She’ll be down soon?” Anthony asked.
“The reverend is expected at any moment.”
“I have been assured that she will be,” Thomas said.
“I understand that she’s still”—he gave a vague wave of one hand as he searched for some delicate phrasing—“suffering the after effects of too enjoyable an evening.”
Anthony stifled a snort. That was, perhaps, a bit of an understatement. Charity had roused herself for breakfast—after he had all but tossed her out of bed to ensure that she did—but the faintly green tinge of her face had faded to stark white the moment he’d ladled a spoonful of coddled eggs onto her plate. And she had managed only a few pitiful bites of dry toast before the women had dragged her off to do…whatever it was women did in advance of their weddings.
Some manner of primping and polishing, he assumed. There had been a great number of servants carrying a great many cans of hot water upstairs, followed by quite a lot of splashing sounds and laughter, so he had assumed that she had either been in the process of bathing—or the process of being drowned. Given the general surliness with which she had allowed herself to be spirited away from the breakfast table, he guessed that either was equally likely.
“I suppose I ought to thank you,” Anthony said, “for offering up your estate for Christmas. And for our wedding.”
“It was our pleasure,” Thomas said.
“We spend so much of our time in the countryside that Mercy and Charity haven’t had much time to visit in person lately.”
“They get on well.”
“Rather too well, at times.” Thomas’ lips twitched with barely-restrained mirth.
“It says much of them that I can’t be certain exactly which of them proposed last night’s little romp down to the tavern. And I don’t suppose the townsfolk will allow me to forget it for some time.” But the tone of his voice suggested he was well-accustomed to a certain amount of gossip, and that it would slide off of him like water off of a duck’s back.
A bit of carousing in the village tavern was nothing in the way of the scandals Anthony supposed he and Charity might cause, eventually. In their negotiations, he had managed to get Charity to agree to attend the occasional Cyprians’ ball with him, should she receive an invitation. Not because he had any great desire to attend—but because he knew she enjoyed them, and that their opportunities to attend other, more socially-appropriate Ton events was likely to be slim indeed.
It would be a different sort of life than the one a duke could reasonably expect, but it was the only one he wanted. And between his family and hers, and the various friends that they could now both claim, he expected their social lives would still be quite vibrant.
A knock at the front door.
“That will be the reverend,” Thomas said.
“I’ll show him into the drawing room. You—”
“I’ll wait,” Anthony said. Right here, by the stairs, for Charity to come down at last.
There was the faint noise associated with the arrival of a guest; the muffled sound of voices, a maid sweeping through the foyer with an overladen tea tray held in her hands. Probably he should have gone in to greet the reverend, but the man could wait.
It wasn’t every day a man got married. And he would wait right here at the base of the stairs for that first glimpse of her when she appeared; a bride going to her wedding.
At last, on the floor above, there was the opening of a door, voices—no longer quite so muted behind the barrier—tumbling out into the corridor, and then footsteps approaching.
Charity appeared at last, her dark hair swept up and pinned into artful curls. The scarlet red of her gown pressed to elegant perfection. She glowed with happiness, with joy—
And still with the tiniest tinge of green. Which went rather well with her gown, actually.
But she swept down the stairs light as a feather, in a seamless perfect glide straight into his arms, and for a moment he could only marvel that he had somehow, someway, convinced this woman—the most beautiful woman in London—to have him. To love him. To spend the rest of her days at his side. To let him spend his at hers.
“When this is over,” she said on a sigh as she snuggled into his arms, “I want to go back to bed. Immediately.”
Anthony smothered a chuckle against her temple.
“I told you that fourth pint was a bad idea.”
“I will bow to your superior wisdom in the future.”
He laughed in earnest.
“Will you, really?”
“Well. When it suits me to do so, at least.” Another sigh as he kneaded the tight muscles at the nape of her neck.
“Will you come to bed with me?”
“God, yes. I—”
A stern clearing of a throat from somewhere behind him, and Anthony reluctantly released her to greet the reverend, who had appeared in the foyer and looked somewhat less than impressed to have found the couple he was meant to marry engaged in an embrace. And his brow furrowed still further at the revelation of Charity’s gown in its full splendor.
“Madam, whatever are you wearing? You look—”
“Beautiful,” Anthony interjected.
“She looks beautiful.”
Charity beamed.
The reverend opened his mouth—caught the edge of Anthony’s glower—and promptly bit back whatever further objections he might have made.
