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Epilogue
Amonth later, Dorian and Rose found themselves, once more, meeting at the altar of the estate’s chapel. This time, only Hudson and Mrs. Whittaker were present to bear witness to the union, and they had not told a soul, in the household or without, that it was taking place. Rufus may have been on his way to the colonies of New Holland, but they had learned that it paid to be overly cautious.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest announced, the anxious couple having sped through their vows at a breakneck pace. After waiting for so long, and being through so much together, they simply wanted to make it official as soon as possible.
Dorian stepped forward and lifted Rose’s veil, different from the one she had worn the last time. Indeed, she had fashioned an entirely new gown from the fabric she had left, not wanting to curse the marriage by wearing the previous dress. It was a small gesture that Dorian appreciated, for though he had come to the conclusion that Rose and Hudson were right, and he had simply suffered many misfortunes that were not his fault, he preferred to avoid tempting fate.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured.
“So do you,” she teased, pressing her palms to his chest and peering up into his eyes.
He smiled, relief washing over him. “My love, my Countess, my doe, my meadow Rose.”
“My love, my Earl, my white stag, my wounded hero,” she replied, chuckling.
He dipped his head and kissed her chastely, not wanting to upset the priest. “I love you, my dear wife.”
“And I love you, my darling husband.” She took him by the hand. “Perhaps, we might walk in the meadow awhile? I had no time to fashion a wedding bouquet, but I’d like one, to remember this day.”
He nodded. “I think that sounds like perfection.”
“Are you abandoning us already?” Hudson weaved his arm through Mrs. Whittaker’s, much to her playful chagrin. “I suppose there is no reception and no wedding breakfast to go to. I almost wonder if this is a wedding at all, for it has none of the entertaining parts.”
Mrs. Whittaker gave Hudson a bold nudge in the ribs. “Leave them be, My Lord. They have been through enough. If they wish to spend their wedding day alone, walking where they please, then who are we to argue?” She looked at Rose. “I’ll have a fine luncheon ready in a few hours, regardless.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Whittaker.” Rose smiled, her expression a picture of radiant delight.
With permission granted, Dorian and Rose exited the chapel as husband and wife and made their leisurely way toward the meadow. As they wandered, basking in the last of summer’s gracious light, Dorian marveled at how they had managed to reach this moment of togetherness.
His wound had healed rather swiftly, but other injuries had not been so easily repaired. Rufus’s crimes had been discreetly kept from public knowledge, but Rose’s name had still been splashed across the gossip papers, labeling her a conniving wench and an ambitious whore.
In the end, the resolution had come from the most surprising place—Rose’s father. News had somehow reached him of what had occurred during the first wedding attempt that Rufus had destroyed, and he had journeyed to Langston House with the last of his coin to beg a genuine apology of Rose. It appeared that, despite everything, the idea that he might lose his daughter was enough to sober him in a way that nothing else had been able to.
How she was able to forgive him, I shall never know.But forgive him she had, with a promise to help him rebuild his life if he vowed never to gamble or drink again. There had been a few hiccups as far as the drinking went, but her father had not gambled a penny since. As such, Dorian had fulfilled his part of the exchange, offering her father a position at his new business endeavor: a fashion house, with designs crafted by Rose herself, while her father sourced the materials.
In return, as well as staying away from his vices, her father had managed to persuade the writer ofThe Tattlerto print a retraction. In place of the vile lies, they wrote that Rose was, in fact, the daughter of a wealthy merchant and not a lowly guttersnipe at all. Somehow, it worked, and when the second announcement appeared a week ago, that there would be a new fashion house opening in London, courtesy of the soon-to-be Countess of Langston, the capital had thrummed with excitement.
“Are you well, my love?” Rose broke him out of his reverie.
He smiled, putting his arm around her waist. “I am exceptionally well, for I have all I could ever have wished for.”
“You looked pensive,” she said softly. “Do… things still plague you?”
He shook his head. “Not as they used to. I was merely thinking of our increasingly favorable fortune and thanking the heavens for sending you to me.” He turned his head so he could kiss her hair. “I am even more thankful that you did not listen to me and that you did not run from my side.”
“Never,” she promised.
He chuckled. “That you will never listen to me, or that you will never run from my side?”
“The latter is granted. As for the former, I suppose it depends on the day.” She flashed him a mischievous grin as they came to the secret path through the woodland that led through to their private utopia.
“Do you know, I am still not entirely certain that I did not die from that pistol shot, and this is my heaven,” he said, taking her hand so he might guide her through the trees.
She laughed sweetly behind him. “Then there is no way you can be a demon, as people say you are, for otherwise you would not be allowed in.”
“You are quite right, my doe. Yes… you are quite right.” Giddy with the promise of a hopeful future and acceptance in a society that he had never expected, he finally felt at peace.
* * *
