“That is remarkably philosophical for—” He squinted at the window. “—what I should guess is nearly three in the morning.”
“I am a philosophical person. You should know that by now.”
“I do.” His arm tightened around her. “I love that about you. But even philosophers require sleep. Tomorrow—today—we begin our life together, and I should prefer you alert for it.”
“That seems sensible.”
“I am occasionally sensible. It astonishes people.”
She laughed softly, feeling the answering vibration of his chuckle against her cheek. This was her life now—this warmth, this ease, this man who made her smile even in the quietest hours.
“Sleep,” Sebastian murmured. “We have the rest of our lives for reflection.”
“The rest of our lives,” she echoed. “I like the sound of that.”
“So do I.”
She closed her eyes, his steady heartbeat beneath her ear. The pearl ring rested against her finger. Her mother’s pearls lay upon the dressing table nearby, waiting for the morning.
She had been invisible. She had been seen. She had found love in the most unlikely of circumstances, with the most unexpected of people.
And tomorrow—today—she would begin anew.
Not as a poor relation. Not as a forgotten woman.
But as Cecilia Harcourt, Duchess of Ashworth.
Wife. Partner. Equal.
Herself, at last.
***
Morning came—true morning, with sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows—and Cecilia woke slowly, luxuriously, free of the unease that had so often accompanied her waking.
Sebastian still slept beside her, his features unguarded in a way she seldom saw while he was awake. In repose, the careful composure he carried fell away, and she glimpsed the boy he must once have been—open, unburdened, untouched by expectation.
She loved him. The realisation was not new, yet it felt newly sharp in this quiet moment. She loved his integrity, his kindness, his dry humour. She loved the way he looked at her, as though she were something singular and rare. She loved him for believing in her when she had nearly forgotten how.
She loved him—and she was his wife—and against all likelihood, they had found their way here.
“You are staring.”
His voice was thick with sleep, his eyes still closed.
“I am committing you to memory,” she said. “For future reference.”
“Am I so easily forgotten?”
“You are that important. I wish to remember this moment—our first morning together, before the world intrudes.”
His eyes opened, and the warmth in them stole her breath.
“Our first morning,” he said quietly. “Of many.”
“Of many,” she agreed.
He drew her close, and they lay together in the pale morning light—husband and wife, duke and duchess, two souls who had found one another against all expectation.
