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"You know what I love about this?" Daphne had said one evening as we'd finalized the last details. "It feels like us. Not what a wedding is supposed to look like, but what our wedding should look like."
She'd been absolutely right. The ceremony we'd planned was neither purely British tradition nor completely American informality—it was something new, something that honored both our histories while creating space for the future we were choosing to build together.
The integration of our families had progressed with surprising smoothness, though not without moments that required careful diplomatic intervention.
The morning of the wedding, I'd found Rose and Mother in the kitchen, working together to arrange flowers with the sort of easy cooperation that would have seemed impossible six months earlier.
"Lady Victoria," Rose had been saying as I'd entered, "you've got to tell me the secret to getting these roses to hold their heads up so pretty. Mine always look like they're apologizing for something."
"The trick," Mother had replied, her voice warm with genuine affection, "is cutting the stems at precisely the right angle and changing the water every other day. Though I suspect your Texas roses are considerably more resilient than our delicate English varieties."
"Oh, everything's tougher in Texas," Rose had laughed. "Has to be, what with all that sun and attitude."
Watching them together—two women who'd approached life from completely different circumstances but had found common ground in their love for their children—had been profoundly moving.
Mother's transformation continued to amaze me, but perhaps what was most remarkable was how natural it seemed, as if the warmth and genuine care had always been there, simply waiting for the right circumstances to emerge.
"Edward," Mother had said, noticing my presence in the doorway, "come settle a debate. Rose thinks we should add some of those lovely wildflowers from the meadow to the arrangements, but I'm concerned they might not hold up during the ceremony."
"Actually," I'd said, moving to examine the flowers in question, "I believe the combination would be perfect. The wildflowers represent something authentic and spontaneous, which balances beautifully with the formal roses. Rather like the marriage itself."
Rose had beamed at me as if I'd just delivered the most brilliant legal argument of my career. "See? I told you that boy had good sense."
The easy way she'd claimed me as family, without reservation or qualification, had made something warm settle in my chest.
This was what Lili had been trying to show me all along—that love didn't require complicated negotiations or strategic planning. Sometimes it simply required showing up and being willing to participate.
The twins had proven to be unexpectedly cooperative participants in the ceremony, though their six-month-old interpretation of formal protocol was somewhat flexible. Charlotte, resplendent in a tiny dress that matched Lili's bouquet, had spent most of the service systematically dismantling her tiny bouquet with the focused determination of a quality control inspector, while Henry observed the proceedings with the sort of serious attention usually reserved for Supreme Court arguments.
"Do you, Edward James Grosvenor, take Lili Rose Anderton to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the Archbishop had intoned with the gravity befitting Westminster's ancient stones.
Before I could respond, Charlotte had chosen that moment to let out a delighted squeal, as if she was personally endorsing the proceedings.
The congregation had erupted in gentle laughter, and I'd caught Lili's eye, seeing my own joy reflected there.
"I do," I'd said, my voice carrying clearly through the sanctuary. "Absolutely and without reservation."
The words felt inadequate for the magnitude of what I was promising—not just legal commitment, but the surrender of everything I'd once held as certainties in favor of something far more valuable and infinitely more uncertain.
When the archbishop had repeated the question to Lili, Henry had contributed his own commentary—a series of babbling sounds that could have been interpreted as either approval or detailed legal objections.
This time, even the archbishop had smiled.
"I do," Lili had replied, her voice steady and warm. "With all my heart and all my stubborn Texas determination."
The moment we'd been pronounced married—both couples simultaneously, in a bit of ceremonial choreography that had required three planning meetings to coordinate—Charlotte had started clapping her tiny hands together as if she understood exactly what was being celebrated.
"I believe we have the first official approval," I'd whispered to Lili as we'd prepared for our first kiss as husband and wife.
"Second official approval," she'd corrected, nodding toward Henry, who was regarding us with what appeared to be satisfied approval. "I think Henry's been waiting for us to make this legal for months."
I'd known Mother intended to speak, but the weight of what she was about to say hadn't fully prepared me for the courage it would require.
Watching her step forward, spine straight but hands slightly trembling, I felt a surge of pride mixed with apprehension.
Mother's public acknowledgment came during the reception, as guests gathered in the gardens of Grosvenor Manor, where late roses bloomed among ancient oak trees and fairy lights twinkled like earthbound stars. The scent of jasmine drifted on the evening breeze, mixing with champagne bubbles and the distant sound of a string quartet. She'd requested a moment to speak, her voice carrying across the lawn with the sort of authority that came from decades of commanding attention at social gatherings.
"There are moments in one's life," she'd begun, her words measured but clearly heartfelt, "when one realizes that clinging to old patterns is not merely foolish, but actively destructive to everything one claims to value."