Morgan stepped forward, clapping a hand on Ambrose’s shoulder while offering a courtly bow to Imogen. “Well played, Your Grace. You’ve turned a lion into a house cat in record time. You are a marvel.”
“A Titan, perhaps,” Imogen said, sliding her arm through her husband’s. “But I think we shall both find he still has his claws when necessary.”
“I do like her very much,” Morgan said with a smile to Ambrose.
As they turned to walk back down the aisle, the sun finally broke through the afternoon clouds, lancing through the stained-glass windows and splashing vibrant rubies and sapphires across the marble floor. They walked out of the chapel not as a master and a servant, nor as a title and a duty, but as two souls who had braved it all to find the only thing that mattered.
“Imogen! Imogen, look!” Philip cried, throwing his arms around her waist so hard that her tiny tiara tilted precariously on hercurled coif. He buried his face against her, his small fingers bunching the expensive fabric. “The carriage is outside, but the trunks aren’t on it. I checked. I went to the stables and I checked twice!”
Imogen pulled him back, her hands cupping his tear-streaked face. “You checked twice, did you?”
“Does this mean you’re staying forever?” Philip’s voice went small, cracking on the last word. He searched her eyes, his lip trembling. “Truly, truly forever? Not just until the next term?”
“I am a member of this family now.” Imogen leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I will be with you forever and a day, Philip. I’ve signed the papers, I’ve said the vows, and I’ve told the sea it can’t have me. I am staying until you are old and grey and tired of me!”
“I’ll never be tired of you,” Philip whispered, his grip tightening.
Arthur, still dangling in the air from Ambrose’s arms, looked down with a suspicious squint. “And what about the other ladies? The ones with the… the pinched faces?” He scrunched his own face up into a sour, tight mask. “The ones who smell like cabbage?”
Ambrose tightened his hold on Arthur and reached down with his free hand to pull Philip into the huddle.
“Listen to me, both of you,” Ambrose said, his voice dropping to a fierce, low rumble. “There will be no more pinched faces at Welton. No more sour words in the schoolroom. If anyone so much as frowns at you, you come to me, and I’ll have them out the front gates before you can say a word.”
“Even if it’s an Aunt?” Arthur asked breathlessly, looking toward Imogen.
“Oh yes, especially if it is an Aunt,” Ambrose promised, catching Imogen’s eye and sharing a conspiratorial grin. “From now on, the only people allowed in this house are people who know how to laugh. It’s just us. A real family.”
“And Uncle Morgan!” Arthur added.
“Of course,” Morgan said as he sidled up next to the small group. “You’ll never be rid of me, boys.”
“A real family,” Philip repeated, finally letting out a long, shuddering breath of relief.
Ambrose stood, pulling the whole group upward with him. He looked at the wreckage of Imogen’s hem and then at her radiant, unbothered face. “Well, Your Grace? I believe there is a cake in the dining room that needs our urgent attention. Shall we?”
Imogen tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and took his offered arm. “Lead the way, Your Grace. I believe these boys have an appointment with a very large slice of marzipan.”
The moon hung heavily over the rolling hills, a pale, liquid silver that turned the mist-shrouded valley into a ghost of a sea. Inside the master chambers of the ancient manor, the air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, rain-dampened earth, and the lingering perfume of crushed lilies from the day’s celebrations.
Imogen stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, wrapped in thick fur. The latch was thrown open to the cold night. She breathed in the wild, sharp air of the countryside, so different from the soot-heavy breath of London.
It had been so long since she had felt so connected to nature, and she reveled in the moment despite the cool December air. Below, the forest was a jagged black line against the stars, and the distant call of an owl echoed through the stillness. She was dressed only in a sheer silk peignoir underneath the fur, and that fluttered in the breeze like a dove’s wing.
Her hair, finally freed from its many pins with the help of Mrs. Higgins, fell in a heavy, chestnut weight down the center of her back and to the top of her buttocks.
She didn’t hear him move across the thick Persian rug, but she felt it. The room shifted as he entered, grounding her with his presence. A pair of calloused, powerful arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her back against the solid heat of a man who felt like a mountain.
Ambrose pressed his chest against her spine, his heartbeat a slow, steady thunder.
“The boys are finally still,” he murmured. “Let’s close this cold out and put another log on the fire, Your Grace.”
He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, his evening stubble grazing her skin with a delicious, raw friction.
“They’ve fallen asleep with wide smiles, listening for the hounds. Are you happy, my Duchess?”
Imogen leaned back, surrendering her weight to him, her head resting back onto his shoulder. “I feel as though I am finally breathing. Truly breathing. In London, it felt like a dream I had to hold my breath to keep. Here, with the damp earth and the trees… I feel so at peace, my love. Can we stay here?”
“Home is where you are. We will spend the holidays here and stay as long as you like. I employ good men to help run my Duchy; we can conduct our lives from here as much as possible.”
