He smiled. That rare, genuine smile that transformed his face. Emma Blackwood, Duchess of Winterborne. My wife. Say it again. Which part? All of it.
Charles laughed, spinning her gently beside the fountain. Emma Blackwood. My wife. My duchess. My love. The promise I kept. The future I chose. The woman who saved me from becoming my father. Emma rose on her toes, kissing him softly. You saved yourself. I just reminded you that you could.
Then we saved each other. Yes. We did. They swayed together to the distant music, the fountain bubbling beside them, spring flowers perfuming the air. What happens now? Emma asked.
Now we live. Charles pulled back to look at her. We wake up tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. We argue about books. We translate manuscripts together. We manage the estate. We host dinners for the few friends who stood by us. We ignore London society until they come crawling back.
And eventually, his hand moved to rest gently on her stomach. Eventually, we fill this house with children who grow up knowing they're loved. Who never doubt their worth. Who understand that duty matters, but so does joy.
Emma's eyes filled with tears. That's a beautiful future. It's our future. The one we fought for. Worth it. Every second. Every tear. Every moment of fear. Charles kissed her forehead. I'd do it all again, Emma. Every painful moment. Because they led me here. To you. To this.
Emma buried her face in his chest, overwhelmed by the enormity of what they'd accomplished. They'd beaten fraud. Beaten scandal. Beaten a society that had tried to keep them apart. They'd beaten everything.
I love you, she whispered. I loved you at 7. I love you now. I'll love you until I die. Longer, Charles said. Love you longer.