Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(86)

Riggett gestured wildly. “But the knights. The armor. The Order of the Poppy.”

“For God’s sake, man. They’re just stories. The rest of us here understand that.” Mr. Havers gestured at Ransom. “Look at him. The man’s not delusional. He’s in love.”

Ransom’s lips quirked in that familiar half smile. “Well, that’s one charge I can’t argue.”

It wasn’t a typical wedding. Rather a quiet affair.

The ceremony took place early on a Tuesday morning. The bride wore red, so the groom could see her in a crowd. The narrow pews of the village chapel were crushed with knights in makeshift armor and handmaidens in medieval gowns.

And, after a wedding breakfast at the village inn, the happy couple eschewed the waiting carriage in favor of a long, leisurely stroll back to their castle, walking arm-in-arm.

As they approached the barbican, Izzy stared up at the ancient stone fortress. The new glass panes in the windows acted like facets of a diamond, sparkling in the morning sun. So much had changed since that first rainy, gloomy afternoon, when she’d been deposited here with nothing more to her name than a weasel, a letter, and her last shred of hope.

Ransom stopped her in the courtyard. “Wait.”

She glanced up at him. And then she spent the next few moments collecting her scattered wits. The castle might have changed in her perception, but this man hadn’t. That wild, untamed masculine beauty made her knees weak every time.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Did we leave something behind at the inn?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve just been wanting to do this again.”

He bent at the waist, and in one swift move, he scooped her into his arms, tucking her close to his chest.

And this time, Izzy managed not to swoon.

Just barely.

Epilogue

Several months later

The candle was nearly guttered in its holder when Ransom reached the thirty-fourth stair. “Izzy, it’s late. You should come to bed.”

“I know.” Izzy replaced her quill in the inkwell and propped her elbows on the desk. With a sigh of fatigue, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.

He came to stand behind her. His strong hands settled heavily on her shoulders. “You’re working much too hard these last few weeks.”

“I know that, too.” She picked up the quill and began to write again. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I’m desperate to have a few months’ worth of installments completed before the baby arrives. The work’s going more slowly than I’d like. Add to that, I’m drowning in correspondence to answer.”

His thumbs kneaded the muscles at the back of her neck, coaxing a deep sigh from her chest.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“That massage is a lovely start.” She sorted through the pile of envelopes. “Maybe you can help me answer this letter from Lord Peregrine?”

“What conundrum has he posed this time?”

“It’s my turn to pose the conundrum, actually, and I’m stumped for one.” She tapped her quill on the blotter. “Aha. I have it.” She dipped her pen and began to write. “ ‘Would you rather find a weasel in your bed or an octopus?’ ” She scribbled the letter’s closing and set it aside.

“That’s unfair. He gets to choose? I don’t get to choose.”

“No, you don’t. You’re stuck with both.” Smiling, Izzy pulled a magazine from her pile of correspondence. “Now here’s something from the post you’ll find amusing. There’s a letter to the editor of the Gentleman’s Review. And it’s about me.”

“Read it, then.”

Izzy opened the magazine to a marked page and read aloud in a lofty, affected baritone. “ ‘Like so many devoted readers of your publication, I was pleased to see that England’s beloved daughter, little Izzy Goodnight, newly the Duchess of Rothbury, has taken up her pen and decided to continue writing in the marvelous world Sir Henry gave to her, and to us. I read the first installments with great anticipation and much interest, but I am sorry to say they did not impress.’ ”

Ransom scowled. “Impertinent jackass.”

“He’s entitled to his opinion. Let’s see . . . Here we are.” She lowered her voice again. “ ‘Though she has swiftly ascended to a higher social rank than her late father enjoyed, these first chapters make it sadly clear that Her Grace will never be his literary equal. Her writing pales beside the richness of Sir Henry’s prose though I am pained to say it.”

“I’ll pain him to say it,” Ransom grumbled.

“Oh, but it gets better,” she told him, skimming ahead. “He goes on, ‘The Shadow Knight’s Journey isn’t without its faint glimmers of promise, however. With maturity and time to hone her craft, perhaps the duchess can aspire to be half the writer her father was—and that in itself would be a genuine accomplishment for any writer so young, and so female.’ And it’s signed, The Right Honorable Edmund Creeley, of Chatton, Kent.”

She set aside the magazine, laughing helplessly.

Ransom didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything.

“Well?” she prodded. “Aren’t you amused? Have you no response?”

“Oh, I have a response. The Right Honorable Edmund Creeley can take his quill and—”