Dorothea let out a soft laugh, joy bubbling up through her chest. “You’ll hear no complaints from me,” she said. “You’re welcome to indulge in that fondness as often as you wish.”
“Those are dangerous words, my love,” he teased.
“And yet I regret nothing,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist.
For a long moment, they stood there, surrounded by the quiet stillness of the room, and it felt as if a blessing lingered in the air.
As if love itself had finally found room to breathe.
EPILOGUE
Five years later...
Dominic sat in the warm glow of the nursery, cradling his six-month-old daughter against his chest. Elizabeth’s soft breathing tickled his collarbone, and her tiny fist clutched a fold of his cravat. He glanced across the room and smiled fondly at the sight of his four-year-old son, John, sprawled in his small bed, one chubby arm dangling over the edge.
Contentment filled Dominic’s chest until it nearly overwhelmed him. This simple moment meant more to him than any fortune he could have amassed. His greatest accomplishment was not counted in lands or titles, but in the small, precious lives he had helped create. His family completed him in a way he had once believed impossible.
He was finally at peace, at peace with where he had been, at peace with what he had been through and at peace with where he was headed.
The soft click of the door opening drew his gaze upward. Dorothea stepped into the room wearing a maroon gown thatshimmered in the candlelight. Her red hair was swept into an intricate knot atop her head and a delicate headpiece of diamonds nestled amongst the curls.
Their eyes met, and she smiled—a smile just for him. “We are going to be late for the ball if we do not leave now,” she said in a hushed voice.
Dominic only tightened his hold on Elizabeth and murmured, “We can afford to be late.”
Dorothea laughed under her breath, a sound that still stirred his heart after all these years. “You say that now, but your uncle would be most displeased. This ball is to celebrate your cousin’s engagement, after all.”
Dominic scowled good-naturedly. “My cousin is worthless.”
“Perhaps,” Dorothea conceded with a smirk, “but you are still expected to attend.”
His gaze dropped back to the sleeping babe in his arms. “I would rather spend the evening holding Elizabeth.”
Dorothea arched a stern brow, though her eyes danced with teasing affection. “Lay Elizabeth in her crib and step away, my love.”
Reluctantly, Dominic pressed a kiss to the crown of his daughter’s head and rose carefully, mindful not to disturb her. Elizabeth stirred, letting out a tiny, sleepy groan of protest as he settled her into the cradle. In the corner of the room, the nursemaid rose from her chair, her movements gentle and watchful as she moved to tend to the babe should she wake.
Dominic turned and silently gestured for Dorothea to lead the way. Once they stepped into the corridor, he closed the nursery door behind him and pulled Dorothea into his arms.
“Perhaps we should forgo the ball altogether and have our own private celebration instead,” he murmured flirtatiously against her ear.
Dorothea gave a mock gasp of outrage and swatted lightly at his chest. “Behave, Husband,” she chided, though she made no effort to move away. “We are required to attend. Besides, your friends will be there.”
Dominic snorted. “Friends? More like a collection of people I barely tolerate.”
“Well, their wives have become some of my dearest friends,” she countered, resting her hands against his chest.
He leaned in and stole a lingering kiss. “Very well. We shall attend but you must allow me to steal you away at the first opportunity.”
Dorothea shook her head with a resigned smile. “You are incorrigible.”
Dominic’s grin widened. “It is hardly my fault. It is near impossible to find time alone with you anymore, thanks to our needy children.”
“And whose fault is that?”
He dropped one hand to rest gently against her stomach, his thumb brushing slow, tender circles. “I agreed to having one, maybe two children. I never consented to a third,” he teased, a mock gravity in his tone.
Dorothea’s eyes gleamed. “And yet, as I recall, you had a rather enthusiastic part in creating this third child.”
