Epilogue
Afortnight later
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Nicholas and Beatrix Archer’s town house, cutting warm, golden paths across the breakfast table where the couple sat far too close for propriety and exactly close enough for happiness.
Bea still wasn’t entirely convinced any of it was real.
Married.By special license.In a whirlwind that had shocked half of London and delighted the other half.
Her father had refused to allow her home after the scandal.The duke had sputtered so hard Bea sincerely worried for his circulation.So, Nicholas had been forced to wake up his friend, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and procure a special license for them to be married that same night.Then—after the reform bill was passed by a large margin the next morning—Nicholas had swept Bea away to Archer Abbey in Devon, where they’d stayed for a fortnight—long enough for the scandal to cool, and for their marriage to begin in earnest, far from curious eyes.
The rumors were waiting for them when they’d returned to London this morning, however.In addition to Bea’s father refusing to acknowledge their marriage, Nicholas’s father had refused to speak to him after the vote.
They were cast out by both important families.But none of it mattered.
Not when Bea woke every morning with Nicholas’s arm around her bare waist.Not when she heard him laugh, low and warm, as he watched her sketch.Not when she slipped her feet against his on the chaise, earning a wicked grin.
Nicholas glanced up from his newspaper—yet another one mentioning them—and smiled that lazy, devastating smile she was beginning to suspect he reserved only for her.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“I’m admiring,” she corrected.
He leaned closer, brushing a kiss against her cheek.“As am I.”
She blushed.She, Beatrix “B.Adroit” Winslow—now Archer, blushed.
“You know,” she said, tapping the scandal sheet with one finger, “I think this is our fifth mention this week.”
Nicholas skimmed the headline with amusement.
LORD VANOVER: THE PEOPLE’S CHAMPION?Wife Once Closeted Satirist—Now London’s Favorite Marchioness.
He laughed softly.“I suppose that makes me the ‘darling of Parliament.’”
“You’ve always been a darling,” she said sweetly.“You just needed someone to tell you the truth from time to time.”
“And sharpen my spine?”
“That too.”
He kissed her forehead.“I’m fortunate to have you.”
Bea’s heart warmed and softened like butter left too close to the stove.She traced a small circle on the back of his hand and sighed.“Only weeks ago, we were at war, you know?”
Nicholas’s bit his lip and smiled.“Oh, yes.I remember.”
“And now, here we are.”
He leaned in, his voice a velvet promise.“Truce?”
She tugged him closer.“A very happy one.Though if you misbehave…I reserve the right to declare war again.”
His laugh rumbled against her cheek.“Darling, I pray you do.”
A knock sounded at the door then, interrupting their banter, just before Georgie and Poppy swept into the room in a flurry of silk and certainty.
Poppy looked as though she’d dressed for maximum drama—a bright pink day dress with a daring ribbon at the neckline and a little bonnet tipped at a mischievous angle, her gloves half tugged off as if she’d been too impatient to arrive properly.
