He took a single step forward, closing the space between them, his hands trembling at his sides.
“I’ll never ask you to belong to me,” he said, his voice ringing clear and dangerous. “I just ask that you let me belong to you.”
It was reckless, utterly irresistible. And so, before he could ruin it with another word, Louisa did what she had wanted to do for days.
She reached up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him.
He went still, as if the shocked. The crowd gasped. There was no hiding it now, and then, as if on cue, the candles danced in a sudden draft, sending shadows across the grass. The kiss, initially chaste, deepened as her fingers in his hair, his arms folding her in, the world collapsing to the space between their mouths.
When they broke apart, Louisa was breathless, dizzy, and unrepentant.
Niall’s hands remained at her waist, as if he feared she might vanish should he let go. “Primrose,” he whispered.
She rested her forehead against his. “If you ever call me that again in public, I’ll murder you with your own cravat.”
He grinned, eyes closed. “As you wish.”
From the edge of the clearing, applause erupted, first a smattering, then a torrent, punctuated by delighted shouts of approval from the gallery of inebriated lords. Alexandra and Sophia clung together, eyes bright with the pleasure of being right. Lady Honoria, struck dumb for perhaps the first time in her life, stood open-mouthed.
Louisa turned in Niall’s arms, surveying the aftermath. “You realize you’ve just doomed us to a lifetime of dinner party retellings?”
He traced a thumb along her cheek, the touch light. “It could be worse. You could have said no.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she replied, though her eyes softened. “Or at least, not alone in my idiocy.”
They stood in the circle of white tulips and candlelight, as the story spread across the estate.
For the rest of her life, Lady Louisa Pembroke would remember that night not for the scandal but for the look on Niall’s face as he surrendered—willingly, utterly, without regret.
And in the garden, under the stars, the devil and his darling found what neither had been searching for.
True love.
EPILOGUE
Niall presided over his own ruin with the calm of a lord and the satisfaction of a cat with cream. The summer day was bright, and the Foxmere gardens were vibrant with color. Roses climbed eagerly, competing with delphiniums and foxglove for space on every trellis and hedge. Nearby, a pair of bickering blackbirds attempted to drown out the string quartet with their incessant chatter.
From beneath a wooden gazebo, partially concealed by wisteria, he surveyed the scene. The air, rich with the scents of cut grass, roasted almonds, and Mrs. Berkeley's “Kiss of Lazarus” lemonade, tantalized his senses. Rumored to revive even the most reluctant guests and responsible for half the infatuations in Kent, the drink flowed from silver pitchers, poured by servants aware of the French brandy hidden within.
Six months ago, Niall had wagered his reputation and much of his fortune on a woman who had, upon their first meeting, despised. He had believed himself in control, at the mercy of nothing but his own mischief. Now, as laughter rolled over the lawn, he recognized his mistake. This was not defeat. It was something closer to conquest.
The day's entertainment was unusual, a lawn battledore-and-shuttlecock tournament with only one rule, no fatalities. Wagers were placed openly—coin, snuff, the occasional glove kept in a velvet-lined box at the edge of the pitch. Beyond, an outdoor poetry reading unfolded, with guests drifting between the two like bees.
Louisa, his wife, held court near the poetry dais, glass in hand, surrounded by the ton’s most formidable cynics. The blue of her summer dress was striking, her bonnet, a blend of silk and net, shielded her from the sun, casting a shadow over the witty exchanges she conducted. Beside her, a group of debutantes entertained themselves, and at least one dowager had fainted at the mention of Byron. Louisa kept them engaged with a steady stream of sharp remarks and compliments so indirect they required translation.
Watching her, Niall felt the warmth of a man witnessing not his legacy, but his ongoing mischief. No greater pleasure existed than observing his countess create social chaos while the world admired the spectacle.
He adjusted his cravat, not out of necessity but for effect, before turning his attention to the badminton pitch. Lady Alexandra, Countess of Langley, judged the semifinals with a commentary that blended croquet rules, war strategies, and the attractiveness of the male competitors. Alexandra sat on a rickety garden bench, one boot resting on the rail, her posture suggesting trouble if not immediate disqualification. The whistle around her neck had already silenced two quarrels and, at one point, a small dog.
Niall admired her technique. She had a knack for stealing the show while maintaining plausible deniability. At that moment, she chastised a viscount for conduct unbecoming a gentleman after he cleverly spiked his own shuttlecock with lemon zest to distract the other team.
In the center of the scene, servants glided, neither hurried nor idle, carrying platters of sugared fruit, salted nuts, and Mrs. Berkeley’s lemonade. Their uniforms gleamed in gold, yet their expressions remained impassive, regardless of how often Lady Honoria Worthington summoned one for a top-off or how frequently Lord Bertram tried to hide a stolen bottle of gin.
Some scandal sheets had dubbed the gathering the most improper of the Season, a phrase Foxmere wore like a badge. He had always considered scandal his element, but this—Louisa, this laughter, this unruly peace—was what he would choose, again and again. The old Niall might have used such an event to orchestrate a coup of debauchery, but as he leaned against the warm wood of the gazebo, he found himself content to simply watch. The scandal would unfold on its own.
A shriek from the pitch. Lady Sophia Peregrine had just intercepted a serve meant for her partner, pirouetted, and returned it so fiercely that it left a welt on Lord Bertram’s ear. The crowd cheered. Alexandra’s whistle sounded. Bertram collapsed in the grass with exaggerated agony. Sophia, triumphant, curtsied to her audience, her auburn hair wild around her cheeks.
Niall grinned. Six months ago, Louisa had wagered that no gathering could survive Lady Sophia, Lady Alexandra, and Lady Honoria in the same place for more than an hour without at least one of them leaving in disgrace. Today’s evidence suggested she would lose, but only because no one present had any shame worth mentioning.
