle them in its embrace.
Clara and Alice twirled across the dance floor, their laughter infectious. “Do you remember our first ball?” Alice called over the music, breathless. “You tripped over Lord Wembly’s feet and blamed it on me!”
Clara giggled. “He never looked at the two of us again. Probably for the best.”
They spun again, skirts flaring, faces flushed with joy and memory. Today, there were no past stumbles, only the lightness of celebration and the bond of a friendship forged in mischief and loyalty.
Mother looked on with pride, her hands clasped together.
As the afternoon deepened, Gabriel stole Eden away from the revelry, leading her down a winding garden path.
At the heart of the rose garden, he stopped and turned to face her. The roses, in full bloom, whispered of their first garden meeting, of stolen glances and unspoken longings beneath a dusky sky. That memory now shimmered between them, not as a ghost, but as a foundation for what they had become. His heart thudded with a quiet intensity, the joy of the day deepening into quiet certainty. A reverence for the woman before him and the life they would now share.
“Marchioness Blackstone,” he said with a mischievous smile.
Eden laughed softly, savoring the sound of her new title.
“Lord Blackstone,” she teased.
He pulled her close, his arms wrapping securely around her, the scent of roses clinging to her skin, and the curves of her body fitting perfectly against his.
“This is only the beginning,” he whispered against her hair.
She lifted her face to his. “The best beginnings are made together.”
He kissed her then. Slow, deep, full of promises yet to come, echoing the vow he made at the altar to walk beside her through every storm and every joy.
Hand in hand, with hearts aligned and hope unwavering, they would greet every tomorrow.
Together. Always.
Epilouge
Four months later…
* * *
Late autumn painted the village of Harrowsgate in shades of amber and rust, the crisp air scented with chimney smoke and cinnamon. Gabriel had foregone his usual dark coat in favor of something lighter, his cravat a deep red that set off the green in his eyes and the early-winter flush in his cheeks. Eden’s own attire, a deep blue wool trimmed with gray fur, suited the season and her standing as the Marchioness of Blackstone. More than one villager looked up as they passed, some with curiosity, a few with pride, and here and there, an old woman with a knowing, satisfied smile.
Eden clutched Gabriel’s arm, her gloved hand nestled against the crook of his elbow as they strolled past the butcher’s shop. The baker’s window gleamed with confections, and they stepped inside to purchase sticky buns and honey cakes for the tenants on the estate.
Gabriel leaned close as she selected three dozen sweet tarts, his breath warm at her ear. “Are you certain this is all for the tenants, or are you hoarding the lemon pastries again?”
Eden nudged him with her hip. “One lemon tart, and I am branded a thief for life.”
“Darling, you did not even blink when the vicar’s son reached for it and found an empty plate.”
“I have no recollection of this supposed incident,” she replied primly, but her grin betrayed her.
Gabriel paid for their purchases with a practiced hand, then tucked the box beneath his arm. He held the door for Eden, but as she stepped onto the stoop, she heard her name called across the square.
“Eden! Lady Blackstone!”
She turned to see Clara and Alice striding toward her, arms linked and faces bright. Clara wore an emerald pelisse that set off her pale skin and auburn hair, and Alice had chosen a scarlet scarf that made her cheeks glow with mischief.
“My dears!” Eden swept forward, wrapping both friends in a conspiratorial embrace.
Alice glanced at the bakery, eyes widening. “Is that a marzipan pig in the window? I have not seen one since the ball at Barton Grove. Do you remember Clara? Lady Barton’s terrier ate the entire centerpiece and was ill for a week.”
