Amanda StoNeS

Historical Regency Romance Author

A Wallflower's
Convenient
duke

Bonus Extended Epilogue

Ten years later…

 

It had been a full decade since their unexpected marriage — ten years marked by growth, change, and a quiet sort of joy. Now, in the soft golden light of a spring afternoon, Philip and Blanche strolled the manicured paths of their estate’s gardens, contentment etched in every glance they exchanged.

The laughter of children rang through the air — bright, unrestrained, and utterly infectious. It danced among the roses and echoed from the hedgerows, bringing a smile to Philip’s lips. He watched their three children — two daughters, Emma and Charlotte, and their eldest, James — chasing one another across the lawn with the boundless energy that only youth can sustain.

Blanche leaned gently against her husband’s arm, her gaze following the darting figures. “Do you ever marvel, Philip,” she murmured, “at how life has unfolded?”

“Every single day,” he replied, warmth in his voice. “I scarcely remember who I was before them — or before you.”

As if on cue, James paused in his play and darted over to them, his cheeks flushed, his dark eyes alight with eagerness. He tugged at Blanche’s skirts with a youthful urgency.

“Mama, may I join Papa in the study after lessons today?” he asked, words tumbling out with excitement. “He says one day the antiquities shall be mine, and I wish to begin learning now — I want to know every story they hold.”

Blanche exchanged a look with Philip, her heart swelling at the sight of their son — so curious, so earnest, so very like them both. She brushed a wisp of hair from James’s forehead.

“Of course, my darling,” she said with a smile. “Your father will be delighted. The study is a place of discovery, and I daresay you are more than ready to begin exploring its secrets.”

With a grin too large for his small face, James turned to Philip, who extended a hand with mock solemnity.

“Come then, young scholar,” he said, “let us unlock the mysteries of the past together.”

Hand in hand, father and son strolled through the corridors of the house — beneath ancestral portraits whose painted eyes seemed to nod in silent approval, past tall bookshelves filled with the weight of centuries. At last, they reached the study — Philip’s sanctuary, and perhaps, one day, James’s as well.

The door creaked open, revealing shelves brimming with leather-bound tomes, tables strewn with ancient maps, and glass cases containing relics from far-off lands. The scent of parchment and polish lingered in the air, grounding the room in reverence and time.

James stood awestruck.

Philip moved to a cabinet and withdrew an artefact — a small, bronze figurine worn with age.

“This,” he said, his voice measured, “was found on the banks of the Tiber. Look closely — every line etched here tells a story.”

And so the lesson began.

From the doorway, Blanche watched unnoticed, her heart full. There was no sound so sweet as that of her husband sharing his passion with their son, no sight more precious than the glimmer of knowledge igniting in a child’s eyes.

Time passed unheeded, until James’s stomach rumbled in protest, bringing laughter to the study. The ancient worlds of Rome and Greece would wait — luncheon called.

The family gathered in the sunlit dining room, the table set with care, the meal abundant. Emma and Charlotte chattered gaily about dolls and garden adventures, while James recounted his discoveries with animated fervour. Blanche and Philip listened, exchanging smiles over their children’s heads — the private language of a love that had deepened with the years.

As plates were passed and laughter filled the space, Philip looked around the table, at the faces he cherished more than any artefact, any treasure. He reached for Blanche’s hand beneath the linen cloth, their fingers entwining.

“I am grateful,” he said softly, though his words carried. “For all of this. For you. For them. For every day we’ve had, and every one still to come.”

There was a pause, just a breath — and in that moment, love enveloped them all. Not loud, not grand. But steady. Certain. Enduring.

The study might hold the remnants of the past, but it was here — in the warmth of home, in shared bread and laughter — that the true legacy of their lives was written.

 

***

 

The dining room still echoed with laughter and the soft clinking of cutlery, the scent of warm bread and fresh herbs lingering in the air. Blanche watched with fond amusement as Philip leaned over to help Charlotte with a napkin she had determinedly turned into a bonnet. James recited a fact he’d just learned in the study, while Emma declared it must certainly be untrue — “for how could anyone possibly know what people did that long ago?” Her father’s amused reply only added to the delight.

As the last morsels were enjoyed and the servants cleared the table, Blanche rose with a heart brimming full. Her steps were light as she made her way into the hallway, the soft swish of her skirts the only sound until the front door opened and familiar footsteps echoed on the marble floor.

“Blanche, my dear!” came Evelyn’s warm, lilting voice as she stepped inside, sunlight following her like an old friend. “How does the day find you? I was hoping I might steal a few precious moments with my most beloved grandchildren. Where are they?”

