Page 73 of A Bachelor’s Lessons in Love

Her niece had the good manners to look a little chagrined as he passed her aunt the tray of tarts. “No, you need not have been. Have one of these, Aunt Felicity. They are your favorite. Do you think Cook knows how to make a wedding cake? Will they have time to learn by the weekend?”

Felicity covered her face with her hands, laughing despite herself, as her future husband leaned back in his chair, entirely too pleased with himself. Eventually she lifted her head and pointed at him. “Not a word.”

Edward smirked, raising his hands in mock innocence. “I would not dream of it, my love.”

The entirely too satisfied Daphne took another sip of tea. “So. Have you selected a date yet?”

Felicity shook her head at her niece, then looked at her husband-to-be. “I think we are going to make quite an interesting little family.” And she had never expected to be part of a true family again; certainly, not one of her own.

“As do I.” Edward took her hand in his. “But a happy one.”

“A very happy one,” Daphne said, taking a tart for herself. “But horrible at scheduling, it appears. Do be practical, Aunt—when will we have the wedding?”

“At the first possible moment,” Edward answered for her. “Yes?”

What else could she reply? Felicity looked between them both, her heart overflowing with joy. “Yes. I cannot imagine waiting another moment longer than necessary.” She had never looked to her own happiness at all, in her memory. Now that it was within her grasp, she would seize it gladly—with both hands.

* * *

The day before his wedding, Edward sat in Briarwood’s study, glaring at the surface of his desk. The desk his father had left to him. The same desk where his father had likely written letters to him during his time in the army, never once mentioning the son Edward had unknowingly fathered.

Perhaps he needed a new desk. Or to make better use of this one. Perhaps he ought to write a letter, many letters, full of his love to Felicity? Perhaps. Later.

He had been awake for hours. Sleep proved an impossible thing. The experience hadn’t been unpleasant, exactly, but charged with the weight of change.

He was to be married. Felicity Price had agreed to be his wife.

That fact alone had rerouted the course of his life overnight, but another change awaited him now, sitting on the desk before him after arriving in that afternoon’s post, seemingly innocent.

A letter.

It sat on the edge of his desk, the seal unbroken, the script of his investigator’s hand unmistakable. Given the nature of the man’s last correspondence, this letter would hold the final report. It would tell him if his son was still living, and where.

After a soft knock on the door, Felicity entered the study without hesitation, as if this were already her house to walk freely. He had to smile at her as she approached, grateful for her unexpected presence.

“There are enough blooms in the garden for a small wedding bouquet. Daphne has already chosen which she will cut for me in the morning,” she told him, her eyes bright with an excitement which made his heart turn over. “The gardener is astonished. He said he did not think we would see any blooms large enough for another fortnight at least.”

“We are fortunate the roses seem to know we have need of them.” Edward tried to make his tone light to match her joy, but concern weighed his words.

Felicity took in his expression, then glanced at the letter, then returned her gaze to him. “Is that what I think it is?”

Edward nodded slowly.

Neither of them moved for a moment until she circled the desk to stand beside him, her hand taking his. “I am here. I will be here as long as you need me. We can read it together, if you like.”

Edward lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across the back of it. His bride. His captain. His Felicity. “Thank you, love. Now that you are here, I think I can read it.” He released her hand and slowly, he reached for the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the paper.

It was time to know what so many others had kept from him, all these years.

Felicity put her arm around his waist and leaned against his shoulder, supporting him in silence as he read the letter.

His son had been found.

The letter was brief, to the point—details on where the boy lived, with whom, and what sort of life he had been given. Edward read it twice, his grip on the page tightening just slightly before he set it down.

Felicity did not ask him what it said. She did not demand answers. She merely remained with him, solid and steady.

“They named him James.” He laughed as tears fell down his cheeks. “James Thornton. A couple adopted him many years ago, a vicar and his wife. He’s a vicar’s son.” Slowly, he lowered himself—not to the chair, but all the way to the carpet.