Page 52 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Clementine opened her mouth to remind her sister of the appointments book, but Izzy had already scurried away to write down the date, knowing he would not remember it otherwise.

“Very good. Now then, what’s this? A wedding?” she asked, her pale grey-blue eyes sharp with interest.

“Yes. My daughter, Miss Honeywell, is to be wed this day to the Earl of Beaumarsh,” the reverend said with obvious pride, drawing Clementine forward to make her curtsy.

“Beaumarsh?” the dowager said with a snort. “A pretty fribble. Amusing, though, and certainly plump in the pocket. Quite a catch for you, miss,” she said, leaning on her ebony walking stick and regarding Clementine with narrow-eyed interest. “You’re no spring chicken, are you? At least four and twenty unless I miss my guess. How d’you manage it, eh?”

Clementine blushed, torn between irritation and delight at her outrageous manners. Perhaps she would emulate this kind of audacity when she was old and cantankerous.

“I could not say, your grace,” she replied evenly.

“Hmmm.” The dowager eyed her dubiously, and the reverend hurried to fill the gap before either Clementine or she could say something shocking.

“This young lady is my middle daughter, Miss Beatrice, your grace, and—”

“Here, Papa,” Izzy said breathlessly, sketching a haphazard bob as she returned.

“And this is Miss Isabelle,” he finished with relief.

“Hmph,” the dowager said, regarding Izzy dubiously before turning her attention back to Bea. “My, you’re an incomparable if ever there was one. You may visit me when your father comes… and you,” she added as an afterthought, regarding Izzy. She looked back at Bea once more, a calculating look in her eyes. “Why ain’t you the one marrying an earl?”

Bea turned pink to the tips of her ears and took a step back.

“Because she does not have an ounce of cunning, unlike her elder sister,” Clementine said tartly, moving forward and taking the dowager by the arm. “Thank you so much for calling upon us, we appreciate you taking the time. My father will call upon you, my sisters too, but if you will excuse me, I am to be married shortly, and the earl would be dismayed were his bride not to arrive at the altar at the arranged hour. I’m sure you understand. Good day to you.”

With that, she hustled the woman back outside and closed the door. Letting out a breath, she turned to see her family regarding her in astonishment.

“Everything will be perfect, hmmm?” she said, giving Izzy the benefit of a sceptical expression.

Izzy pulled a face and shrugged. “The dowager duchess must be the exception that proves the rule.”

Bells rang and the congregation cheered as Beaumarsh emerged from the dimly lit church into dazzling sunlight. Rice rained down all around them, with people he did not know coming up and shaking his hand, wishing him well and smiling.

Finally, he saw a familiar face as his valet darted forward to grasp his hand. “Well done, my lord. Never been so proud of you in all my days. God’s honest truth,” Kirby said, sniffing fiercely before rushing off again.

Beau felt utterly disoriented, like a mole emerging from velvety darkness into the glare of a summer sun. The entire service had gone past in a blur and he could only pray he had said the right thing at the right time. Well, Honeywell had pronounced them man and wife so he must have done something right, and Stonehaven hadn’t fallen over laughing either.

Well, that was it then. He was married. His stomach, which had been knotted in a tangle of apprehension since the moment he’d woken at four a.m. after a restless night, twisted harder.

Cautiously, he turned his head to look at his bride. God, but she was lovely.

He had known it, obviously. He had eyes, after all, but something about the gown, about the way she had done her hair, the glow in her eyes and her pink cheeks, about knowing she was his… that changed everything. She was beautiful.

Feeling his gaze upon her, she looked up at him. Happiness shone in her eyes. Trepidation was there too, shyness and anxiety, but that was definitely happiness. The knot in his guts unravelled. He could do this.

“Countess,” he said, smiling at her as he led her from the church.

“My lord,” she replied, the words somewhat breathless.

It was only a short walk to the vicarage, where the wedding breakfast awaited them. It was to be a simple affair, much to his mother’s disappointment, for she had wanted him to wait until the season was in full swing again and marry at St George’s in Hanover Square. Even had his wife-to-be not been violently opposed to the idea, he would still never have agreed. So, his mama, quite correctly deducing her august presence would overwhelm the paltry affair they’d chosen, had informed him she would expect her first glimpse of his wife at Cavendish House, where she would make her welcome.

His wife, he thought with a grin.

“What are you smirking about?”

He turned to see Clementine regarding him curiously.

“My wife,” he said out loud. “I am feeling smug and pleased with myself, for I have stolen a march on all those other fellows that do not yet know this delightful town exists, and stolen away its treasure before they got the chance.”