Page 82 of The Lady Plays with Fire

He turned and scanned the assembly. Despite the length of the church separating them, she knew exactly when his gaze settled on her.

His lips curved, almost shyly at first, as if the movement were unfamiliar to him. Then his face was transformed by a genuine smile.

Her heart fluttered, and she had to blink away more tears to make sure her eyes were not playing tricks on her. But no, it was true. He was smiling at her. The mask was gone. Not a hint of wryness or even slyness. Only delight.

And, perhaps, just a hint of relief, as if he, too, had begun to think this moment would never come to pass.

What followed was a blur: the exchange of vows, the pledging of troths, the clasping of hands. And then, finally, they were husband and wife, never to be parted again.

Under cover of their family and friends’ expressions of joy, she nodded toward the balcony and whispered to Graham, “Are you the reason Mr. Pope is here?”

Graham looked chagrined at having been caught out. “As I’d invited my secretary, it seemed only fitting to invite my new manager as well.”

“ ‘Manager’?”

“He’ll be handling theatrical matters on behalf of Ransom Blackadder, while I’m away from London.”

She couldn’t disguise her surprise. “That’s showing him a great deal of confidence.”

“Yes, well.” Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “He’s obviously a shrewd fellow. And it seemed to me that he deserved a second chance.”

It was Julia’s turn to smile.

When it came time to sign the register, the pen trembled in her fingers as she wrote her new name. “Perhaps I ought to have practiced,” she said. “But it didn’t feel right—or real—until now.”

With another of those extraordinary smiles, Graham took the quill from her. “It’s both, my dear. Real. And oh, so right.” Using his left hand—the other was still bandaged and bound in a sling—he wrote with painstaking slowness beneath her signature: Dunstane. Then he gave a self-deprecating shake of his head at the almost-childish scrawl his efforts had produced. “And to think, I practiced for hours.”

She laughed and looped her arm through his, gazing admiringly at the page. “I think it looks marvelous, indeed, my lord.”

“As do you, my lady.” As he passed the pen on to Jeremy, a hint of wickedness crept into the curve of his lips, and he added, low enough that only she could hear, “My lass.”

The sound of his voice would never cease to send a shiver of delight through her.

Afterward, they returned to Aunt Mildred’s house, to find a table groaning beneath a wedding feast fit for an earl and his countess, capped off with cake and champagne.

And then, the passage of time grown suddenly swift after so long a wait, it was the hour for goodbyes. Talk turned to the remaining daylight, how far along the journey they expected to travel today, and how long it would be before they would see one another again. A cold rain had begun to fall, so the whole party crowded into the little entry hall. Mama and Laura and Jeremy took turns hugging Julia, none of them quite ready, it seemed, to let her go so far or so soon.

“Oh,” said Aunt Mildred with a dismissive wave. “They’ll be back before we can miss them. I’ll wager you do not find England quite so unappealing as you once did, eh, Dunstane?” she asked him with a sly look. “I predict that box at Covent Garden won’t stay empty forever.”

“You must consider that box yours, ma’am,” he answered, bending low to kiss her gnarled hand. “But I hope you will save a seat for me and my wife.”

“Just one seat for the two of you?” she retorted with a twinkle in her eye as she tapped his arm with her folded lorgnette. “You Scottish rogue. But then, I thought from the first time you laid eyes on Julia, you’d be happy enough to share.”

They all laughed, and before the mood could turn somber again, Graham ushered Julia out the door. A dash between the icy raindrops, and they were secure in his traveling coach, waving through the glass as the wheels began to roll.

Seated beside him on the forward-facing bench, wrapped in his arm and her new velvet cloak, Julia paid no attention to anything but her husband for several minutes. Only when she reached across him to draw down the shade, preferring not to have half the eyes of London gawking at their wedded bliss, did she realize they were surrounded by nothing but fields.

“Graham,” she gasped. “This isn’t the way to the Great North Road.” They ought to be crossing the Thames, toward the bustle of Smithfield.

“Isn’t it?” he asked lazily, tracing her ear with the tip of his tongue.

“No. In fact, we’re headed . . . south.”

That piece of information was met with a string of kisses along her throat that almost made her forget to care. Still . . . she laid a palm against his chest, putting a scant few inches between them. “May I ask where we’re going?”

“Scotland,” he assured her, his eyes already dark with desire. “Starting first thing tomorrow. But tonight, I thought you might prefer somewhere more private than an inn. Somewhere no one can find us.” Each sentence was punctuated with a lingering kiss. “Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”

“Brereton Cottage,” she breathed, taking one final glance out the window before closing her eyes and giving herself over to his lips.