"Indeed." Demon watched as their four ladies broke from their huddle and headed their way. "What now?"
"Whatever it is, we can't escape," Martin replied. "Take my advice-surrender with good grace." He strolled forward to intercept Celia.
Gabriel grimaced. "I wish he hadn't used that word."
"'Surrender'?" Demon asked.
"Hmm. It might be the truth, but I don't want to hear it." So saying, Gabriel gracefully deflected Alathea, turning her toward the shrubbery.
"There's a secluded little folly down by the lake," Lucifer murmured to Demon.
"Where are you headed?" Demon murmured back.
"There's this arbor in the garden I'm working on filling with pleasant memories."
Demon grinned. "Good luck."
Lucifer saluted as they parted, each to his own special lady. "Good luck to us all."
And with that, the Bar Cynster surrendered gladly, each to his own, very special, fate.
Epilogue
August 1820 Somersham, Cambridgeshire
It was nearly two years to the day that she'd first sighted this house, first strolled the wide lawns. Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, stood on the front porch of her home, Somersham Place, and looked about her, marveling at the changes, and at how much, despite all, remained the same.
The side lawn was filled with family and connections, the froth of summer gowns scattered like confetti over the green. Many had taken advantage of the shade offered by the ancient trees to lounge at ease; others strolled, stopping by the various groups to chat, to learn the latest news, and, most of all, to greet the new family members.
There were many of those. That fact infused the gathering with an untempered joy, an effervescent sense of burgeoning life that was tangible.
Two years ago, many of those present had gathered here to mourn. Although Tolly, and even Charles, had not been forgotten, the family, like all great families, had moved on. They'd prospered, they'd conquered-now they were enjoying the fruits of their labors.
Cradling one such apple in one arm, Honoria raised her skirts and descended to the lawn. Before she'd taken three steps, her husband detached himself from one group and strode, fiendishly handsome and arrogantly confident as ever, to join her.
"How is he?" Devil bent his dark head to peek at his second son.
Michael blinked, yawned, then grabbed his sire's finger.
"He's fed and dry and therefore content. And I believe it's your turn to play nursemaid." Honoria divested herself of the shawl-wrapped bundle. Devil accepted the charge with alacrity. Honoria hid her grin; she knew he'd been waiting to play the proud father. It never ceased to amaze her that he-indeed, all the males of his family-while so strong and powerful and so arrogantly assured, so totally dominant, could and would, at the wave of a tiny hand, readily devote himself so completely to his offspring.
"Where's Sebastian?" She scanned the lawns for sign of their firstborn. He'd recently started to walk; running could not be far behind.
"He's with the twins." Devil lifted his head and located the girls. "They're on the steps of the summerhouse."
There was a frown in his eyes; Honoria knew it wasn't because he doubted the twins' ability to watch over Sebastian. She patted his arm; when he transferred his pale green gaze to her face, she smiled up at him. "Consider this. Better they dream of having children of their own, therefore accepting all the steps that come before, than that they don't."
It took him a moment to follow her reasoning, then his eyes hardened. "I'd rather they didn't think about any of that at all."
"You've as much chance of achieving that as of holding back the sun." She squeezed his arm, then waved imperiously toward the guests. "Now go and play host and show off our son, while I go and admire the others."
Majestically established in a wrought-iron seat placed at the center of the lawn, the Dowager and Horatia held court. Between them, they lovingly juggled three tiny, shawl-wrapped bundles, exclaiming fondly, displaying their grandchildren for the edification of the surrounding crowd that, for the past thirty minutes, had constantly changed but not diminished in the least.
In a lounger to one side of the seat, Catriona, Lady of the Vale, lay resting, still pale, her hair a fiery halo around her head. The glow in her face as she watched Helena cradle her babies rendered her nothing less than radiant. She looked precisely what she was, a madonna who'd been blessed.
Richard stood beside the lounger, his fingers entwined with hers. His gaze constantly
switched from his wife to his children and back again. The expression in his dark eyes, on his lean, harsh-featured face, spoke louder than words of his pride and his joy.