“Wait and see.”
She glanced over to see her husband grinning, and she pressed her lips together. He, too, had taken pains with his appearance today and looked particularly handsome in his habitual black. His white cravat was starched stiff, and she looked forward to taking it—and everything else—off him later that evening.
As they arrived at the church doors, Peter turned to face the lane, bringing Georgie with him. The villagers formed a loose semicircle around them, and all turned in the same direction.
Everyone seemed to know what was happening except her, and Georgie was unsure she liked the feeling. Even the Ladies’ Auxiliary were giggling behind their fans to each other like schoolgirls. Georgie frowned at them, to no avail. They only beamed and nodded at her.
A rumble of wheels alerted her to a grand carriage driving down the lane towards them. Liveried footmen stood at the front and back, with the driver dressed nearly as grandly. As it pulled to a halt, Georgie saw the crest painted on the door and her heart leapt into her mouth.
Mrs. Clarke crept up next to her and whispered, “Aren’t you glad you wore your best bonnet now?”
It was a conspiracy. A positive conspiracy.
Before Georgie could do more than frown at Mrs. Clarke, a footman jumped to the ground and let down the stairs of the carriage. He opened the door and a man stepped out, pausing at the ground to turn and give his hand to the lady who followed him.
The Duke of Livesey was not an imposing man. He was of average height, his countenance more dreamy than commanding. But perhaps that was because he was looking at his wife with an adoration that seemed almost too private. His duchess.
As he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, two boys leapt from the carriage, disdaining the steadying hand of the footman. Georgie had not met them on their visit. One was a young man in his late teens, with disheveled dark blond curls that matched the duchess’s. The other was a boy of about ten years old, darker-complected and with black curls instead of blond, but who also had the look of the duchess.
The carriage rumbled away to be replaced by a second one. Out of it leapt Peter’s twin, who assisted Junia and Catherine to descend in their Sunday best. Only Philip’s ramrod-straight soldier’s posture differentiated him from his twin brother.
Last of all, the dowager duchess emerged from the carriage, handed down by Philip. Her face was drawn into sulky lines, but she was there.
The whole procession made their way up the walkway, and Peter placed his hand over Georgie’s, causing her to look up at him. He looked both pleased and nervous, as though he was worried she would be angry with him.
Instead, she was so moved she doubted she would be able to speak. He had listened to her. He had invited his family, and they had come. The village, her friends, her new family—they were all here.
As the crowd buzzed, Peter pulled her a little aside, stepping into a small alcove and taking her hands. “Happy?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“You see, I thought—I realized... our wedding was not what you had wanted.”
“Well, no,” she said with complete honesty. “I was happy to marry you, but the whole situation was... awkward, to marry in secrecy and among strangers like that.”
“That’s why I want you to have this.” He shifted a little so she could see the gathered crowd, who were engaged in animated conversation with each other. Mrs. Barwick, Mrs. Clarke, Mr. Banner. Mrs. Kilvington stood beside a stout man who must be her husband. Even Mr. Knaggs had come. All gathered to celebrate... them. Her and Peter.
Peter smiled at her. “Georgiana Morland Avondale... will you marry me again? Today? We cannot do the actual ceremony again, but Mr. Lumley is prepared to perform a blessing for us, with all of our friends and family here. Will you?”
Tears pricked at her eyes. When she had arrived in Kilbythorpe all those weeks ago, her only thought had been to retrieve her otters. She had never expected to find friends, or a family.
Or love.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Peter. I will.”
EPILOGUE
Christmas 1818
After nearly fivemonths of marriage, Georgie knew when Peter was hoping to surprise her. She knew him too well for him to be able to hide his glee. But she knew she needed to pretend.
She had known he had some sort of Christmas surprise for her, but she had allowed him his secret since she had Christmas secrets of her own for him.
As he entered the drawing room, she smiled at him from where she was adding a new bow to one of the evergreen branches hung over the fireplace. How Buttercup had climbed the mantlepiece to reach it, and why she had wanted it, Georgie did not know, but the animal had succeeded in absconding with the bow before Georgie could stop her. Exhausted from her adventure, the otter was now napping on top of her sisters in their basket next to the fireplace with her prize tucked beneath her. A cat door Peter had had installed in the kitchen so theotters could access the garden would get them through until the new conservatory was constructed in the spring.
“What do you have there, Peter?”
Peter cleared his throat. His hand was behind his back, too-obviously hiding something, and a small smile kept trying to break through. He looked like a proud schoolboy. “You will be a little angry with me.”