Blanche laughed and stepped aside, grateful that Evelyn was such a wonderful grandmother. There were times when she and Philip needed a rest from the exuberance of their wonderful children, just to catch their breath.

“Please, come in. I am sure that they are thrilled to see you.”

Evelyn did not even have a chance to sit down for tea. The children appeared in a flurry of energy, seizing her hands and dragging her toward the garden with cries of, “Come, Grandmama! You must see the tadpoles!” and “There are fairies beneath the foxglove today, I’m sure of it!”

Blanche followed at a more measured pace, her heart full as she watched the generations entwine. Evelyn — ever gracious, ever tender — allowed herself to be tugged this way and that with patience and unfeigned delight. The children adored her, and Blanche could not help but be grateful for her presence in their lives.

She settled herself on a shaded bench, watching the scene unfold with quiet joy. Yet even as she smiled, her thoughts grew still. For she knew this tranquil interlude would not last long.

Isabella would be arriving shortly.

Though ten years had passed since that fateful upheaval, and a cautious peace had taken root between them, it was not without effort. Blanche had never entirely managed to forget — nor quite forgive — the depths of her mother’s past transgressions. Still, Isabella had remained consistent in her overtures, particularly where the children were concerned.

And in truth, she was a far better grandmother than she had ever been a mother. 

She listened when Emma prattled about wildflowers, indulged Charlotte’s ever-changing whims, and — most surprising of all — encouraged James’s fascination with history. Blanche had once believed her mother wholly incapable of such support, and yet… here they were.

Blanche had vowed early on that she would never allow her own children to feel the shame or dismissal she had known. If James wanted to spend his days studying crumbling coins and ancient relics, then she would hold the candle while he did.

A servant appeared at the garden gate, bowing respectfully. “Lady Wicksford has arrived, Your Grace.”

Blanche stood. She had hoped for more time — a moment longer to prepare herself. But there was no point in delay.

Isabella swept into the garden moments later, her expression bright, her manner effusive.

“My darling girl!” she said, arms extended. “It is always such a pleasure to see you. These little gatherings are the highlight of my month, especially now that Leopold has so many engagements of his own.”

Blanche returned her greeting with composure. “It is good to see you too, Mother.”

The words were mild, measured — a practiced courtesy worn like fine lace over the bruises of the past. Isabella’s presence, however genial, still stirred a complicated tangle of emotions within Blanche: gratitude for her attempts at redemption, and the quiet ache of wounds that time alone could not erase.

But none of that mattered to the children, and Blanche intended to keep it that way.

As Isabella’s voice lingered in the warm garden air, the moment seemed to pause — as though even the wind held its breath. Blanche stood still, her expression serene, the calm she had cultivated over the years resting lightly upon her features. Then, as if summoned by instinct, the children came running.

“Grandmother!” Emma cried, a whirlwind of youthful joy as she flung her arms around Isabella’s waist. “We have missed you terribly!”

Charlotte and James followed close behind, their laughter ringing like birdsong through the hedges.

Isabella’s expression softened at once, the rigid elegance of her carriage melting into genuine warmth. “My sweet darlings,” she murmured, stooping to embrace them all. “How very good it is to see you.”

Blanche watched the exchange from her place near the roses, her arms loosely crossed. In spite of everything, her heart stirred at the sight—not for the woman who had once wounded her so deeply, but for the grandmother who now knelt amongst daisies and dirt-streaked hems, her hands held tight by three adoring grandchildren. It was a strange comfort to witness.

Perhaps some things could be salvaged after all.

Charlotte eagerly tugged Isabella toward the flower beds, while James began a breathless account of the frogs he and Emma had discovered in the pond that morning.

Blanche had just started to follow when Philip appeared at her side, a folded letter in his hand.

“Leopold has written,” he said, his voice low and fond. “I thought you might wish to read it with me.”

At once, a brighter kind of emotion bloomed in Blanche’s chest — joy, laced with the familiar thrill of affection for her younger brother. “Yes,” she said softly. “I should like that very much.”

They sat together upon a shaded bench beneath the lilac tree, shoulder to shoulder, as Philip opened the letter. Blanche leaned close, her eyes devouring each line, a quiet smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It was wonderful to know that his life was taking a wonderful, positive turn as well.



My Dearest Blanche and Philip,

 

I trust this letter finds you both in good health and high spirits. Allow me to regale you with tales of my Grand Tour, a journey that has been nothing short of extraordinary. Currently, I find myself amidst the marvels of Florence, a city that seems to breathe history with every step.

The majestic Duomo, with its intricate facade and towering presence, left me in awe. The artistry of the Renaissance masters adorns every corner, and I have been fortunate enough to witness Michelangelo’s David, a masterpiece that transcends mere stone and captures the essence of human perfection.

