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“I would never have accepted less than what we have.” He tickled her, to no avail. “I expect you would have been terribly expensive to keep, but rewarding in so many ways.”
“It’s not just about bed play.” She pushed him away, returned fire to his still-vigilant ribs, and sulked.
“It is not,” he allowed, running his nose along the side of her arm. “It is about all the other things that Bates likely read in that Goddess-forsaken book about how well-born men may best court women.”
“Book?” She looked thoughtful. “I believe I owe you a groom’s gift, Your Grace.”
“You are all the gift I’d ever hoped for. That I’d ever prayed for.” The laughter fell from both their faces. “I have gained a mate in more ways than I could have imagined. You have gained a stalwart, ferocious defender of your dreams.”
“And you have gained yourvera amoris, who will stand with you as we keep our people safe and raise our children secure in both their natures.”
They held each other, wordless, needless of speech, as they embraced one another and these new vows, their pattern for the days and nights to come, full of love and joy and challenge and acceptance, the like that neither would ever take for granted.
Epilogue
If Felicity found the staterooms opulent, they were as a poorly lit reception room in comparison to the ducal suite. It boasted luxuriously appointed rooms double in number to those set aside for visiting dignitaries, and while the duchess’s bedchamber would likely go unoccupied, the accompanying dressing room was immense and the lady’s bath even more so.
The bed she woke upon—alone, alas—was double the size of that which graced the honeymoon cottage and draped with heavy satin-lined curtains suspended from an ornate canopy. The sheets and pillow slips were of the usual Lowell standard, but these were imbued with her and Alfred’s essences, a fragrance she thought she may have been mortified to enjoy as a maiden when one did not speak of personal scents by any stretch of the imagination; as a married woman, it was part and parcel of the realities of her new status.
Little less than a week had passed since the bonding ceremony and with it their return to the Hall and quotidian life. How her life could ever be considered prosaic was beyond her, and yet, as Felicity wove more deeply into the unique fabric that was the Lowell Pack, she further understood its similarities to life lived anywhere in England and its employment of many of the structures and strictures of human society. Whether or not this was beneficial remained to be seen, but she appreciated theversipellianconundrum; to paraphrase Mr. Coburn: in order to remain free to be their essential creatures, they needs must conduct themselves with the utmost civility.
She mused over what she wished to accomplish in the day and wondered if Jemima would fashion her a night rail with pockets that she may keep pencil and paper on hand, and then she rejected the notion—it was not as if she wore a night rail. She cuddled Alfred’s pillow to her breast and sighed like a tweenie mooning over the boot boy. If they continued apace, she would be up the spout in no time. Her heart leapt, and thoughts of her stud and the need for her own steward ran side by side with wistful imaginings of pups capering around the park under Alfred’s watchful eye.
The curtains were pulled back briskly and with a familiar lack of formality. “Oh, Your Grace, you are awake,” Mary Mossett chirped as she proceeded to open the hangings all around the bed. “Although I’d say you earned your rest.” She giggled.
“Mary!” Mrs. Birks’s scolding rang out, as was customary. Felicity sat, wrapped in the top sheet, and a perfectly prepared a cup of tea was placed in her hands. “Here you are, Your Grace, here you are.” The housekeeper raised a brow at the clothing strewn about the floor, and Felicity strove not to blush. “Mary will draw your bath and then consult with you regarding today’s accoutrements.”
“I truly am keen to apprentice her to Lady Coleman,” Felicity said, hoping the distance to the lady’s bathing room and the sound of the rushing water would combine to act as a buffer even against Shifter hearing. “I have not devised how that may be achieved as yet, but let us keep it between us for now, even as we discuss her replacement as my lady’s maid.”
“Very good, ma’am. I understand this was a stipulation in your marriage contracts.” With the speed of her kind, the room was set to rights in a trice, and Mrs. Birks lay Alfred’s dressing gown at the foot of the bed.
How like her first morning in Lowell Hall, yet how unlike it was! She wrapped herself in her husband’s scent and passed down the connecting hall, through the duke’s dressing room, and into the duchess’—hers—and on to the bath. The water was redolent with vanilla and vetiver, a canny compromise on Mary’s part as to each of her and Alfred’s preferred fragrances, and the maid’s chatter was a homey, comforting accompaniment to her bathing as the mouse browsed her wardrobe.
Attired in one of her walking habits, Felicity made her way to the breakfast room, greeting the staff as she went, accepting their obeisance, which she had to admit she still found strange, then chatting with those cheeky ginger footmen whom she greeted at the top of the stairs. Mr. Coburn awaited her in the corridor near the breakfast room.
“Good morning, Mr. Coburn,” she said. “I trust this day finds you well.”
“Morning, is it, ma’am? Not for my kind it is not, I assure you.” The rooster bowed, and they both blushed.
“Oh, dear,” she smiled. “I plead the tardiness of the newly wed.”
“We would have it no other way, ma’am, no other way,” he assured her as he saw to the doors himself.
* * *
Alfred rose as his blushing bride entered the room.
“Your Grace.” She curtseyed to the amusement of the footmen. “I do apologize for my lateness.” Mr. Coburn rushed to pull out a chair opposite Alfred, who shook his head and indicated the seat to his left.
“I had business in the farthest field,” Alfred said as she took her place. “I am only lately returned myself.”
The usual complement of footmen ringed the wall, and Coburn tended to the couple’s needs, freshening pots of tea and keeping a weather eye on the sideboard’s offerings, taking his responsibilities as ducal butler seriously indeed. As Alfred’s mate pushed eggs counterclockwise ’round her plate and failed to conceal another yawn, he opened a letter weighed down with Royal seals and made himself familiar with its contents.
“Osborn has wed the Marchioness of Castleton,” he announced.
“Beatrice?” Felicity made to freshen her tea but was unequal to their butler’s attentiveness. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Coburn. I was unaware she was being courted.”
“No one knew I was courting you.” He smiled at her and leaned an elbow on the table to gaze at her. She reproved him with a mere glance, and he sat up properly.
