Mrs. Garrison cupped Rowan’s cheek with one hand and Isabella’s with the other. “Well done, you two. Well done.” She took her husband’s hand and left Rowan and Isabella alone.
Alone as he liked it but surrounded on all sides as she adored.
“No backing out now,” she said.
He took her hand and led her to a quiet corner, sat her on a chair, and knelt before her. “The day we traveled to Stevenage together I was waiting for you. I’d made every preparation to go without you.”
“I’d told you quite plainly I would not go.” No one seemed to be paying them a bit of attention, but she kept her voice low. Perhaps because his had lowered into a register best used in a bedchamber, deep and rich and husky. And promising.
“Precisely, and I told myself, quite plainly, I did not need you. Yet… I could not leave. My coachman grew tired waiting for me to leave, but there I was, pacing the alley between Hestia and the mews. There was a heart drawn on the wall with initials in it, and I remember thinking, poor fools, I hope their love lasts longer than this bit of vandalism.”
“How very romantic of you, Rowan.”
He gathered her hands in his. “I wanted you. From the very beginning. I was waiting for you, drenched in sweat because you wouldn’t come, and I wanted you to come. With every inch of my soul. Then you were there, arguing with the footman.”
“Guard.”
“And demanding entrance. To Hestia, to my coach. To my life.”
“You expect me to believe you liked me then?” Surprisingly easy to sound disbelieving when happiness tingled across her skin, beat like music in her heart.
“Liked. Hm. More accurate to say fascinated. Enchanted.”
“I have tricked you, then? Like that changeling you compare me to?”
“No,a chuisle. The enchantment dropped away long ago, and the reality behind it better than any story. I hope whoever drew on the wall behind Hestia has put their heart up there again. If they have not, I may have to draw one for us.”
She flicked a strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re a secret romantic.”
That pleased grin, those happy eyes, they focused on her lips. He would kiss her. In front of everyone.
And she would let him, but—
She slapped a hand to his chest. “How do you know the original heart is gone?”
He blushed, then scowled. “I had it washed away.”
“Rowan!”
“They had no right to put a mark on my building.”
“I take it back. You’ve nary a romantic bone in your body.”
He kissed her, the shortest peck, the sweetest kind, and it quite stole her words. She looked about to see if anyone else in the loud room had noticed.
Imogen stared at them. Thurston, too. He raised his glass. Imogen winked, and Isabella laughed. Rowan pulled a chair up and sat, their legs touching as everyone about them chatted and chuckled. She could not hear what they said, but she knew they were happy. With Rowan’s voice whispering promises in her ear, she was, too. No matter what gossip or scandal came their way, love—uncontrollable, chaotic, and true—would keep them in the light.
Epilogue
One Year Later
Rowan knew the moment Isabella saw the sign upon entering Stevenage. First, she froze. Then, her eyes became saucers. Finally, she began to bounce.
“Stop the coach!” she cried. “Stop!”
Rowan chuckled and knocked on the roof, spoke a word with the coachman, and the conveyance rolled to a stop.
Isabella threw herself down before it had quite quit moving, and Rowan threw himself after her.
