The Rake’s Christmas Wager (Spinsters and their Suitors #2)

Epilogue

brINTON HALL - TEN MONTHS LATER

T he golden light of a crisp autumn afternoon filtered through the windows of Brinton Hall, casting warm light across the drawing room. Outside, the leaves fluttered on the breeze, painting the grounds in vivid shades of amber and crimson. The season, with its quiet beauty and promise of change, mirrored the life Lily and Henry had begun together—a life rich with love and full of simple joys.

Lily Stanton, Viscountess of Brinton, sat on a plush settee, the warmth of the room complemented by the glowing embers in the hearth. She pushed a chestnut curl out of her eyes as she moved her quill over a delicate sheet of fine parchment to finish her final line. She smiled as she sanded the paper and then folded it into a neat square. She sealed it by stamping her emblem of two hearts into the golden wax, then she wrote For My Love on the other side.

From the corridor, she heard the unmistakable sound of Henry’s boots. She picked up her skirts and raced to the mantel where she propped the letter up. Then she hurried back to the settee and picked up the last poem Henry had written for her.

She smiled as she traced the familiar handwriting. Every day since they’d been married six months ago, she’d found poems in the tucked away in surprising places. They were on her comb, beneath a book, under her silverware, on the pianoforte, and once he’d even secured it to the reins of her new prized mare that Camden had given her as a wedding present.

She opened the poem that she’d found only this morning—hidden beneath the lid of her sewing box.

“The autumn leaves may fall away,

And winter’s frost may chill the air,

But in your arms, my heart shall stay,

A warmth no season can compare.

For love like ours knows no decline,

Each day anew, it stronger grows,

Forever yours, as you are mine,

A love eternal, pure as snow.”

The verse was simple yet beautiful, and it spoke to her with all the sincerity she had come to cherish in her husband. She loved to reread the poetry he gave her and now had quite the collection tied up for safe keeping with a red satin ribbon.

The door opened, and Lily looked toward the door where Henry entered.

“Good day, my lovely wife,” Henry said, his voice rich and warm. He looked every bit the dashing man who had once charmed every drawing room he entered, but now he was smiling at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

The inside of her warmed. She would never tire of the way he looked at her. “Good day, my love.”

“I see you received my note,” he said, walking toward her. “I thought you might be reading a novel for how long you have been tucked away.”

She nodded. “I find that I prefer the poetry of one prolific husband to all the books I used to read.” It was true that she had reread several of his poems this morning, but she’d also spent so much time trying to put together her own words. Henry made it look so easy and effortless. “But I also attended to some correspondence.”

She had written him several letters, of course, but the poems she had written him were few and far between. But she worked on it and tried to become better. She wanted to keep her secret a little longer, but without thinking she glanced toward the mantel where she had left him the poem she’d taken over an hour to compose. When she realized what she’d done, she glanced away quickly, but he’d picked up on the subtle movement.

“Correspondence?” he asked, raising a brow as he crossed the room to her. “Should I be jealous of this mysterious recipient?”

She rose, meeting his teasing tone with one of her own. “Only if you’ve taken to being jealous of yourself, for the recipient is none other than the Viscount of Brinton.”

Henry laughed, his blue eyes sparkling. “Ah, so the delightful notes I’ve been finding tucked in my boots, my coat pocket, and even beneath my pillow are of your doing?”

Lily shrugged with feigned nonchalance, though her smile betrayed her. “It seemed only fair, considering the trail of poems you have left for me since our return from Bath.”

Henry reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. “And here I thought I was the romantic one. You’re full of surprises, my love. May I read it now?”

She nodded, and he retrieved the note from the mantel.

Henry opened it carefully, his eyes scanning the lines she had written:

“Though words may falter, hearts may speak,

In glances, whispers, touches sweet.

Your love has given mine its voice,

To cherish, treasure, and rejoice.

For in your arms, I have found peace,

A quiet joy that shall not cease.

No longer bound to walk alone,

Your heart has made my own a home.

Like spring’s first bloom in winter’s chill,

Your love has warmed what once was still.

