Georgiana wasn’t sure about that. Women had shown her their artifice many times. But she would, to smooth out the strain at the corners of his eyes, go with his version of things.
“If Iwerevaguely vexed, Your Grace, I know a way you can soothe my agitation.”
Bracing his hands behind him on the bench, Ren groaned, stretching out his long legs. Her gaze traveled the lean line of him before meeting his dimpled smile. He knew what he did to her.
“Leave your terrace doors open tonight, Gia.”
Before she could respond, her cheeks hot, Henry ran up to her, a tangle of pink and white azaleas caught in his fist. “For the lady,” he said, thrusting them at her.
She laughed, taking the crushed blooms as if presented a bouquet from a prince. Something in her chest loosened—this small, earnest offering, this boy, already half hers. Her vision blurred for a fleeting second, and she turned her face just enough, but not before Ren saw.
“Darling Gia,” he whispered, then rose, offering her his arm. “Shall we? I’ve heard the ice cream in the village is divine.”
Henry whooped and tore off down the path, then spun back on his heel, making sure they followed, his grin wide and expectant.
Georgiana glanced up at Ren, a quiet, certain emotion passing between them, leaving words behind. Together, they set off down the path, Henry skipping before them, sunlight flickering through the trees beyond.
Before them lay a summer afternoon, and their future, at last.
EPILOGUE
Happiness
In the year that followed, Georgiana learned all the charming little nuances about her duke.
That Ren drank chamomile tea, not brandy, when he was tired. That the right corner of his mouth twitched when he was holding back a smile. That he tapped his boot when he’d lost patience with a conversation. That he softened, almost imperceptibly, whenever Henry came into the room. He loved strawberries, lemon scones, and the scent of lavender on her skin. He played a mean game of chess, almost more impressive than his archery skills. He was an excellent fiscal manager, and the tenants on his various estates adored him. (He’d needed not a penny of her meager dowry; they’d married for love and love alone.) He preferred charcoal to paints and had a growing love of sculpture.
Georgiana turned to watch him across the lawn, stepping back to give Henry room as he demonstrated the proper swing, guiding theboy’s hands on the croquet mallet before letting him try on his own. The flex of her husband’s forearm beneath linen, the subtle pull of muscle across his shoulders as he bent, the line of his hips shifting with easy, assured strength she knew all too well, made her think wicked things.
She knew how he liked to be stroked. How he held her at the edge of pleasure, almost a game, before finally letting her release consume her. That he loved to watch her touch herself in the muted darkness of their bedchamber. That they shared a tenderness for her being on top.
She knew all these things and more.
As if he heard her carnal thoughts, Ren glanced up, his broad chest rising on a sharp exhalation. He said something to Henry, gave him a gentle pat on the head, then jogged over to her. Dropping down beside her on the plaid woolen blanket, he scrubbed a hand across his chin, trying to appear unaffected for the sake of their son. “Henry naps in one hour.”
Georgiana laughed and leaned back. “I’m aware, as I’m usually the one who tucks him in.”
Ren rolled to his side, his arm tucked beneath his head to cushion him. His gaze had gone a deep, fiery blue. “Pregnancy is doing wonders for my life, my darling duchess. I am, in turns, exhausted to the bone and the happiest man alive.”
Georgiana swatted his chest, her cheeks heating. When he continued to grin, his dimple flaring, the rest of her heated, head to toe. “I’m not that bad.”
“Ah, Gia, you’re thatgood.”
She wasn’t going to argue; they were amazing.
His hand found hers without ceremony, the other going to the rounded curve of her belly, his touch careful, almost reverent. The playfulness in him quieted as something steadier took hold. “I don’t know how I’ll manage it,” he said, softer now. “All of it. You, Henry, this one—” his thumb brushed a slow arc “—and still keep my head about me.”
Georgiana turned toward him, fitting closer along his side, anchoring him with the ease they’d grown into. “You will. You always do.” He was the most caring man she’d ever known.
His gaze held hers a moment longer than necessary, something unguarded passing through it—pride, yes, and a thread of worry he didn’t bother to hide from her anymore. He still seemed to fear happiness could be taken away in an instant.
“Henry is insufferably pleased with himself,” he finally said, a ghost of his grin returning. “He’s taken to informing anyone who will listen that he’s to be a brother.”
“I heard him tell his nurse he’s to be the finest in England.”
Ren’s hand lingered, a tender claim, promise more than touch. The future wasn’t distant, but warm and immediate beneath his palm.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, gentler now, for his sake.
