Page 27 of From Rakes to Riches

Gemma burst out laughing. Guy reached up and thumped the roof to tell the coachman to drive them home, then he resumed kissing Gemma. They were alone in this bubble of happiness, the world shut out, the pattering rain keeping time with the joyful beating of their hearts.

EPILOGUE

THREE MONTHS LATER

Guy reflected that he finally understood the true meaning of the phrase “happiest man in the world.”

It meant standing at the altar in a church on a fine summer day, gazing at one’s beloved, roses in her extraordinary hair, and watching her smile in return. It meant grinning widely as a reedy-voiced vicar spoke the marriage service, he and his beloved exchanging secretive, amused glances as the vicar droned on.

Gemma wore a peach-colored gown that shimmered as she moved and flushed her face with color. The roses, pink and red, adorned her thick dark tresses and the bouquet she’d carried up the aisle.

She repeated her vows in a clear, liquid voice, finishing withAnd thereto I give thee my troth.

Aunt Margot, in the first row, touched a handkerchief to her eyes. Sonia, next to Gemma as her attendant, smiled in glee, her own eyes moist, and even Tristan, who’d escorted Gemma up the aisle, coughed and muttered something about dust.

The Duke of Ashford, standing with Guy, appeared both pleased with Guy’s choice and amazed he went through with it. Guy, the avowed bachelor, had fallen.

Hadn’t fallen as much as leapt, Guy told himself. And why not? Guy had realized this morning as Ash and his valet had dressed him, that his dedication to bachelorhood had come about only because he’d not met the woman of his dreams before this. He’d not been so much devoted to the bachelor cause as simply waiting for it to end.

The church was full to bursting. Aunt Margot, who had expressed relief that Guy had finally proposed when they’d announced it that rainy afternoon, had invited the entireton, it seemed. Lord and Lady Whitwell had come, Lady Whitwell pleased with herself that her famous ball had thrown Guy and Gemma together. Wakefield had arrived as well, surprisingly. Ash had made certain Wakefield took the cancelled duel civilly, Ash proclaiming that all honor remained intact. None had dared to argue with him.

Even Uncle Clem had deviated from his daily routine and now nodded at Guy from the front pew. He sat next to Guy’s brother and his wife, the marquess and marchioness, prim sticks who’d both softened considerably when they’d met Gemma and seen how much Guy adored her. Guy’s three nephews were beside them, a sharp-eyed nanny at the end of the pew, the boys behaving themselves for the moment. That could change abruptly.

Then there was Helena, plump with child, more beautiful than Guy had ever beheld her, and more smug as well. Her part in bringing Guy and Gemma together—pretending with Aunt Margot that she was helping put Guy in front of Sonia—had been underhanded but effective. Guy mentally saluted her.

After what seemed an interminable time, the vicar finally said the words Guy had been longing to hear:

I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Guy took Gemma, beautiful Gemma, into his arms, and kissed her. She tasted of warmth and smelled of roses, and Guy finally knew the happiness that had eluded him all the days of his life.

June, 1816

Roses were blooming once more at the stone house in Surrey when Helena and Ash arrived, their four children in tow.

Gemma met them in the garden, Guy’s rumbling voice behind her filling her with strength.

Helena, who’d hurried to find Gemma, ran the last few steps and then halted in excitement, clasping her hands as she gazed at the bundle in Gemma’s arms.

“Oh, my, he is a delight. Ash do you not think he is a delight?” Helena called to her husband who followed her, his daughters Evie and Lily clutching his hands. “How is little Clement, then?” She gushed at the babe, who was a few months old, reaching a tentative finger to poke his tummy. Baby Clement gurgled and cooed. “He looks exactly like you, Guy,” Helena concluded.

Guy came to a halt beside Gemma, sliding an arm around her and kissing her cheek. “Small, red, and wrinkled?”

“Do not be so silly.” Helena cooed back at little Clem, named for his very proud great-great uncle. “His eyes, I mean. The same chocolate brown. But his hair is all Gemma’s. Is he not spectacular, Ash?” She turned her bright smile on Gemma. “Well done, my dear.”

Gemma, filled with laughter, could not answer.

“I hadsomethingto do with it,” Guy protested.

Helena sent him a disparaging glance. “A very little something. Women do all the work at this, Guy dear. I ought to know.”

Now Helena beamed with pride. Behind Ash came his oldest son, Lewis, and a nanny who carried Alden, a plump boy of one and a half years.

They’d grown so, Gemma thought fondly. Ash’s older three children’s confidence had surged since Helena had become their mother, they flourishing under the quiet assurance that they were loved.

“He’s very little,” Lily, who was now nine, declared. “Won’t be riding for a few years, I’d say. But my brother was very little too, and now he is growing robust.”

“Riding soon, though,” Lewis said with twelve-year-old conviction. “He’s Uncle Guy’s heir and will be riding and shooting and hunting in no time.”

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