“Duchess, you will unman me,” he said quietly, roughly, but smiling, his hands tight on her waist. Stragglers in the crowd watched curiously.

She tugged the kerchief into place and kissed it, then his whole eye and his cheeks and mouth again. “You could never be less than a great man.”

His hand came around her chin and he looked down at her soberly. “Arabella, he is dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I would have. But it was an accident.”

“You did the right thing.”

“Yes, I did.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “But with you, Arabella Anne Westfall, I have done everything wrong, from the moment we met, at nearly every turn. I have been arrogant and overly confident and short-tempered and deeply, insatiably lustful”—a bystander gasped—“and afraid of this between us. I was everything that must have been abhorrent to you when all you wished was to find your prince charming. Instead you ended up with a blind, surly, autocratic fool. If I could turn back time, if I could do what I should have done—”

“Before I fell in love with you?”

“—b-before I stole your virtue.” His brow cut down. “By God, woman, you will always say what I least expect, won’t you?”

“I tried again and again not to love you.” She tucked her hands inside his coat. “I failed.”

“You failed.” He smiled.

“But I did not fail in all matters. Adina has written a confession of her affair with a Frenchman who is eager to claim their son as his own. You are now the duke, your grace.”

He laughed and shook his head. Then his gaze took on that intensity that made her knees weak.

“I am lost without you, duchess.”

“Then you are found. Because you will not be without me ever again.” She dipped her brow to his chest. “I will never leave you.”

“This declaration is because I am no longer entirely blind, isn’t it?” he said a bit unsteadily. “You feared having to instruct me every night, but now you needn’t worry about that.”

She arched her brows. “Of course not. The reason I will not leave you is because you are a duke.”

“I see.”

“I always wanted to marry high.”

“Did you?”

“And I want my baby to be a duke. Or perhaps the sister of a duke.”

He blinked. “Your baby?”

She offered him a small smile. “Your baby.”

“My . . .” His throat jerked. His hands tightened on her waist. “We need to go home.” His voice was hoarse. “Now.”

“Now? All right. But—”

“I want you.”

“You—”

“I want you now. Always. Everywhere and as my everything—my lover, my friend, my sharp-tongued beauty, my drinking companion, my children’s mother, my courage in the face of certain defeat. My sanctuary.” He captured her lips. “My duchess.”

He kissed her. She returned his kiss with great enthusiasm.

“But at this specific moment,” he said between kisses, “I just really want you in my bed.”

With eager compliance, she accepted his kisses on her throat. “I can oblige you in that, your grace.”

“Or your bed. Whichever we come to first.”

“You are all that is wise and efficient.”

“Or the carriage.”

She grabbed his hand. “Let’s be off then, shall we?” Laughter bubbling from her, she dragged him toward the carriage.

He snatched her back to him and with his hands around her face said, “Arabella, I love you.”

“Luc?”

“Yes?”

“Will you marry me?”

Epilogue

The Fairy Tale

Frothy skirts of snow white silk glittering with tiny diamonds and cascading down the long train spilled over the arms of the chair upon which the Duchess of Lycombe perched in her dressing chamber. A diamond tiara sparkled in her hair falling like spun copper about her shoulders and the puffed cap sleeves of her wedding gown.

Her sisters sat across from her. On the table between them a lone object glimmered gold and crimson.

“I do not expect it of either of you.” Arabella’s gaze darted back and forth between them, radiant joy in her eyes. “I have all I wish—your well-being and Luc’s.” She placed her palm on her belly. “And I will do what I can now to search for our parents.”

“But you don’t really believe guineas will suffice to make that search successful,” Eleanor said. “One of us must wed a prince.”

“Now you believe in the Gypsy fortune too?” Laughter lit Ravenna’s dark eyes.

“I have never not believed in it,” Eleanor said. “I am merely skeptical that any one man can be the answer to anything.”

“Faith is not like scholarship, Ellie. You either believe or you don’t.”

“Like you don’t.”

Ravenna stroked her dog’s brow. “I believe in friendship. And I am perfectly content to leave happily-ever-afters to princesses like Bella.”

“You needn’t adopt my quest.” Arabella took up the ring and carried it to her dressing table, to a box of gold and enamel. She nestled the ring in the velvet within. “But if either of you do, you can find it here.”

A knock came on the dressing room door. The Duke of Lycombe entered, resplendent in wedding finery, the black kerchief across his brow dashing and a bit dangerous. Arabella’s heart danced. He was wonderful and he was hers.

She tried not to smile too foolishly. But he already knew she was weak for him. Always. Forever. His gaze upon her shone with confidence.

“Wife,” he said, conveying in the single word his pleasure and affection.

“Husband,” she said, as deeply happy as he.

“Our guests expect us downstairs.” He bowed to Ravenna and Eleanor. “You too, ladies.”

Eleanor offered him a soft smile and left the room. Ravenna went onto her tiptoes, pecked him on the cheek, and skipped out after Beast.

He extended his hand to Arabella. “Duchess?”

She reached for him and he drew her into his arms. He bent to nuzzle behind her ear as she slipped her palms over his shoulders.

“Luc?”

“Mm?”

“Now that I am truly your duchess, what will you call me?”

He brought his lips to hers. “My love.”

Author’s Note

Serious debate rages today over the terminology used for the people often known as Gypsies, more properly referred to as Romani. And for good reason: words have power. Derogatory names for any group or individual can divide and destroy if used intentionally or in ignorance. For this book I have chosen to use the terms common to the places and period in which my story is set. The English of the early nineteenth century typically referred to Romani as Gypsies.

For their generosity in sharing their expertise, I thank Dr. Marie-Claude Dubois, Professor Leslie Moch, Dr. Christine E. Lee, Professor Molly A. Warsh (for her timely intervention concerning pearls, which provides you, gentle reader, with an example of how an insane author can write one descriptive line—“lips satiny as [fill in blank] pearls”—and subsequently spend days researching the appropriate descriptor), and Samantha Kane. Thanks also to Carol Strickland and the ladies of the Heart of Carolina Romance Writers BiaW group for inspiration and fun, and to The Chambermaids: Anne Alexander, Nita Eyster, Carrie Gwaltney, and Christy Krupa.

Fulsome thanks go to Marcia Abercrombie, Georgie Brophy, Mary Brophy Marcus, and Marquita Valentine for their thoughtful reading and recommendations. Big thanks and hugs also to Kieran Kramer, Caroline Linden, Sarah MacLean, Miranda Neville, and Maya Rodale, without whose affection and wisdom I would have been bereft while writing this book. Myron Lawrence and Georgann Brophy came to my aid more times than I can count, and for their infinite patience and understanding I am deeply grateful.