Improper Relations (8 page)

“I do.”

And the wonder of it was—I truly did. Leo had never broken a promise to me, had never told me an untruth. He was a man I could trust.

He was the man I’d once dreamed of marrying, long ago when I was a naive girl who foolishly believed men like him were as common as daisies.

I knew better now.

He bent over my hands and pressed a kiss on the back of one, then the other. “Do you share my feelings? If not, I promise I won’t pursue you. I’ll let you go—I’ll even help you, if you’ll allow it. Just as long as you’re happy, and well, and safe.”

“Leo?”

“Yes?” he answered, his eyes alight with hope.

“I love you. And that, I swear to you, is the truth.”

Epilogue

We
we
re married three weeks later in Whitchurch’s small parish church, with Mrs. Smith and Miss Jefferies our only guests. Once they had recovered from their astonishment at discovering I had just become engaged to the son of a marquess, they professed themselves thrilled to see me settled so happily, and with a man so evidently devoted to me. Mrs. Smith shared the story of Lord Alfred’s search for his missing sweetheart to every soul that crossed her path, and our star-crossed romance—and happy reunion—made us a nine days’ wonder in the neighborhood.

We removed to Lancashire, to a little village on the outskirts of Preston, as soon as my husband was able to find us a suitable house. From there it was but a short carriage ride to the offices of his railway company and the various mills he owned. Much of his time was occupied in assuring the safety and welfare of his workers, and I will be forever proud that he was one of the first mill owners in Lancashire to forbid the use of child laborers.

Leo’s brother died in a riding accident not long after our marriage, leaving behind a fiancée but no heir. Lord Dorchester, consumed by grief and the perceived betrayal of his younger son, followed Arthur to the grave within the year.

We now divide our year between our home in Lancashire and Bexington Hall in Dorset; Aunt Augusta remains in London at Wraxhall House, never having resigned herself to our marriage. We do, however, have a cordial relationship with Leo’s sisters and their families.

Two years ago we discovered, most unexpectedly, that I was pregnant. Since it was common knowledge that Leo had been affected by mumps in his youth, I was concerned that peo
ple might assume the child was not my husband’s. Happily, baby Samuel is the image of his papa, with golden-brown curls and grass-green eyes. I pray that we will one day have another, but if Samuel is to be an only child we will still count ourselves blessed.

My duties as marchioness occupy much of my day, but from time to time, when Leo and I both have an hour or two to spare, we repair to the library. It is quiet there, and so peaceful.

No one disturbs us, which is fortunate, for my husband is a most inventive teacher. And I, in turn, am his ever-ardent and most appreciative pupil.

* * * * *

About the Author

An editor by profession but an historian by inclination, Juliana Ross has an abiding interest (one might even say obsession) in British social history that first took root when she studied at the University of Oxford. She graduated with a doctorate in modern history and has since used her 350-page thesis, variously, as a paperweight, booster seat and flower press.

Juliana lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband and young children. In her spare time she cooks for family and friends, makes slow inroads into her weed patch of a garden, and reads romance novels (the steamier the better) on her eReader.

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ISBN: 978-14268-9365-0

Copyright © 2012 by Juliana Ross

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