Home.That was what it was. That was what he looked like, and what he felt like, and what Whitmore had become. Somehow, against all available planning, she ended up exactly where she was meant to be.
“Rome will wait,” she said. “We will go in the spring. The baby will be three months old and sturdy enough to travel, and we will write to Professor Alderton and postpone, and we will still see the Palatine Hill.”
“Yes,” he said. “We will.”
“And Greece after.”
“And Greece after.”
She leaned her forehead against his. “You are going to be a remarkable father, Tristan. You are entirely too organized not to be.”
He made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a breath but something in between.
“And you,” he said, “are going to be an extraordinary mother. You are entirely too stubborn not to be.”
She lifted her head and looked at him.
“I take that as a compliment,” she said.
“It was intended as one,” he said. “Everything I say to you is.”
Imogen Somerset, née Harrington, sixth of eight daughters, improbable Duchess of Winfield, settled her head against her husband’s shoulder and listened to him breathe, and found—as she found every morning, and every evening, and every quiet moment in between—that this was sufficient. That it was, in point of fact, everything.
She had not planned for him.
But then, the best things rarely arrived according to plan.
Bonus Epilogue
April, 1817
Rome
Professor Alderton was, as advertised, the foremost living expert on the Palatine Hill.
He was also seventy-three years old, approximately five feet tall, and possessed an enthusiasm for first-century Roman domestic architecture that bordered on the evangelical. He had been talking for two hours without any discernible diminishment of energy and showed no signs of stopping.
Tristan found him entirely excellent.
"—and here, you see, is where the triclinium would have sat, facing the garden, which was the preferred orientation for the dining room of any household with pretensions to—" Professor Alderton paused, turned, and peered over the rims of his spectacles at the small, very round person currently suspended from Tristan's chest.
They had learned of these contraptions shortly before leaving for their trip. The baby was wrapped in what Tristan suspected was yards of fabric that criss-crossed and tied, allowing his son to be secure and forward-facing so as to not miss any of the sights. Flynn had taken one look at and described, with considerable feeling, asthe most undignified thing I have ever seen a duke do in public.
Tristan had not disagreed. He also had not removed it. And now he found he quite enjoyed wearing it.
The baby—Edward Harrington Somerset, known to the household as Harry, known to his mother asmy darlingand to his father asprecisely what I was not expecting—regarded Professor Alderton with the focused, ancient solemnity of a four-month-old who had recently discovered that faces were interesting.
Professor Alderton regarded him back.
"Is he—" The professor adjusted his spectacles. "Is he following what I'm saying?"
"He follows everything," Imogen said, from where she stood a few feet away with her sketchbook open, her pencil moving.She did not look up. "He is exceptionally gifted. Most assuredly his father's son."
"He is four months old," Tristan said.
"Yes," Imogen said. "And already he has opinions about breakfast and strong feelings about punctuality. He is entirely your fault."
Professor Alderton made a sound of delighted amusement and turned back to the ruins with the air of a man who had found his audience entirely satisfactory.