Unlocked (Turner 1.5)

Epilogue

Two months later.

The champagne had been poured in generous toasts. A dizzying multitude of friends and family had gathered around and offered the young couple congratulations. Elaine’s mother had scarcely been able to contain her happiness throughout the wedding breakfast, and so Elaine had barely managed to escape her parents’ home. A carriage decked with every spring flower had taken her away—all the way to Evan’s house, all of two streets’ distance.

Despite the beat of nervousness in her belly, she’d been introduced to his staff and he’d taken her on a leisurely tour of his home—their home now, to fill with an entire life together. He’d shown her to her chambers.

“The bed,” he said, quite seriously, “is the finest that money can buy. I had it made new for you, you know. I hope you…sleep comfortably.” A wicked smile danced on his face, and he glanced out the window at the afternoon sky.

Evening was still a depressing number of hours away.

Perhaps marriage did make you of one mind, because when she sighed, he winked at her.

“I was thinking that after our arduous day, we might consider retiring early.”

“What an excellent idea,” she returned, doing her best to keep her face straight and serious.

He stepped outside and gave the orders. The majority of the servants disappeared as silently as they’d come, heading to their own revels below.

Mary scarcely had time to divest Elaine of her formal white gown and replace it with an inappropriately virginal wrapper before a tap sounded at her door.

“His Lordship is eager,” Mary said.

“Mmm,” Elaine replied.

“And how could he be? After all, just last night, you were—”

“Mary, don’t you think you’ll need to pack? You have three weeks’ leave coming to you during our honeymoon. I should want to get started, were I you.”

Mary smiled and withdrew.

His Lordship wasn’t the only eager one.

But when he entered, he did not fall on her and ravish her immediately. Alas. He stood in the doorway, the light of afternoon painting his gold hair in hues of orange. He’d shed his formal coat and waistcoat; the tails of his shirt were untucked.

“Well, Lady Westfeld,” he said finally. “Are your accommodations to your liking?”

“Why so formal?”

He took a step toward her. “Formal? I’m just savoring the sound of your name.” Another step. “Lady Westfeld.” Another step, and he slid a finger under her chin. “Lady Westfeld of mine,” he whispered.

“You’ll just have to be my Evan,” she said in response.

“With pleasure.”

And then, step by step, he drew her into the center of the room for a kiss—and another one—and another one after that. She took hold of his arms, and she didn’t let go.