She laughed, bright and free. "Everything. I want to paint everything."
And as the afternoon sun began to lower, casting golden light across their future home, Andrew finally understood what he'd been missing all along.
The Mayfair Fox had given him success and reputation and proof that he wasn't his father.
But Isobel gave him something far more valuable.
She gave him a glimpse into the person he really was. She showed him who he could be, if he believed in himself.
And that, he realized, was worth more than any club, any fortune, any accomplishment the world could measure.
"I love you," he said again, just because he could. Just because she was there to hear it.
"I love you too," she replied, squeezing his hand. "Now show me these plans. I want to see what you've imagined for our bedroom."
His grin was pure mischief. "Oh, I have many ideas for the bedroom."
"Andrew Pasley!"
"What? I'm simply referring to paint colors and furniture placement."
"You're incorrigible."
"I'm yours." He pulled her close, breathing in the citrus scent of her hair. "Completely, utterly, irrevocably yours."
And finally, after all the fear and doubt and mistakes, he meant it.
Epilogue
The bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon sun, dust motes dancing in golden beams that slanted through the tall windows.
It was the only room they'd furnished properly so far—a large bed with fresh linens, a wardrobe, a small settee by the window. The walls still needed painting, but somehow that made it feel more like theirs. Unfinished. Full of possibility.
Isobel stood at the window, looking out over the wild gardens, feeling Andrew's presence behind her before his hands settled on her waist.
"What are you thinking?" His voice was low, intimate, his breath warm against her ear.
"That this is real." She leaned back against him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest. "That we're really here. That you really chose this. Chose me."
"Every time." His lips brushed her temple. "I'll choose you every time, Isobel. For the rest of my life."
She turned in his arms, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The vulnerability was still there in his ocean-blue eyes, but it was tempered now with certainty. With love.
"Make love to me," she said simply. "Not as the Duke and Duchess. Not as two people playing roles. Just as Andrew and Isobel."
Something blazed in his expression. "Are you certain? We don't have to—I know the past few days have been difficult, and if you need time?—"
"I need you." She rose on her toes, brushing her lips against his. "I need this. I need to feel close to you again."
He made a low sound in his throat, his arms tightening around her. "God, Isobel. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
"Show me."
His kiss was different this time, not the desperate claiming of their reunion, but something slower. Deeper. A promise written in the press of lips and the stroke of tongues.
His hands moved to the buttons at the back of her dress, fingers working with careful precision.
"I've dreamed about this," he murmured against her mouth. "About having you here. In our home. In our bed. No interruptions. No secrets. Just us."
