“Yes,” she said.
“We will tell your mother and sisters and the children in the morning before I dash away in pursuit of a license,” he said. “Georgette may not stop talking until I return. I give you fair warning and apologize in advance.”
“And I give you fair warning,” she said, “that I will not stop listening to her and to Robert for a lifetime. Or loving them. I apologize in advance.”
He slid his arm beneath her neck and turned her against him. “But tonight,” he said, “I am selfishly delighted to have our happiness all to ourselves. I do love you, Eleanor. I would marry you twenty times over even if I had no children who needed you and schemed shamefully to get you.”
“But once will be quite sufficient,” she told him.
The moonlight had caught his face, and she could see the kindness, the happiness in his eyes and the curve of a smile on his lips. She gave him back the same look.
They were dreaming the same dream, she thought. Except that it was not a night dream. Rather, it was a life dream and would carry them through all the highs and lows of marriage and of life itself. She had never been more sure of anything in her life.
“I must get you back to the ballroom,” he said.
“Yes.”
But he kissed her again, and it was a full half hour later before an avidly curious gathering of relatives and friends were able to see that yes, indeed, there was a romance between those two.
Probably more than a romance.
Chapter 8
Five days after the birthday celebrations for Wulfric, Duke of Bewcastle, the grand medieval hall was again being set up for yet another banquet. This time the occasion was the wedding of the duchess’s sister, Miss Eleanor Thompson, to Michael, Earl of Staunton. But the lavish breakfast would not be served until after the nuptial service in the village church and that would not begin for another half hour.
Wulfric awaited the appearance of his sister-in-law. Christine and Hazel and their mother had told him a few minutes ago that she was ready and would be down almost immediately. All three of them had looked a bit dewy-eyed as he had escorted them outside and handed them into the carriage that awaited them. They were the last of the guests to leave. The others had gone earlier, adults and children alike-all the children, even the babies, including Lady Caroline Bedwyn, Wulfric’s own three-month old.
Eleanor had asked him if he would give her away at her wedding. The problem of which of her two favorite brothers-in-law she should ask was made considerably easier for her, she had explained, her eyes twinkling, after Charles had agreed to Michael’s request that he co-celebrate the nuptials with the local rector.
Staunton had asked Wulfric rather late on the evening of the birthday ball to make the betrothal announcement. He had also asked, before the announcement was made, if the wedding could be solemnized here in the village church just as soon as he could fetch a special license and talk to the rector. The whole thing had been remarkably easy to arrange. The rector and his wife had been at the ball, and he had agreed with a hearty rubbing of his hands to officiate at the happy event at a moment’s notice, provided the groom arrived at the church with the proper documentation and preferably with a ring for the bride’s finger. He had been equally delighted to include the Reverend Charles Lofter in the service. And as for the rest-well, Christine was Wulfric’s duchess. No more needed to be said.
Staunton had left Lindsey Hall at the crack of dawn the morning after the ball, having first woken his children to explain the situation to them. He had returned yesterday, early in the afternoon, and the assembled Bedwyns and their spouses and the Lofters and the other house guests, all of whom had stayed with the obvious exceptions of Lady Connaught and Miss Everly, had been informed that today would be the day.
When Eleanor stepped into the great hall and glanced about her at all the bustle of preparation and then looked at Wulfric, it occurred to him that she looked at least five years younger than she had the first time he had seen her. It was not that she was dressed like a blushing bride fresh out of the schoolroom. Indeed, he would be very surprised if he had not seen that blue dress on her more than once before. And her hair was not dressed any more elaborately than usual. The brim of her bonnet had been newly trimmed with what looked like fresh flowers, it was true, and she was carrying a small posy of matching flowers in one gloved hand. But it was none of those things that had stripped years from her age.
It was-indeed it had to be because Christine had told Wulfric so a number of times during the past few days, and he would not have dreamed of arguing with his duchess upon a matter in which she was a self-styled expert—it was, in fact, love.
And though he looked upon his sister-in-law with his customary austere expression and with silver eyes that very rarely hinted at any warmth he might be feeling within, nevertheless Wulfric regarded her with affection and approval. A bride ought to be in love with her bridegroom, just as a groom ought to be in love with his bride.
He knew it from personal experience.
“You are looking very fetching, Eleanor,” he told her, offering his arm.
“You are kind, Wulfric,” she said. “My mirror tells me I will do—provided, that is, we proceed to the church without any delay before my flowers wilt.”
It was the sort of reply he might have expected of her—though she proceeded to spoil the effect almost immediately. “Oh,” she said, taking his arm and clutching it, “is it natural to feel so very nervous?”
He led her from the house to the waiting carriage. “I do believe,” he said, “it would be quite unnatural not to.”
The village church was quite respectably full though only two members of the congregation belonged to Michael. They were enough. Eleanor had expressed concern about it and had offered to be patient and wait until all his relatives and any particular friends of his could be summoned. He had been unwilling to wait any longer, however. He had fallen unexpectedly in love and he did not want to delay any part of his future. His children had also fallen in love, and making them wait might have provoked a near mutiny.
Georgette was out of sight at the back of the church with the Duchess of Bewcastle and Mrs. Lofter. She was wearing a new pink party dress he had bought hurriedly in London, hoping it would fit her and be something of which she approved. He had been fortunate on both counts. She had a task to perform today. She was to walk down the nave of the church behind Eleanor, and she was to stand beside her during the service to hold her flowers and her gloves.
Robert, dressed in his new clothes, was seated against Michael’s side in the front pew. Mrs. Harris had plastered his hair to his head before they left the house, but by now it was its usual blond fuzz—rather like a halo. Robert too had a task to perform. Michael had dispensed with the offices of a best man. His son would stand beside him and hand him the ring when the time came. Strangely, it had not seemed to occur to Robert to be nervous about it or to fear that he might drop the ring.
“When will Mama come?” he asked in a loud whisper. “Will I be able to call her that soon, Papa?”
“Very soon,” Michael said as a slight bustle at the back of the church heralded the appearance of Lofter and the rector, who gave the signal for the congregation to stand. The organ struck a chord.
