Two years later…

For many months after their wedding, when asked about how he and Charlotte had come to be, Benjamin had simply said, “My wife is the more apt storyteller,” having sworn to never tell another lie for as long as he lived.

The truth was that he did not want her life to be colored by his past. Though he wagered it would not have mattered. His wife had made quite the name for herself since her first publication, and her fame did much to quiet the curiosity of their peers. None dared speak a word against the unimpeachable Charlotte Pembroke, who had inspired a new generation of poet-ladies to take up their quills.

Instead of bluffing, Gamston had suggested forthrightness. For instance, the Duke would say, “My son and I were long estranged but have come to see eye to eye,” more often than not, lauding his son in the next breath. For a long time, it had been difficult to see him as a father. Even now, as Benjamin spied him over their table in the Richmond Court gardens, there was reserve between them. But not distrust.

Gamston shot him a smile, looking a little less weary than when they had sat for a family portrait a few weeks ago. Charlotte had said it was high time he decorated the walls of his home, ever the champion of their reunion, although she had been less-than-pleased at having been captured, as she put it, “ballooning like a bloated toad.”

As if on cue, she hobbled back to him, a hand on her belly, plopping herself into the seat beside him. “Eleanor is the most blushing bride there has ever been or ever will be. She would hide herself under the tables if she could tear her eyes from Pollock long enough. I imagine her nervousness is why it took her so long to wed.”

Benjamin breathed a laugh, taking her hand in his own. “More blushing than you were, Princess?”

“I was not blushing but frostbitten, lest you forget.”

“I thought you were ravishing… though I suppose you might have longed for a normal affair such as this. No secret license, no swaps before the altar…”

Charlotte leaned forward, beaming. “Not a chance.” She turned away to have at her sister and her husband, who entertained Charlotte’s father by the buffet. “I cannot think of a time we were all so happy,” she said, and her voice welled with emotion. “There is not a thing I would change about this moment.”

Benjamin felt a hand press against the back of his chair, and suddenly, Matthew and his wife sat down beside him.

“All right, perhaps one thing,” Charlotte whispered in jest, shifting her attention to her brother and plucking up a madeleine from her plate.

Matthew snorted, brushing a dark lock of hair from Ernestine’s face. “What did I tell you, darling? Insufferable.” Turning back to Charlotte, he lilted, “I rather thought pregnancy would have sieved the evil from you, sister.”

“No more than it could make me like you, brother.”

Thankfully, they shared a laugh. Matthew said, “I hear the both of you are traveling to Gamston county once Eleanor heads for Milchester with Pollock.”

With a nod, Benjamin replied, “Charlotte wants to outfit the country seat before the babe is upon us.” He squeezed her hand. “And I haven’t the heart to refuse her a thing.”

“If I am to labor the next Gamston heir, I will do so in the lap of luxury.”

Benjamin smiled. It seemed too sweet a thing—to be married to the woman of his dreams, to be siring heirs for a duchy. The past two years had seemed a fairy tale, and every day he awoke fearful it had all been a dream, that he was not a Marquess but a soldier again.

He had been blessed with power beyond his wildest fantasy and tried to do right with it. First had come the Veterans Hall in London; next had come his seat in parliament; now, he turned his attention to the duchy, helping his father manage his affairs as best he could. Benjamin was surprised to find that he had a knack for business—a certain liking for it too, as money was as vulgar a thing as a gentleman could decently entertain. He still enjoyed skirting the line from time to time.

He knew he would never quite shake off his roguishness, but Charlotte didn’t seem to mind. Getting to his feet, he whispered for her to follow him deeper into the gardens, wanting a moment of peace before the rest of the guests arrived, and she agreed.

Ambling down to the paddock until the sounds of the wedding breakfast all but faded, they settled beneath a willow tree on the banks of the small steam that ran past Richmond Court. Charlotte lay her head in his lap, gazing at the clouds above them, humming a tune he did not recognize. It was a fine May indeed.

Stroking her hair, he closed his eyes, opening them only as she said, “I have been thinking of a name for the babe.”

Benjamin sighed happily. “Go on, then… but if you suggest something like Demeter or Aphrodite, I shall be quite cross with you.”

“I will not plague our child with my literary fancies,” she giggled. Lifting a finger to his cheek, brushing at his scar, she said, “If she’s a girl, what about… Milly?”

“Milly?” he echoed and looked down at her.

“An ode to your mother, perhaps. And to my own. Margaret, Milena… Milly.”

Benjamin’s heart swelled in his chest. “Just when I think it isn’t possible to love you more…” He pressed a kiss to her fingers and over the stream. “And if it’s a boy?”

“Hm…” Charlotte breathed playfully. “What about… Charles? Or Huxley?”

“You would plague our child,” he teased.

She stared deeply into his eyes, and he melted before her. “Fine, Demeter it is.” Suckling on her lips, she slipped into rest, saying again, more earnestly this time, “There is not a thing I would change about this moment.”

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