“Your witnesses?” he asked.
“Here!” Mercy sang from the top of the stairs.
“We wanted to give you just a moment of privacy before the wedding.” The rest of the company filled out the room swiftly, offering good wishes as they proceeded into the drawing room, where the simple ceremony was meant to take place.
“Here, darling.” Thomas used the commotion of so many passersby to discreetly hand his wife a pair of shoes, and Anthony noticed for the first time that she had come down only in stockinged feet.
“Oh, thank you,” Mercy said as she glanced about to ensure that no attention was upon her before she slipped her shoes on.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she called as she took her husband’s arm and dragged him off to the drawing room behind her.
And then it was only the two of them once again. A last moment before the rest of their lives would begin.
“Are you ready?” he asked of her.
“Yes,” she said, and that smile that had wreathed her lips from the moment she had begun to descend the stairs grew wider still. Effervescent, delighted, filled with boundless joy.
“Yes. I’m ready. Let’s be married.”
***
Nearly there. Only a few inches left. Gingerly, Charity placed her toes upon the floor, sliding further toward the edge of the bed—
A warm arm landed about her waist, and with a firm tug, she lost every bit of distance she had gained as she was pulled all the way back toward the center of the bed. Anthony curled himself around her, burying his face against her neck through the tangle of her hair as he grumbled, “And where, exactly, did you think you were going?”
Charity laughed at the ticklish sensation of the growth of beard that had shadowed his jaw overnight.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” she said.
“I’m meeting my friends at my flat.”
“So early?”
“So late,” she said, turning in the circle of his arms.
“It’s gone past noon already, you slugabed.”
“Noon? Damn.” He muffled a yawn against her shoulder.
“Give me an hour. I’ll go with you.”
“Ladies only,” she said, and softened the rejection with a kiss to his temple.
“We’ve quite a lot to talk about, you know. And they are helping me to pack my things.” A slow, scratching stroke of her fingers through his disheveled hair, and he closed his eye, relishing the simple pleasure of it.
“Besides,” she said, “just look at yourself. You’re exhausted, darling.”
It wasn’t his fault. The puppy they had given Hattie and Evie for Christmas had taken a swift and severe liking to him, and he’d been up at all hours just lately to take the tiny, floppy-eared spaniel out to the garden to do its business.
“But I’ve never been inside your flat,” he said as she slipped out of the circle of his arms to push him to his back and straddle his hips.
“You’ve never invited me.”
“I will,” Charity promised, leaning down to kiss him.
“But not today. You need at least a few hours more sleep, and I have got to brave the inevitable interrogation that is due to me.”
“Will it be an interrogation?” he asked as he settled back against the pillows and slid his palms up her bare thighs.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“I shall have to admit to a great many things that I would have found humiliating indeed only months ago.”
“Oh?” A hum of pleasure rumbled in his throat as she ruffled the cool, dark strands of his hair. “Such as?”
“Such as the indisputable fact that this sort of thing”—she rubbed her nose against his—“is really quite lovely when one is on this side of it.” When one had the right person to do them with.
A husky laugh.
“You said rubbing noses was revolting,” he reminded her.
“You said you hadn’t a romantic bone in your body.”
“I’ll admit that romance is far more your métier than mine,” she acknowledged. Her life until now had not allowed much for it, besides.
“But I suppose I could develop a few romantic bones. Small ones. Or at least some romantic cartilage.”
“Romantic cartilage!” He tipped his head back and guffawed.
“You are—just terrible at romance.”
“Then perhaps I could benefit from a competent tutor,” she purred.
“I think I would derive no small amount of enjoyment from being every bit as insufferable about it as the rest of that besotted lot.”
“You petty, petty woman,” he said, with a lopsided grin.
“I do love you.”
“I love you.” She laid a soft kiss upon the tip of his nose.
“And today is still for ladies only.”
“Damn. I had hoped.” A sigh faded into a yawn, and sheepishly he admitted, “I suppose I could use a few more hours of sleep. And there’s a ridiculous amount of correspondence which has stacked up a bit in our absence. I’ve gone through half of it at most.”
“Oh?”
“Congratulations and such, mostly,” he said.
“And—Lady Cecily has extended us an invitation to her wedding in March.”
“That woman!” Charity groaned as she settled her cheek against his shoulder.
