This man. This life. This love they had fought so hard to claim.
It was everything she had ever wanted. Everything she had never dared to hope for.
And it was hers. Truly, finally, irrevocably hers.
Later, wrapped in each other’s arms, they watched the fire burn low.
“I never thought I would have this,” Christian said quietly. “A wife. A wedding night. Someone who wanted to stay.”
“I never thought I would want it.” Fiona traced idle patterns on his chest, her fingers following the familiar lines of his birthmark. “I thought I would be the sensible spinster aunt, managing everyone else’s affairs while having none of my own.”
“And now?”
“And now I am the Duchess of Thornwick.” She smiled against his skin. “Married to the most scandalous man in England. My former self would be appalled.”
“And your current self?”
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him in the firelight.
“My current self has never been happier.”
He pulled her down for another kiss—slow, sweet, full of promise.
“Neither have I,” he said against her lips. “Neither have I.”
Outside, the stars wheeled in their ancient dance. The sea whispered against the cliffs far below. And inside the castle, the Duke and Duchess of Thornwick held each other close and dreamt of the future they would build together.
It was, Fiona thought as sleep finally claimed her, the perfect ending.
Or rather—the perfect beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The first morning Fiona woke as the Duchess of Thornwick, she did not immediately remember where she was.
She lay in the great canopied bed, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling, her body pleasantly sore and her mind still fuzzy with sleep. Beside her, a warm weight shifted, and an arm tightened around her waist.
Christian.
Her husband.
The word sent a thrill through her that had nothing to do with titles or status. She turned her head on the pillow and found him watching her, his dark eyes soft with sleep and something that looked very much like wonder.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
“Good morning.” She smiled faintly. “Have you been watching me sleep?”
“Perhaps.” He did not look in the least apologetic. “I wished to be certain you were real—that last night truly happened, and that I had not imagined it all.”
“You did not imagine it.” She lifted a hand to his face, feeling the rough warmth of stubble beneath her palm. “I am here. I am yours—and I am not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He kissed her then—slow and thorough, the kiss of a man who had all the time in the world—and she melted into him, marvelling at how natural it felt. How right.
They made love again as the morning light crept through the curtains. Again, there was no urgency, no desperation—just the quiet pleasure of two people learning each other anew, discovering that the bond between them had only deepened with the vows they had exchanged.
