Page 97 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

And what they had done again this morning. What she very much hoped they would do again when they returned home.

“Ah yes,” Irene said, raising both brows. “A conversation.”

“A conversation.”

Irene nudged her in the ribs, making her laugh. Lady Marwich clacked her stick on the floor. “I hope to see you at the Minerva Club again soon,” she said to Jessamine. “Or had you forgotten we meet on Wednesdays?”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Jessamine said, resisting the urge to throw her arms around the ornery older woman. Her heart swelled with affection for these people. “I can’t promise I will attend every session, but I will be there more from now on, I promise. So long as William behaves himself.”

“He will, if he knows what’s good for him,” Lady Marwich grumbled.

Jessamine leaned against Andrew, who put his arm around her waist, briefly squeezing her to him. “All right?” he murmured.

“More than all right,” she whispered back.

They all agreed to walk together, and Jessamine chatted with Temperance about inconsequential things. Andrew invited everyone for dinner, and Jessamine couldn’t help marveling at how much her life had changed in what felt like a few short minutes.

One moment, Andrew was utterly standoffish, barely allowing himself to be integrated into her life at all. The next, he was making an effort to be a part of everything.

Lady Peterborough, one of the more prominent dowagers and, more importantly, one of the largest gossips in London, was the next to wave them to a stop.

“My,” she said as she took in the group. “What a glorious picture you all make together. How fond I am of such family portraits.” She flicked a limp wrist. “And you came with your… second cousin, is it? I’m afraid I lose track of these things.”

“He is our son,” Jessamine said firmly, a thrill going through her at having announced this fact so plainly. “And we are his parents.”

“Oh!” Lady Peterborough, a lady with more angles than curves, and an aristocratic nose that presented itself as the focal point of her face, withdrew her fan from her reticule and fluttered it at her face as though in shock. “How very… singular.”

“I hardly think so,” Andrew said in that icy, authoritative voice he saved for people such as Lady Peterborough.

When he was with her, he was nothing but gentle and kind, but in moments like this, she could imagine how terrifying he would be to face on a battlefield.

Lady Peterborough must have seen it, too, the stony anger in his face, a storm that could build to rage. She gave a weak smile. “Of course it makes sense,” she said in a soft, affected voice. “You would want to formally and fully adopt him, of course.”

She glanced at Jessamine, but although there was pity in her gaze, Jessamine hardly felt it.

She knew the truth, and now the rest of London would know this version of her truth, too—that she and Andrew were a unit, and that William was her son in every facet of the word.

They could think what they wanted about William’s origins, but Jessamine suspected that most people believed the story that they had put about—helped, of course, by the way she had so openly accepted and loved him. And now, as he was known across London as their son, the rumors and stories about his true parents would be forgotten.

William would know, of course. And they would never forget Rebecca. Jessamine sometimes felt a pang of guilt at the thought of being known as his mother. But when she looked at Andrew standing beside her, she knew she was doing the right thing in choosing her future.

No one would ever take it away from her.

Andrew slid his hand in hers, squeezing gently. She squeezed right back.

I love you, his touch said.

Right there, in front of everyone.

Temperance was chattering away, Lady Marwich was struggling to keep her smile from her face, and Irene had a hand on the subtle curve of her stomach as she walked.

Home. Family. Safety.

Jessamine wouldn’t exchange it for the world.

Epilogue

THREE MONTHS LATER