“Yes,” she breathed, her heart finally finding its rhythm. “Yes, Rowan. I’ll marry you. It is all I want to do now. I want to love, and I want to be loved. Aunt Selina was right. I really... really want to know what this life feels like.”
He let out a jagged breath of relief and pulled her back into his arms, burying his face in her hair. They stood there for a moment, locked in a fierce, silent embrace that felt like the closing of a wound.
But the peace lasted only a few seconds.
The door to the bedroom was suddenly flung open with a deafening thud. Marianne and Neil Crampton stood in the threshold, faces flushed in indignation and pure, unadulterated shock. They had clearly followed Rowan from the Walford estate. They stared at the disheveled, muddy, and very much flustered duke, clutching their daughter as if his life depended on it.
“Lucy!” Marianne shrieked, her hand flying to her chest. “What on earth is the meaning of this? Your Grace, release her at once! This is a respectable household! I cannot believe this is happening all over again! First, Cecilia, and now, you?”
Her father’s face seemed to have lost any color. “I will not have such scandalous behavior under my roof! Duke or not, you cannot simply storm into a lady’s bedchamber and?—”
To their absolute bewilderment, Lucy didn’t pull away in shame. Instead, she let out a bright, bubbling peal of laughter, the first real sound of joy she was sure they had heard from her in years. She stayed tucked under Rowan’s arm, looking at her parents with eyes that finally danced with light.
“It’s quite all right, Mama,” Lucy said, wiping a stray tear of laughter from her cheek. “You wanted a wedding, didn’t you? Well, you shall have one.”
Rowan straightened his spine, his hand shifting to lace firmly with Lucy’s. Even with his loosened cravat and wind-swept hair, his authority returned in a blinding flash.
“Your daughter has done me the immense honor of accepting my hand,” Rowan announced. “I have no intention of waiting for a long engagement. The wedding will take place next week at the Langridge estate.”
“Next week?” Marianne gasped, her fury momentarily sidelined by the sheer surprise. “There will be so much planning to do. I must speak to the modiste, the...”
“You need not worry about that. Everything will be prepared accordingly,” Rowan said, looking down at Lucy with a soft smile. “I’ve spent enough time without her. I don’t intend to waste another second.”
“If you ever give her a reason to shed another tear, Your Grace, I do not care how many proprieties you own or connections you have, I will find a way to make your life a misery.”
Rowan looked down at Marianne Crampton. She was resplendent in a gown of deep emerald silk, her chin tilted at that familiar, stubborn angle he now recognized so well in her daughter.
“I expect nothing less, Mrs. Crampton,” Rowan replied. He adjusted the cuff of his charcoal-grey morning coat, his gaze drifting across the sun-drenched ballroom of Langridge Hall. “But you may rest easy. My only goal for the rest of my days is to ensure she never has cause to regret this one.”
Marianne gave a sharp, satisfied nod and moved toward the refreshment table, leaving Rowan to soak in the scene.
He felt a sudden, familiar impact against his legs. Looking down, he saw the top of Brook’s head, followed closely by Daniel and Anthony. The three boys had bypassed the line of waiting dignitaries and were now swarming Lucy. From his vantage point, Rowan watched as his sons collided with her in a messy, joyous tangle of velvet and lace.
He felt a sharp, tight ache in his chest. A good ache. For years, he had looked at his sons and felt a crushing sense of inadequacy, a fear that he could never give them the warmth they deserved. Now, seeing them cling to Lucy, he realized the silence that had haunted his home for years was finally, officially broken.
Magnus approached, glass in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I told you she was the one, didn’t I? Though I admit, I didn’t think you’d have the sense to ride six miles through a rainstorm to prove me right.”
Rowan offered his friend a rare, genuine smirk. “I’ve learned that when it comes to Lucy, sense is rarely part of the equation.”
“Might I say it was a beautiful wedding,” Magnus noted. “I mean not as beautiful as mine, but regardless. Congratulations, Rowan.” Magnus raised a glass of sherry in a toast.
Rowan felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Magnus. I wanted to speak with you before the chaos of the reception truly begins. I haven’t properly thanked you for your offer. Taking in three energetic boys for a month is no small task.”
Magnus waved a hand dismissively though his eyes softened. “Nonsense, Rowan. They’ll have fun with my children. It’ll be a house full of laughter.”
“I appreciate it more than I can say,” Rowan said. “Lucy and I have decided to spend the rest of today and tonight here with the boys. I want them to feel that this marriage isn’t taking meaway from them but bringing us all closer. I know they already know that, but it wouldn’t hurt to assure them. But tomorrow... tomorrow, we depart.”
“Italy, was it?” Magnus asked.
Rowan nodded, a flash of anticipation crossing his face. “Italy. Far away from everything we know. Just Lucy and me. I want to show her a world where she doesn’t have to be anything but herself.”
“She’s a lucky woman, Clawridge,” Magnus said softly.
“No,” Rowan corrected him, looking out the window toward the garden where he could see a flash of white lace moving among the trees. “I am the lucky one. I nearly let the best thing in my life walk out of my life because I was too proud to ask her to stay.”
Rowan watched Magnus nod, but his attention was already fracturing. Lucy had finished her conversation with Alice, one of her cousins, and she made her way out the hall through the narrow hallway.
“Excuse me, Magnus,” Rowan said, barely waiting for his friend’s response before tailing after Lucy.
