Page 72 of The Earl’s Hoyden

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to see you yet,” Lord Westwich protested as Lucien strode away, followed by Hannah’s beautiful laugh.

The nave was exactly as Hannah had described she wanted it, adorned with summer flowers that had managed to withstand the abnormally chilly summer—pink roses that matched the sweet crown at her head and with daisies, bright violets and creamy yellow buttercups. The heady floral perfume masked the musty old familiar scent Lucien was so aware of in the old church and lent a newness that seemed fitting for their fresh start together as a married couple.

The ceremony was brief, the vicar getting as emotional as Hannah’s friends and mother when he wed the two people he had known since childhood. A sniff behind Lucien had him glimpsing over his shoulder to catch his mother dabbing at her eyes.

Ranford, who had said he wouldn’t dream of missing the event, sat at her side and nodded with encouragement.

“I now pronounce you,” the vicar announced, his chin trembling, “Man and wife.”

Lucien grinned at Hannah and pulled her close, gently capturing her mouth with his. A cheer rose from their audience; the scant number of attendees did not mean the collective cry of celebration was any less deafening.

The wedding breakfast was served in the dining room of Lambert Abbey. Though Lucien’s mother—now the Dowager Countess of Brightstone—had never been one to lavish the house with flowers, the formal dining area was laden with them amid plates of sliced meats and cheese, various soups and fruits and a lovely cake sprinkled with glittering sugar crystals that Hannah confessed had been made by Miss Honeyfield.

“I told Hannah this would be so romantic, right from the very beginning, didn’t I, Mary?” Lady Westwich beamed at Hannah’s maid.

“Yes, my lady,” Mary smiled back as she wiped a tear from her eye. “You did.”

“I knew you would marry a man who loves you as you are, in all your perfection.” Lord Westwich embraced Hannah and then slid a warning look in Lucien’s direction as if to confirm the discussion earlier would be remembered.

And how could Lucien ever forget the list of bodily harm the baron would shamelessly exact upon Lucien’s person should he ever dream of harming Hannah again?

Lucien nodded at Lord Westwich in understanding, then was surprised when the older man hugged him as well. “That look in my daughter’s eye…” Westwich nodded to Hannah, who watched them both with the radiance of sheer joy. “You put that there.” He squeezed Lucien’s shoulder and went on his way.

“It appears she has done the same to my son.” Lucien’s mother looked between them and smiled. The expression was still stiff, as though being newly stretched out after so little use. “Now, let us eat this lovely feast that has been laid before us.”

The invitation bordered on formal, but it was also far warmer than the countess would ordinarily address people. She was not perfect, sometimes sliding back into her judgmental habits, but she was trying. And for that, Lucien was grateful.

Everyone moved to secure a plate, except Lucien, who hung back with Hannah.

“What did my father say to you?” she asked. “I saw that look.”

Lucien took her hand in his. “Nothing we need ever worry about because I would rather die a thousand deaths before I ever hurt you again.”

“And if not, he would do the task for you?” Hannah surmised.

“Something along those lines, yes.” He kissed her hand.

She studied him, gazing into his eyes. “I love you so very much, husband.”

“I love you as well, my beautiful wife.”

“Do not think me appallingly wicked…” She glanced toward the wedding party descending on the table of food. “But how long do you think it will take them all to finally leave?”

“Oh, I do think you appallingly wicked.” He grinned. “And I was wondering precisely the same thing.”

17

Once everyone had eaten their fill and not even a crumb of Amy’s decadent cake remained, they took their leave and Hannah and Lucien were finally alone.

Fully and completely alone.

The dowager countess departed to visit with Lady Arksford for a week, and even the staff had been given the day off to celebrate the wedding. After all, she and Lucien could fare for themselves with the leftover food from the wedding breakfast.

He reached for her in the drawing room where they’d bid their servants a good day, but she shook her head. “Not here.”

“No one is here but us.” He leaned forward, bringing with him the scent of shaving soap and books and that sensual masculine spice of his.

But she leaned away, breathless with anticipation. “If I kiss you now, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”