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And fortunately, they both continued to mend fences with their families. She and Colin had had a lovely, formal wedding at the local parish church in Berkshire and a reception at Halstead Hall. She’d worn a designer sleeveless gown with white gloves that had drawn a gratifyingly stunned response from Colin. For his part, Colin had exuded a quiet male authority in a morning jacket and red cummerbund.
They had even invited Mrs. Hollings to the wedding. She had turned out to be a sixty-something woman who was a British subject by birth but had lived in New York for years. She also had impeccable sources.
For Belinda, the third time had been the charm, because though both Wentworths and Granvilles had attended, there had been no hiccup in the proceedings. Of course, it had helped that the two families had followed tradition and occupied opposite sides of the church aisle.
Now, however, that Belinda was pregnant with Wentworth-Granville offspring, even the fact that she’d legally changed her name to Belinda Granville had apparently faded into the background. Even Colin’s mother had become reconciled, though, of course, to her, the expected grandchildren were simply Granvilles.
Hawk bent down to help his son, and Colin came over to her and slipped his arm around her back.
“Happy?” Colin asked her.
“Of course,” Belinda said. “And it’s wonderful to have our friends here with us.”
Colin smiled. “Even though both our families are set to arrive the day after Christmas for Boxing Day?”
“They’ll behave, or else,” she threatened with mock humor.
“If Uncle Hugh bests my mother at chess again, there may be blood on the Persian rug.”
Belinda laughed. “Who knew they’d have something in common?”
Uncle Hugh continued to reside at the Mayfair town house and the estates nearby in Berkshire. Eventually the property would pass to Belinda’s children, as was always intended.
The Elmer Street property had been sold—Belinda herself had pushed for it—and the proceeds used to upgrade the Berkshire estates and the Mayfair town house.
Belinda knew she was lucky.
She had asked for and gotten a transfer to the London office of Lansing’s. She had worked there for several months and given notice only two weeks ago. She hoped, though, to keep her hand in the art world somehow. There were many priceless works of art at Halstead Hall to give her inspiration.
For the moment, however, she had her hands full with the babies’ impending arrival, her work with the staff at Colin’s various properties and her charitable and other endeavors as the Marchioness of Easterbridge.
“Life is good,” she announced.
“But not like a dappled impressionist painting,” Colin teased. “It’s more like a work of modern art. It’s what you make of it. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.”
“Kiss me,” she said, “and I’ll tell you what I make of it.”
Colin’s eyes twinkled. “I’d love to.”
And they sealed their future with a kiss.