Walking through the Uffizi Gallery, I felt as though I had stepped into a realm where time itself stood still. Botticelli’s Primavera and The Birth of Venus, among countless others, unfolded before my eyes like pages from a living history book.

Florence is a city that whispers stories from the past, and every cobblestone seems to carry the weight of centuries. As I navigate its labyrinthine streets, I am reminded of the rich tapestry of human achievement and the indomitable spirit of creativity.

In addition to the art and history, I have immersed myself in the culinary delights of the region. The flavors of Tuscan cuisine are as rich and varied as the artworks that surround me. From exquisite wines to delectable pasta dishes, each meal is a celebration of the region’s cultural heritage.

I am also learning Italian, attempting to engage with the locals in their native tongue. The people here have been gracious and welcoming, sharing their stories and traditions with a warmth that transcends language barriers.

 As I continue my journey through Europe, I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity you have provided. This Grand Tour is not just a physical exploration but a journey of self-discovery and cultural enlightenment. I carry with me the lessons and experiences that will undoubtedly shape my understanding of the world.

 Please convey my deepest appreciation to Philip for his generous support, without which this journey would remain an unfulfilled dream. I eagerly await the day when I can regale you both with more tales from my travels.

 Until then, may the gardens of your home bloom with joy, and may the laughter of our family continue to echo through the halls.

 

With love and gratitude,

Leopold

As Philip and Blanche sat beneath the gentle shade of the lilac tree, the soft rustle of Leopold’s letter in their hands mingled with the delighted shrieks of their children at play. The garden, dappled in golden afternoon light, brimmed with the music of laughter — Emma, Charlotte, and James darting across the lawn like butterflies in midsummer, their joy a balm to all the years that had come before.

Drawn by the intrigue of hushed voices and curious expressions, the trio scampered toward their parents with breathless eagerness. Evelyn followed behind them with a smile, while Isabella, ever observant, quickened her pace at the sight of the letter in Philip’s hands.

“I recognise that handwriting,” Isabella announced, her tone bright with familiarity. “It is from Leopold, is it not?”

Charlotte, ever the most impetuous, clutched the edge of the bench and peered at the parchment. “Mother, Father — what does it say? What has Uncle Leopold written?”

Philip let out a soft chuckle, folding the letter with care. “He writes from Florence,” he said, glancing around at the eager faces gathered before him. “He has been exploring the wonders of the Renaissance — walking the very halls where Michelangelo once toiled, marvelling at the Duomo, and studying the sculptures with such fervour that one might think he means to chisel one himself.”

Blanche smiled; her heart warmed by the scene. She owed much of her brother’s freedom to Philip’s generosity — it had been he who quietly funded Leopold’s Grand Tour, determined that no bright mind should be dimmed by lack of means. Watching the joy on the children’s faces now, she felt a rush of affection for the man who had made it possible.

Emma clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, how I wish we could have such adventures! Imagine seeing all the statues and paintings and palaces!”

Blanche reached out to smooth back a curl from her daughter’s brow. “Perhaps one day, my darling. The world is vast, and there will be time enough for you to discover it.”

James, whose fascination with antiquity had deepened with every visit to the study, turned an eager gaze toward his father. “May I read it too, Papa? I want to know what Uncle Leopold said about Michelangelo!”

Philip handed the letter over, watching with a fond smile as James hungrily devoured its contents, his small brow furrowing in concentration.

Isabella, standing nearby, observed the scene with something like reverence. “He always did admire Florence,” she said softly, her voice touched with nostalgia. “Though I daresay he’s seeing it with different eyes now.”

Blanche glanced toward her mother, noting the gentler tone. The years had weathered them both — but perhaps, at last, softened her too.

As the children began to chatter amongst themselves about grand adventures to come, Emma turned suddenly with a spark in her eye. “Mama, when shall we have our own Grand Tour?”

Blanche’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “In good time, my love. For now, let us delight in the travels of others, and in the adventures of our own garden.”

The breeze stirred through the lavender beds, and for a moment, the world seemed suspended in a frame of perfect peace. Around them stood generations, mother and daughter, father and son, grandmother and child, all woven together in the ever-growing tapestry of family.

And Blanche, seated beside the man she had once feared she could never truly know, surrounded by the children who were their dearest legacy, felt the quiet, abiding truth of a life well and fully lived.

The future was still unfolding, in letters from Florence, in dreams of distant cities, and in the innocent laughter that drifted on the breeze.

And oh, what a glorious thing it was to be alive for it.



The End