Mary, Angus, and Stuart joined them all and the room reverberated with the sounds of happiness.
It wasn’t until Dougray noticed Flora could barely keep her eyes open that he organized the wet nurse and midwife to take the babes and he shooed everyone out of the room.
He clambered onto the bed beside her and gently pulled her into his arms. “Sleep, my beauty. You’ve earned it. I’m so proud of you. You were so brave and determined.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Her eyes fluttered close as sleep beckoned but he heard her soft words. “Thank you for being brave enough to love me. You have given me the dream we talked about all those years ago. I have you by my side, the love of my life, and now I have a baby. My babies. Our babies! Even if I cannot have any more children I am more than content.”
He snuggled down and felt his eyes flutter closed too. He was tired but happy. So happy he thought his heart would burst. But before sleep and dreams of his family consumed him, he thanked God for putting a woman like Flora in this world. A woman who proved that with faith, and a lot of courage, love will truly conquer all.
THE END
ABOUT BRON
USA Today bestselling author, Bronwen Evans grew up loving books. She writes both historical and contemporary sexy romances for the modern woman who likes intelligent, spirited heroines, and compassionate alpha heroes. Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for a
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DUKE IN SEARCH OF A DUCHESS
SEPTEMBER
JENNIFER ASHLEY
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1
PRECISION. Nothing wrong with it.
Ash allowed his walking stick a single swing as he left St. James’s Palace at exactly seven o’clock in the evening and strode up St. James’s Street in the cool September dusk. He bypassed the temples to backroom politics and ruinous games—White’s, Brooke’s, Boodle’s, et cetera—and continued to Piccadilly, crossing the thoroughfare and along to the green space of Berkeley Square.
He walked not only for the exercise but because he knew precisely how long it would take him to reach his front door. No would-be pickpocket or robber accosted him along the way, because none would dream of waylaying Augustine Ferrand, the Duke of Ashford. Even the underworld of London had heard of Ash, and stayed away.
At half past seven on the dot, he entered his domain, and his valet, Edwards, took his hat, coat, and stick.
A meal waited upstairs in the dining room. Ash consumed it in silence, as usual, reading his evening correspondence and his stack of newspapers. The footmen served fish, soup, meat, and greens with flawless efficiency. The butler poured a red wine for the beginning of the meal and a sweet white for its end. Ash would take brandy later, but only after another order of business.
At twenty-five minutes past eight, Ash pushed back his chair, left his papers and letters for Edwards to carry to the library, and climbed the stairs to the nursery.
A chink opened in Ash’s armor when he entered—after tapping politely—to find his oldest son, Lewis, Marquess of Wilsdon, ten years old, standing in the middle of the room.
Ash’s immediate thought, unbidden:
Olivia, gentle, beautiful, of the silver laughter, gone forever. Lily, the youngest, had her laugh. She’d be the mirror of Olivia in a few years.
Ash forced the chink closed. Memories only gutted.
To hide his sudden falter, he pulled out his gold pocket watch. It read the same as the mantel clock, which had chimed twice as he’d entered. “Half past eight. Why are you all not in bed?”
Ash was surprised, not angry. Lewis had adopted Ash’s meticulous schedule without protest and made certain his sisters followed it as well.
