He caught her hand gently, pressed his lips to her knuckles like a prayer made flesh. His heart was hammering through his tunic.
“Not without you…” she finished, trailing off, her eyes searching the ceiling.
His fingers pulled her chin down so her gaze met his. He was smiling—not with triumph, but with a tenderness so profound it stole the breath from her lungs.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her, swinging her legs around the space they stood, tangled together.
Blanche let a giggle slip through her lips just before he slowed and dipped his chin to claim her lips once more. The kiss was feverish. And suddenly, home was the only thing on her mind.
“Let’s go home, wife,” he said, reading her mind.
She nodded. “Take me to Woodrey.”
Epilogue
The ballroom at Woodrey glowed with candlelight and fir.
Garlands of pine and gold ribbon curled along the balustrades. Holly kissed every windowpane, and lanterns hung like warm stars in the chandeliers overhead. Outside, the snow had begun to fall softly—just enough to make the garden glitter, just enough to silence the world.
It was Christmas Eve. And for the first time in years, it didn’t ache.
Blanche stood near the edge of the room, her gown a deep shade of cranberry satin, embroidered with gold thread. In her hair, there was a sprig of mistletoe, tucked by Fanny with scandalous glee. She looked across the room.
There he was—leaning near the hearth, glass in hand, being terribly polite to some colonel’s dreadful daughter, who could not seem to finish a sentence without touching his lapel.
Heath met her eyes across the ballroom, and Blanche raised an eyebrow. He sighed, long-suffering, and gently extracted himself.
But before he reached her, a young lieutenant materialized at her side with flushed cheeks and hopeful posture.
“Your Grace, would you honor me with this dance?”
Blanche smiled graciously. “I’m very flattered.” The man beamed.
“But I’m afraid I’ve promised this dance—and every one after—to my husband.”
The lieutenant blinked. Bowed. And retreated with all the elegance of a soldier who knew when he’d lost the war.
Heath arrived beside her with studied nonchalance.
“You didn’t have to sayeverydance,” he murmured, offering his arm.
She took it. “I rather like the sound of it.”
“You’re getting sentimental,” he teased, leading her to the floor.
“It’s Christmas,” she said, smiling up at him. “One’s allowed a weakness for fairy tales.”
He pulled her close as the orchestra struck the first notes of the waltz. “I’m still not entirely certain how I became the hero in one.”
“That’s easy,” she whispered, tilting her head. “You arrived just in time.”
Their foreheads touched. He kissed her—slow, certain, as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them under those garlands. The music softened. Time blurred.
Then—a startled yelp was heard, following a loud splash.
They turned just in time to witness Percy recoil in horror, an empty glass in one hand and a very soggy Fanny Waldron blinking down at the brandy soaking the bodice of her gown.
“Oh no,” he was saying, wildly waving a handkerchief that only made matters worse. “That wasn’t meant to happen—not that Imeantto spill something on you in any capacity, though some might argue the universe enjoys punishing me through beverage-related humiliation?—”
