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Tomorrow would just have to wait.

Epilogue

Hugh had promised that Audrey would come to love the Christmas holidays, but she had remained dubious. That was, until the morning of December 25. She had stirred awake to the sensation of something tickling the tip of her nose, and when she opened her eyes, she saw Hugh hovering over her in bed. He held a small, paper-wrapped box, tied with red silk ribbon. The ends of the ribbon, trailing down from the floppy bow, had been the tickling culprits.

Even before she’d sat up against the pillows and opened her gift, Audrey had changed her mind about Christmas. Her husband had wished to make it special for her, and he had, though really, all he’d needed to do was greet her upon waking that morning.

Although, she did adore the delicate cameo brooch he’d given her.

“It belonged to my mother,” he explained as she admired the intricate carving in the conch shell. Its natural pink blush color shimmered in the morning light streaming through the windows.

“It’s beautiful, Hugh. I love it, and it’s even more special knowing it was your mother’s.” Audrey kissed him, and then scrambling out of bed, she reached underneath their four-poster bed for her gift to him.

She hadn’t wrapped it—she hadn’t thought it would matter. But having unwrapped the jewelry box with bubbling anticipation, she now understood the allure of opening a wrapped gift. Vowing to do better next Christmas, she’d handed over the bottle of Marsden Brothers Scotch whisky. He read the label, mouth quirking.

“Do I own a distillery? And do I have other brothers that I don’t know about?”

Laughing, she’d settled back onto the bed. “No, but in doing a bit of research into your mother, I learned—with Basil’s assistance—that Catherine Marsden’s family in Lancashire operates a distillery. I suppose they would be your uncles or cousins.”

Despite the early hour, Hugh uncorked the bottle and took a hearty swig.

“Marvelous,” he said, smacking his lips. “This bottle will be gone by tomorrow, you know.”

“Then it is a very good thing there are a half dozen more in the cellar,” she replied. In the next second, she had the smoky taste of the Scotch whisky on her own tongue as Hugh kissed her.

Now, a few hours later, after an indulgent breakfast of trifle, she and Hugh, along with Sir and Basil, were lounging in the morning room, a fire crackling in the hearth. It had been a cozy, tranquil morning, and outside, a lazy snowfall of large, wet flakes accumulated on the window embrasures.

“I insist you rescind the gift,” Basil said. He sat in a chair by the fire, dressed in his usual suit and cravat, the only allowance for the holiday being the dark burgundy waistcoat, embroidered with green holly berries. It was quite festive, Audrey thought.

“We aren’t taking it back, Basil,” Hugh grumbled from where he slouched in the opposite chair, legs splayed. He was nursing another glass of Marsden Brothers Scotch whisky, determined to make good on his promise of draining the bottle by the end of the evening.

“It is improper for a viscount to give his valet a present,” Basil insisted.

Sir, sprawled on the divan with a bowl of trifle on his chest, groaned dramatically. “It’s a book, Baz, not the Crown jewels.”

Audrey had selected the five-volume set of the new novel, Lovers and Friends by Anne of Swansea, herself. It was a poorly kept secret that the valet enjoyed reading dramas and romances published by the rather low-brow Minerva Press, and when Basil had unwrapped them an hour ago, his eyes had rounded with astonished delight. Of course, he hadn’t quit trying to give the gift back since.

“That isn’t the point,” he argued to Sir. “We should not even be here, celebrating the morning with his lordship and her ladyship.”

Sir scraped his nearly empty bowl of trifle. “Speak for yourself. And I’m not giving back my new hat.”

The deep midnight-blue top hat sat askew on Sir’s head. Audrey and Hugh had been surprised to learn earlier that autumn that the boy had a penchant for top hats and had been steadily growing his collection. He still refused to wear gloves, however.

“I wouldn’t take it back now that it’s been on your ragamuffin head,” Hugh said, a sardonic grin hidden behind the glass tipped to his mouth.

Audrey laughed, fully enjoying the bickering between the three males in the room. While intuition told her the babe inside her was a girl, she truly did not care either way. And for the next December 25, there would be a little tot with them, enjoying her, or his, first Christmas.

Over the last two weeks, she’d worked to set aside thoughts of Penelope Harwood and what had been stolen from her. It was far too tragic, and even the arrests and expected convictions of Morris and Jessamin Harwood weren’t consolation enough. Not for the lifetime together that Penelope and her baby would now miss.

Tobias had stopped by the Berkeley Square house a few days after Audrey had officially entered her confinement and had thanked her and Hugh for believing in his innocence. He and Calvin Messinger had yet to make amends, but Tobias was hopeful that a plan to fund an investment in the new gaming hall in Calvin’s name would show his friend just how sorry he was. And it might also provide much needed revenue for Calvin.

At a sudden, sharp kick to the ribs, Audrey gasped, and her hand flew to her abdomen. Hugh sprang out of his slouch, his drink sloshing.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

The baby wiggled a little, then settled. “Nothing,” she said with a light laugh. “Just a stubborn and restless baby. Much like her father.”

“Or his,” Hugh said, winking as he sat back into his chair again.