A Novella Collection by Theresa Romain

Author:Theresa Romain [Romain, Theresa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Theresa Romain
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Epilogue

Three years later

Sussex

“The duchess,” Bernard grumbled, “is sliding down the banister again.”

Leo looked up from his stack of correspondence. “If she does it, then I don’t have to.”

Poppy twirled as she entered the drawing room. “All the better to join you for tea more quickly. You know perfectly well you find me charming.”

Leo discarded his quill and stood up from the writing desk. “I do indeed.”

“Oh, I suppose so. But you are late even so,” Bernard pointed out. “Yet tea is at the same time every day.”

“So it is,” she said mildly. “But little girls don’t always finish their stories about ponies when one expects, and baby boys don’t take kindly to being separated from their meal.”

The daughter born five months after their marriage had, Leo supposed, given rise to much gossip since Leo hadn’t been in England at the time of her conception. Or had he? Whenever someone attempted to pose the question, he feigned ignorance. Innocence. Because surely someone outside the family would not pry into a duke’s most personal affairs.

His devotion to their little girl—named Clara, after Poppy’s mother—was not feigned in the slightest.

Two years after Clara’s birth, a fine son was born. The future Duke of Westfair was a hungry baby with a smile for everyone and a remarkable ability to soil his napkin just after it was changed.

The name of this little boy had been a cause for much debate. Uncle Bernard had been in favor of naming him Richard, and Leo had almost come around to the idea.

Then Poppy had weighed in. “Can we not give him his own name? Being a duke is enough to live up to without settling a weight of tradition onto his tiny shoulders.”

“Pleistarchus?” suggested Leo. “In Greek history, he was the son of Leonidas.”

“Never mind. Name him Richard,” said Poppy.

Ultimately, they named him Simon. And his second name was Bernard, which had pleased the old man mightily.

As Poppy poured out tea, Leo said, “I was just reviewing my letters, my love. Apparently, the Marquess of Nithsdale was considering a return from Italy. But his creditors—chief among them the cruel Duke of Westfair—will demand payment on his debts if he sets foot on English soil, and so he vows to stay abroad permanently.”

“But his poor tenants!” Poppy shook her head. “What am I saying? His tenants are fortunate not to have him around. I ought rather to pity the people of Italy.”

“I am told,” Leo said, “that he lives in a rural area. Almost a cottage, one might say.”

“Very good,” Poppy decided. “I was once set upon that sort of life. But now that I’m living this one, I’m quite sure life in a cottage would not have suited me.”

Indeed, Leo could not now imagine Westfair without Poppy’s calm intelligence, her fierce bravery. The dukedom’s head was in London, its heart was in Sussex, and its various limbs were flung about smaller holdings in England and Scotland. Overseeing a dukedom was not a task for a man alone; Leo could never have found success or happiness without his wife.

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