Epilogue
One Year Later
Langley Manor, Hampshire
The gardens of Langley Manor were in full bloom. Tulips nodded in the breeze. Roses spilled over trellises in wild, unapologetic glory, and bees hummed drowsily between lavender stalks. Birds chirped in a layered chorus, rising and falling like a chamber ensemble tuning before a country ball.
In the middle of this riotous display of spring, Alexandra, Countess of Langley, lay sprawled on a patchwork blanket with a straw bonnet tilted over her face and a book balanced on her stomach.
“You’re not reading,” came a familiar, teasing voice, accompanied by the dappled shadow of Magnus falling across her book, his tone laced with lazy amusement.
Alexandra lifted the brim of her hat and squinted up at her husband.
“You’re interrupting,” she replied. “I was just contemplating whether the heroine ought to run off with the footman or set fire to the estate.”
Magnus grinned, his green eyes gleaming with amusement. He dropped beside her on the blanket, stealing the book.
“Ah yes,” he said, flipping through the pages with mock-serious concentration, then glanced at her with a teasing smirk, “Lady Felicity and the Flame of Rebellion. Didn’t we attend a ball with a Lady Felicity once?”
“That was Lady Felicity Durand. She tried to stab her dance partner with a fan.”
“How charming.”
Alexandra rolled over and propped her chin on her hand. “Have you come to tempt me away from my literary chaos?”
“I have come to deliver a message.”
“Is it a declaration of love?” she asked with a raised brow and a playful smirk. “Because you already did that quite thoroughly last night.”
Magnus leaned in. “It’s an invitation. From your sister.”
Alexandra groaned. “Lavinia or Sophia?”
“Both.”
“Heavens help us.”
“They are hosting a spring gathering at the Peregrine country estate. All the siblings. All the nieces and nephews. And, naturally, all the gossip.”
Alexandra narrowed her eyes. “And what is your opinion on attending this den of familial obligation?”
“I think it will be fun.”
She sat up. “You would.”
“Your father will be there,” he said.
She rested her hand on his thigh. “He has finally forgiven you.”
Magnus smirked. “Yes, it only took me eleven months, two favors, and naming the foal after him.”
“Poor horse.” Alexandra laughed.
“Lord Whitby is an excellent name for a stallion,” Magnus said, entirely straight-faced, as if her father hadn’t once vowed to disown them both.
“If the stallion is also fond of shouting and dislikes being told what to do.” Alexandra smirked.
Magnus reached out and tugged her closer. “So you’ll come?”