“It really is just awful of her to make it so appallingly difficult to maintain any dislike of her.”
Anthony chuckled, bussing a kiss against the top of her head.
“She asked to meet you,” he said.
“When last I saw her.”
“We’ve met,” she said on a sigh.
“In a bookstore, some weeks ago.”
“Oh? And how did you find her?”
“Perfectly lovely,” she grumbled.
“Perfectly perfect. How am I meant to compete with such a paragon?”
“My adorably jealous wife,” he said as he kneaded the muscles at the nape of her neck.
“There is no competition. To me, you are perfect.”
With a small smile, Charity allowed begrudgingly, “I suppose I must like her after all, then, since she was good enough to find a husband of her own.” She leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek.
“All right, then. Back to sleep with you. I shall only be a few hours.”
“And you will invite me to your flat eventually?”
“Oh, yes.” They had decided, mutually, that she would keep it rather than sell it. And she suspected it would become a private home-away-from-home to enjoy from time to time, should they require a bit of a respite from the other occupants of their grand house. A little love-nest all their own.
“I’m sorry to have woken you,” she said.
“I did try to be quiet about it.”
“Always wake me,” he said, and pulled her close for one last kiss.
“Always wake me when you leave. So that we can have a proper goodbye.”
And really, she thought, proper goodbyes were just wonderful.
***
“May I now call you Your Grace?” Phoebe asked.
“If you absolutely must,” Charity said with a sigh as she collapsed onto her small sofa, offering a plate of biscuits, freshly made. Phoebe had arrived first for their little gathering, but Lydia, Diana, and Emma were expected within the hour.
“Of course I must,” Phoebe said as she collected a few biscuits.
“And you’d be well within your rights to lord it over people a bit.” Her teeth snapped into the crisp wafer in her fingers.
“These really are delicious,” she said.
“Do duchesses bake?”
“This one does, much to the chagrin of Anthony’s mother.”
“You might have invited us to your wedding,” Phoebe said with a delicate pout.
“Chris was rather hurt.”
“Rubbish. He’s not hurt by such things, and he loathes the countryside besides,” Charity said.
“Oh, all right, then, he wasn’t hurt,” Phoebe admitted.
“But I was. I would have liked to attend.”
“It was a private sort of thing,” Charity said.
“Just family, really.” And she had liked it that way.
“Besides, I could not have invited just the two of you. It would have to be Diana’s family as well, and Lydia’s, and Emma’s.” And suddenly her little wedding would have ballooned to a veritable crush of people.
“Mercy and Thomas have space, yes, but not nearly that much. And it’s not my home to which to invite people.” She lifted a gown from the pile of them strewn across the arm of the sofa.
“What do you think?”
“Hmm,” Phoebe said, her blue gaze narrowing as she eyed the gown critically.
“It is scandalously low-cut, don’t you think?”
“So it is,” Charity said.
“I’ll take it, then.” If one had got the bosom for such gowns—which she had, in spades—one might as well let the world take note of it.
“And have several more done up, besides,” Phoebe remarked.
“Really, you are a duchess. You could have one in every color.”
“I could indeed,” Charity said.
“But I have resolved to so shock the dowager duchess only on Tuesdays and alternate Thursdays. For the sake of maintaining a peaceful household, you understand.”
“Is she so bad, then?” Phoebe asked.
“No, not really. She is rather more pleasant than I had expected…when she has got it into her mind to be so.” Which she expected to be often, so long as Charity plied her with the biscuits she favored and kept quiet the fact that she baked them herself.
A brief rap upon the door on the floor below, and then there was the creak of hinges and the stampede of feet up the stairs. Diana entered first, with Emma fast on her heels.
“We arrived together,” Diana announced, as Emma veered straight for the plate of biscuits upon the low table. Diana skirted the large trunk that lay open upon the floor, into which Charity had been tossing the things she meant to bring back home with her. It fairly dominated her small flat, and had required two footmen only to maneuver it up the stairs.
“Well! I hear congratulations are in order,” Diana said as she sank into a chair.
“Married,” Emma mumbled around a mouthful of biscuit.
“I do wish we had merited an invitation.”
“Family only,” Phoebe said with a wrinkle of her nose.
“I complained of it already.”
“And to think! You could have had such a grand wedding here in London,” Diana sighed as she collapsed into a chair, pushing her spectacles up her nose.