Each day with you, a gift anew,

The skies seem brighter, the world more true.

Through storm and sun, through shadowed skies,

Your steadfast strength has stilled my cries.

A partner, friend, and dearest love,

My constant light, my North above.

Together, endless paths we’ll tread,

Where laughter blooms and tears are shed.

With every step, with every year,

I’ll hold you close, my love sincere.

No gilded words could ever say,

The joy you bring to every day.

For in your eyes, I clearly see,

A love that’s pure, that’s meant to be.

So take my hand, and let us weave,

A life of dreams, of love, believe.

With you, dear Henry, life’s complete,

My heart, my home, my soul’s heartbeat.”

Lily held her breath as Henry read her poem, his blue eyes tracing each line with a reverence that both thrilled and unsettled her. She had poured so much of herself into those words, capturing emotions she scarcely knew how to express aloud. Now, seeing him absorb them, his expression softening with each phrase, she felt as if she had handed him a piece of her soul.

When he finally looked up, his gaze locked on hers, brimming with an intensity that made her knees feel unsteady. He folded the parchment with care, setting it aside as though it were a treasure.

“Lily,” he began, his voice hushed, but it resonated through her as if it had been spoken in the quiet of her heart. “Your words ... they are beyond anything I deserve.”

She stepped closer, her pulse quickening as her chest rose and fell with the effort to contain emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “You’ve given me so many of your words, Henry. It was only right that I gave you mine.”

His hand reached out, hesitating just a fraction before his fingers brushed against hers. “Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he asked, his voice trembling with quiet awe. “Every moment with you has undone me, unraveled the man I thought I was, and replaced him with something better—someone who can love as deeply as you deserve.”

Her heart swelled, her breath catching in her throat. How could words like these, so perfect, so raw, belong to her? Yet as she gazed into his eyes, she saw the truth of them written there. This was no rake’s charm, no calculated seduction. This was Henry— her Henry —baring his heart as she had bared hers.

She reached up, her hand trembling slightly as it touched his cheek. The faint stubble there felt warm beneath her fingertips, grounding her in the moment. “You’ve changed me, too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never thought I could feel this way about anyone, but you ... you’ve made me believe in love again. And you’ve shown me that consistently over these last many months together.”

His hand rose to cover hers, pressing her palm gently to his face. He turned slightly, his lips brushing the inside of her wrist in a gesture so tender it sent shivers through her.

Henry moved closer, his other hand moving to her waist, anchoring her as though she might slip away. Slowly, achingly slowly, his lips descended to hers. The first brush of his mouth was soft, tentative, as though he was savoring the moment. Lily’s eyes fluttered shut, her senses narrowing to the warmth of his lips, the steady strength of his hand at her waist, and the faint scent of cedar and spice that clung to him.

Then the kiss deepened, his lips molding to hers with a fervency that made her heart race. He kissed her as though she were the air he breathed, each moment drawing her closer, binding them together in a way that felt unbreakable. Lily responded in kind, her hand slipping from his cheek to his neck, her fingers tangling in the soft waves of his hair.

Time seemed to still, the room fading away until there was nothing but the two of them. His kiss was a promise, a vow spoken without words. And in her response, she gave him her own promise—that she would love him, trust him, and stand by him, come what may.

When they finally drew apart, both breathless, Lily’s cheeks were flushed, her lips tingling from the intensity of their shared passion. Henry’s forehead rested lightly against hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“I love you, Lily,” he breathed, his voice rough with emotion. “More than I can ever say. More than I can ever show.”

She smiled, her heart full to bursting as she cupped his face in her hands. “And I love you, Henry. With all that I am.”

He leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to her temple, a gesture as tender as it was reverent. Lily closed her eyes, letting the quiet joy of the moment wash over her. In his arms, she felt safe, cherished, and completely at home.

He pulled her into his arms once more, his voice a quiet whisper against her hair. “Every day with you is a gift, my love. I am the most fortunate of men.”

“And I,” she replied, her voice steady and full of certainty, “am the happiest of women.”