And then he reared, tugged her to standing and spun her around, skirts flying. He kissed her, fierce and wanting.
No doubt causing the scandal of the century.
When finally he ceased, he refused to let go, hold possessive.
The ballroom roared into life and gaiety replaced silence, delight at witnessing an event which would be the talk of London for many a year.
Whirling, she saw Father with tears on his cheeks whilst at his side Lord Rainham smiled and handed him a glass of champagne, toasting their happiness.
Beaming faces crowded close, welcoming and warm, and a handsome fellow winked, his appearance not unlike a drawing from theHelston Gazetteof the poet Lord Byron.
A pretty raven-haired girl hugged her arm as a tall gentleman dressed in deepest black loomed at her side, tapping a black cane upon the marble. “Well, the rogue has met his match,” he drawled. “And, I can tell you, my dear, we’ve all waited long enough for that.”
“Tamsyn, my beloved.” Jack grinned. “May I introduce the Duke and Duchess of Rakecombe.”
Gosh.
A duke. A duchess.
But before she could recall the correct mode of address, Jack twisted her close, held her gaze and cupped her cheek.
“I have waited for you, Tamsyn Penrose, all my life.” A brush of lips so tender. “My winter’s heart has unearthed spring.”
Epilogue
“I, Jack Peregrine Winterbourne, take thee, Tamsyn Senara Penrose, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Tamsyn smiled as her almost-husband reluctantly loosened his grip so she could take his right hand and return those most sacred vows. Unmitigated joy shone in those flashing black eyes as she promised to love and cherish, a wink as she swore to obey, her voice echoing loud and strong in the medieval Treloor Church.
The ring, a band of Cornish gold, was slid leisurely along her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed…” his deep rumble proclaimed, and as he completed his pledge, Jack lifted her hand for a swift kiss upon this golden gift of devotion.
Sighs from the congregation offset the vicar’s swallowed cough at this scandalous addition to the ceremony – one which Tamsyn could envisage becoming popular – but the vicar nodded with a twinkle in his eye and twisted to the left, words beginning once more.
A voice full of solemn promise answered, “I, Oliver Sebastian Miggens, take thee, Loveday Treherne, to my wedded wife…”
Tears skated down Lowdy’s cheeks as the fine-looking Oliver pronounced his oath but her own voice rang clear as she affirmed the same. Tamsyn glanced to Papa who’d given both brides away and felt her throat clog as he mopped his eyes with a frayed handkerchief embroidered with Mama’s initials.
Beyond sat the congregation: her brother Ruan, grinning from ear to ear, well-wishers, neighbours and the closest of Jack’s friends who’d not batted an eyelash at the thought of travelling so far to attend his wedding. Oliver’s mother and Millie sat front row, brandishing smiles that could be seen to Land’s End.
The vicar bid them all kneel and four sets of knees fell upon blue velvet cushions.
Prayer turned to psalms and then unto sermons until the long ceremony came to an end, the vicar of Treloor, who’d christened her as babe and comforted her as girl, casting his blessing upon them. “Let us now celebrate this love,” he announced to the guests, “this new beginning. I believe Sir Jago has opened his arms and house to all that would join us in this most happy day.” He peeked at the four of them. “But first the paperwork, I’m afraid.”
After putting quill to register, Jack clutched her hand close, and they all savoured their stroll down the ancient aisle, Benjamin and Lucy strewing the floor before them with wheat, rosemary and heather.
Mrs Pencally dabbed her eyes as they passed, and Mrs Tripconey waved, her other hand firmly tucked within a tidily garbed Mr Mason’s – who would’ve thought?
Radiant sunshine and a crowd greeted them at the portal, the beaming professor brandishing a tray of champagne.
Turning, she hugged Lowdy, their matching pale-blue gowns fluttering in the slight breeze.
Friends surrounded Tamsyn’s now-husband, thumping him on the shoulder in hearty congratulation. How perfect he appeared, his coal-black coat and breeches fitting snug to his form, a cravat of simple sophistication adorning his throat. Both grooms’ waistcoats were an iridescent blue, reminiscent of Petrok’s tail feathers.
The peacock himself had today swiped side glances at a newly installed peahen, who’d taken no notice of him whatsoever, no doubt judging him a fribble.
In time, that peahen would learn to look beyond those bright feathers, to his loyal heart and staunch guard.
The Winterbournes would now divide their year between Cornwall, London and the estate in Buckinghamshire, learning and enjoying each other’s pleasures, cherishing the differences.
