She leaned into him. His arm came around her, and she rested her head against his chest. The garden settled into quiet.
“Lucien.”
“Yes?”
“I want Newton back.”
He laughed, warm and unguarded.
“We will collect him tomorrow,” he said. “First thing.”
She smiled against him. The light stretched long across the garden, and somewhere across London, children slept beneath a roof named for stars, and a cat waited in a schoolroom window.
The Season was over, but everything that mattered was just beginning.
Epilogue
ONE MONTH LATER
“Is that a cat on the altar?”
Dominic stood beside Lucien at the front of St. George’s, his dark hair swept back, his cravat tied with uncharacteristic care, and his expression caught between amusement and genuine disbelief.
Newton sat on the altar steps, his tail curled around his paws, surveying the nave with the proprietary air of a creature who believed the entire ceremony had been arranged for his benefit.
“He would not stay in the vestry,” Lucien said. “Elinor tried.”
“You are marrying a woman who brings her cat to church.”
“I am.” Lucien smiled, and the smile reached his eyes in a way that Dominic had not seen in the years of their friendship. “I would not have it any other way.”
The church was full. Not with the ton’s finest, not with lords and ladies crowding the front pews, but with the people who mattered. Lord Morland sat in the first row, his cane beside him, his color strong, his eyes already bright. Joanna sat at his side in soft blue, hands folded, her face open with uncomplicated happiness. Annabelle filled the pew behind them, her excitement barely contained.
And behind her, filling three rows, sat the children of Lyra House.
Mrs. Neal had dressed them in their best. Toby perched at the end, legs swinging. Billy whispered to Angelica, who shushed him. Georgie held a paper to his chest, guarding a drawing meant for the couple.
It was unconventional. A duke marrying before a room full of orphans would keep gossips busy for weeks. Lucien did not care. Elinor wanted them there, and what Elinor wanted, she would have. That was the principle on which he meant to build his life.
The doors opened.
Elinor came down the aisle on her father’s arm. Her ivory silk gown was simple, unadorned, her spectacles catching the light. Small white flowers threaded her hair. She carried no bouquet. Her free hand steadied Lord Morland, whose grip on her arm was as much for balance as tradition.
She looked at Lucien, her expression open and unguarded, bright with a joy she no longer hid.
The children whispered. Newton meowed. Annabelle pressed her hands to her mouth.
Lord Morland placed Elinor’s hand in Lucien’s. His grip was firm, his gaze steady with the weight of all that had passed between them.
“Take care of my stargazer,” he said.
“Always,” Lucien answered.
The vicar began. The vows were spoken. Lucien’s voice did not waver. He meant every word, and that made them easy to say. When Elinor spoke, her voice was clear and steady, a woman who had been told she was too quiet and chose, at last, to be heard.
When the vicar pronounced them married, Toby cheered. Billy stood on the pew. Angelica clapped. The sound rose, bright and unruly, drowning decorum, and Lucien kissed his wife while thirty children celebrated around them.
Startled, Newton leaped from the steps into Annabelle’s lap. She caught him with a laugh as the church rang with noise.