“It would have been the event of the year.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t want my wedding to be an event,” Charity said, holding up another gown.
“This one?”
“Too tame,” Phoebe said.
“Too many flounces,” Diana added.
“Too pink,” Emma pronounced.
“You look much better in red.”
“I do, don’t I?” Charity cast the gown aside.
“And anyway, it was exactly as I wanted it. No spectacle. No fuss. Just—a perfectly lovely, perfectly private wedding.”
“But you love a spectacle,” Phoebe said.
“I would have thought you’d relish the chance to thumb your nose at the aristocracy.”
“Not to worry. I imagine I’ll have plenty of opportunities for that.” Another thump at the door.
“Ah, that must be Lydia,” Charity said, as she heard the door open, and then at last the creak of the stairs. And indeed, Lydia swanned in with all of the drama of which she was capable.
“Married! And I had to read about it in the paper!” Lydia exclaimed, fisting her hands upon her hips.
Charity snorted.
“If you did, it is only because you neglected to read your correspondence in a timely manner.” But she had, clearly, received the invitation she had been issued to today’s little gathering.
“Oh, all right,” Lydia said.
“I confess I have not been quite so attentive to such things as I might have been.”
“I suppose I cannot hold it too much against you,” Charity said, since she had been rather lax about it herself. She’d only just gotten round to retrieving her correspondence, which had stacked up significantly while she and Anthony had been buried in the countryside, from the post office where they had languished these last weeks.
“That stack of letters on the shelf behind you—would you hand it to me?”
“What, and leave all the work of packing to us?” Emma said as Lydia handed over the letters to Charity.
“Why not? I’m satisfied my wardrobe is in good hands,” Charity said as she peeled off the wax seal upon a letter.
“We’re selecting which gowns Charity should take with her,” Diana confided as Lydia took up a chair.
“We’ve decided upon only the most shocking ones, naturally.”
“Oh, of course,” Lydia said with all due gravity as she poured herself a cup of tea.
“Not that one,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose to a gown Emma lifted up for inspection.
“It’s very nearly demure.”
Charity chuckled to herself as she began to sort through her correspondence. A surprising number of well-wishes—at least from those among her echelon of society.
“Will you have a bridal trip?” Emma asked as she tossed another suitably indecorous gown into the trunk.
“Eventually,” Charity said, thumbing through another few letters. One was an invitation to a house party later in the year that promised to be particularly salacious. That one she would set aside for Anthony. It wasn’t quite a Cyprians’ ball, but it was at least adjacent enough to be worthy of consideration.
“For now, we are simply enjoying being married.”
“Oh, are you?” Phoebe asked, and Charity marveled that she had managed to restrain herself to only the barest of sardonic inflections.
“Yes,” she snipped back.
“And I intend to be every bit as intolerable about it as you lot have been.”
“Intolerable!” Diana said, choking on a laugh.
“You know well enough you have been,” Charity said.
“And now it is my turn.” To have her own perfect slice of paradise, and the sort of love she could not have conceived of only months ago. The sort that made getting out of bed in the morning a chore. The sort that made returning to it each evening the most anticipated part of her day. The sort that made her toes curl and created an effervescent feeling in her throat, as if she were always just on the verge of a giddy giggle.
“Lord,” Phoebe moaned.
“She is going to be worse.”
Charity cast the remaining stack of unopened letters at Phoebe’s head, though the attack was somewhat less effective than she had hoped, since the bulk of them careened wildly through the air and fluttered toward the ground.
“We are trying to pare down this mess, not to create a new one,” Lydia said on a laugh as she plucked a letter from where it had become stuck in Phoebe’s bodice and handed it back to Charity.
“Oh, very well.” Charity snatched the letter from Lydia’s fingers and settled in once more. The letter had been folded into a square, its creases imperfect, as if the writer had thrown the letter together hastily, under some manner of strain or stress.
It bore Felicity’s name in the upper corner, rendered in a spiky scrawl, a far cry from her regular, elegant script. An odd, unsettled feeling curdled in the pit of Charity’s stomach as she pried up the pleats, unfolding the letter.
It was dated weeks ago, only days after she had fled London for Mercy’s estate in the countryside.
“Oh, no,” she whispered, her heart leaping into her throat. “Oh, no.”
Dearest Charity, the letter read, in a hurried scratch that seemed to devolve further with every word. By the time you receive this letter, I will be married. For the love of God, please help me.