Thank you, everyone, for all your reviews. And thank you for letting me add my story to this fandom. I hope my cracked theory doesn't ruin the story for you. Heck, I hope this ending doesn't ruin the story for you. Please, enjoy.

Lady Sharon Rainsworth, Grand Duchess, is now twenty-eight, though she appears to be only nineteen. Her body has become that of a full-grown woman, and she carries herself as all Rainsworth women have: with a calm that approaches the heavenly and a grace that belongs to the angels.

But even the magnificent Lady Sharon has her moments of weakness. Her valet has asked if she wishes to remodel the library. He has noticed there are several books that must be either moved or stored if she wishes to make the necessary changes.

And so, she has entered this room with the express purpose of clearing away the cobwebs of the past. When she sees her old romance novels, she remembers.

Gil's terror and strength. Alice's courage. Oz's struggle and triumph. And Break. She remembers him.

At any other time, there is so much business to be done, that it's easy to forget Break has not returned. Any other day, she would be in control, as a Rainsworth woman ought to be, of herself.

But the smell of the books has somehow mixed with Break's candy. Stuffed, forgotten, here among these nooks and crannies, the scent has managed to linger, though it should have disappeared long ago. It is strongest on the book she first read to him. She pulls out the old novel and caresses it, tears springing to her eyes. But she does not break down. Lady Rainsworth has cried too many nights to be overcome by a single book.

Taking it with her, she tells the valet to leave the library as it is. It will not be remodeled.

That night, she sets the book on her nightstand, next to a freshly cleaned Emily. She inspects the doll carefully. "He didn't clean behind my ears," she whinges.

"And I imagine you didn't make it easy for him," Sharon murmurs.

"I did! I held still, just as you told me."

Sharon smiles, and a tear slips down her cheek. "You're a silly girl," Emily scolds. "You can have any man you want. Why are you clinging to him?"

"Because no one has told me he's dead. I refuse to believe he's dead. He's just late, that's all. He's away on Pandora business," she chuckles, "and will come by my bedroom before he retires for the night. To check up on me."

"Have you gone mad?" Emily asks, more direct than usual.

Sharon does not answer. She puts Emily back on the nightstand, placing her as if the doll she's spoken through might truly be alive. "She's right," Sharon mutters. "They'll think I've gone mad if anyone catches me talking to a doll. No matter how useful," she says, with a slight curtsy to Emily. "Although," she continues, dressing now for bed, "perhaps you would be useful in more ways than one. If that young Viscount continues to badger me, I shall have to invite you to tea."

"Oh, that's brilliant, Lady Sharon," Emily coos.

"Thank you. I thought you might approve." Finished, she ties her robe and sits in a chair near her open window.

"Though," Emily continues in a voice Sharon hasn't heard in years, "it doesn't seem very intelligent, especially for a Rainsworth woman."

Sharon freezes. Breathless, she waits. Then, she remembers how the game was once played. "I was inspired by a man who pretended to be more strange than he actually was."

"He was a stupid, stupid man and could get away with it. If people think you're mad, they might try to take away everything your family built. Or think that you're weak."

"Emily," she says, not quite able to drop down to the scolding tone she once used so often. "Name-calling does not strengthen your position." Looking around her, she can't tell where he is.

"Neither does madness. Oh, don't pretend, Lady Sharon. Please."

She laughs. "I think I may not be pretending this time."

"Of course you are." But it is not Emily who says that. Break steps out from the shadows, the Baskervilles' long red cape flowing around him. "I asked if I could keep the coat you made me," he says, but is unable to say anything more. Sharon clasps him to her in a tight embrace.

This time, his arms encircle her, holding her close. This time, he rests his cheek against her own.

"You came back," she whispers.

"I couldn't let you go to sleep without knowing you were safe. Any more nightmares?"

"Oh, an awful one that lasted many nights," she breathes. "But it's over now."

"Is it?" He holds her closer. "I can't stay long."

"I gathered." She breathes in the scent of him, of sugar and tea and smiles. "I didn't think you would come to rescue me."

"That depends." He pulls away and she watches him, confused. As a Baskerville, his body has been restored to the strength she remembered from her childhood. Now, through the eyes of a woman, she's surprised he didn't have more admirers. Thin but strong, the energy and passion in those eyes, those beautiful scarlet eyes, are enough to drive the calm Lady Sharon to distraction.

"On what does it depend?" she asks, unable to stop watching him.

He pauses. "I was sorry to hear of your mother's passing."

She can see that her death has touched him as well. It warms her, and she nods.

Clearing his throat (to keep from crying, Sharon knows), he says, "I was surprised to hear you haven't yet chosen an heiress."

"I haven't found any suitable. Now that Glen Baskerville is once again in charge of the city, it is difficult to find any young women who aren't entirely focused on parties and frivolity."

"Terrible things," he says, his mocking undertone clear this time.

She cannot glare at him. He comes closer and kneels down in front of her. "Am I still your Xerx-nii?"

Hesitant, she reaches out and touches his cheek, her fingers trailing down his jawline. "Didn't you say once that I felt you were much more?"

"I implied that once, yes."

She hesitates again. This time, he reaches up and presses her palm to his cheek. Closing his eyes, he says, "I never did learn how to dance." His scarlet eyes open, desire dancing in them like an open flame. "Would you care to try one last time?"

She doesn't want to move, terrified she'll break this moment. "Using me again?"

"Oh, you'll get something out of it as well."

He stands and she follows as he leads her to an open place in the room. She is very aware now of the thinness of her robe, and the closeness of Break. He places his hand on her waist, drawing her close and she puts hers on his shoulder. She doesn't remember standing this close to him before.

"Now we start by-" he says, but she interrupts him with an affectionate annoyance she hasn't felt since she was last near him. "I already know how to dance."

"Do you?" He seems jealous and she realizes what he must be thinking.

"I meant it literally, Break."

"I didn't."

"Yes, I gath-" he leans down and brushes his lips against hers, then presses her against him, hungry for her, as if she were the candy he couldn't seem to get enough of when he was a Rainsworth valet. When he finally pulls away, they're both breathless.

Leaning down, he kisses her neck, just below her ear, his lips trailing down to her shoulder, leaving a trails of desire that makes Sharon tremble. "Break."

"Yes, milady?" he murmurs, obviously focused on something other than words.

"Stay with me."

He smiles against her skin. And hours later, after they've finally satisfied (for now) the need they've denied for so long, they fall asleep in each other's arms.

.

.

.

Rainsworth women, Break knows, do not marry. Marriage implies ownership, and a Rainsworth woman is owned by no one.

But they do promise, and Sharon's promise resides in his heart, filling the emptiness he thought would never leave. They have vowed to each other. More than either one of them expected, and so their joy knows no bounds.

At least, until one night when Sharon gives birth to their first child. He can't be near her. Sharon has made that clear. Break waits until the small crowd has left the room, until only his beloved and his daughter remain. Only then does he emerge from the shadows and kisses Sharon's sweat-drenched hair. Her smile is tired, yet filled with a calm ecstasy that moves him close to tears.

He grins at his little daughter, sleeping next to her mother. "She's beautiful," he says, overcome by the sight of her.

"She very strong. I swear I saw her holding up her head, and she's newly born."

"You shouldn't swear," he says. "It's a nasty habit."

Their laughter is brief. Both find they crave the stillness of this moment. And in that moment, a wiser Break realizes he is gladly caught in the trap once more of selflessness. This is his, Xerxes Break's, and he will do all in his power to keep it.

END