“We have both been afraid,” she said, staring up at him, her eyes shining with emotion.
“But not any longer,” he whispered.
“I am afraid,” she began. “What if—”
He turned her gently then so that he could easily look down at her face. “You heard what the doctor said and Mistress Anne. Joy. We will find joy. We cannot know what lies ahead, my love. Fear is a part of the human existence. But this I can tell you. I will hold you every day and you will hold me. And we will be together. Can you forgive me? Can you forgive me for trying to keep you at arm’s length and not admitting the feelings that I have felt for so long?”
“For so long?” she echoed.
He nodded. “I did not wish to give proper name to it, but I have loved you almost from the moment that I saw you. You came into my life bold and strong, full of demands, and I have felt sheer wonder at the force with which you quaked my life. Please don’t stop. Please keep tempting me to love.”
She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek. “If that is what you truly desire.”
“It is,” he said.
“And you love me?” she breathed, stunned. “You do?”
“Oh yes,” he said, circling his arms about her, feeling as if he had at last found home. “I do, and I always will.”
Epilogue
Five years later
The house parties, garden parties, and balls of the Duchess of Blackwood were legendary.
They were the most joyful affairs in the ton.
There was no posturing, no attempts to prove how important one was by the amount of jewelry one wore or the fineness of one’s silks at her events.
No, when one came to these affairs, the most wonderful music was played, and the most delicious food made by chefs who seemed to care that their guests enjoyed it more than were impressed by it, was served. And the flowers that bloomed were so lush and vibrant that everyone marveled at their scent and beauty.
Wildflowers had been intentionally planted everywhere.
Small ones that smelled sweet.
She had done that.
The formality of the great French gardens had greatly diminished. There was something now that was approachable about those tiered stairs that tumbled down to the lake, where little boats danced and carried happy guests.
The string quartet played the most cheerful songs by Bach and Mozart. A singer lifted her voice, and it drifted on the summer breeze, filling the air with sugary notes about love and how wonderful it could be.
Catherine smiled at the Duke of Blackwood, who looked as if, finally, all the cares of his life had been taken away.
Oh, they were not without fears.
After all, as he had said once so many years ago, to have fear was part of the human condition. But Catherine had realized over these years that it was what one did with that fear that mattered.
Their children frolicked with other children, not by the lake, but under the willows.
And, of course, there was the small house which had its weeping angels and its beautiful figure of a young lady by them.
Those figures were not hidden away.
No, they stood near, in clear view, so that everyone could see them, but they did not cause the black clouds of pain that they had in the past.
Rather, they were a reminder that once… other small children had been here, and though they had been taken, they were loved because that’s all that mattered in this life, the day-to-day living and loving and glory of memory.
And so Catherine turned to the long table that she’d had set up by the fountain at the top of the stairs and lit three candles.