Page 133

EPILOGUE

Four weeks later

T he pews of the village church were all but bursting with people of all ages and classes, each in his or her finest attire, including a few old friends in their regimentals.

Sir Percy’s head poked above the others, bleary-eyed, seated next to his new lady, the former Miss Hazelton.

Mrs. Simpkins and Sally were here as well, crowded in with Lovelaces in one of the family pews.

“She’ll be here,” George murmured.

Simon stamped down on his anxiety and stood at parade rest.

There’d been no sign of bridal nerves from Nancy; he was the jumpy one. Not reluctant, no, not that. After four weeks of curbing his desires, he was chomping at the bit for the wedding night. Or the wedding afternoon.

Lady Loughton had proved to be a formidable chaperone. They’d had no further opportunities for anything more than a few chaste kisses. He’d stayed the last few nights at the Swan, riding out to Loughton Manor daily through the sweet smell of hay being scythed in the fields.

Rain—a sign of good luck, George had assured him—had freed the locals from haying this day so they could attend the wedding and fêting of one of their favorites, the Honorable Nancy Lovelace.

She was his favorite as well.

The organist began a march, the congregation stirred, and Rupert Lovelace entered, escorting his mother to a front pew, where she joined George’s wife, Sophie, and the boys of Nancy’s Midsummer Night’s caper brigade.

The second and third pews overflowed with other Lovelace siblings and their spouses and children.

Then Mary came down the aisle, carrying a basket of rose petals. He chuckled remembering the basket of rose hips Nancy had gathered to prepare the itching powder.

Fitz’s wife, Mel, the bride’s only other attendant, entered. And then everyone stood.

His bride advanced on Fitz’s arm, her eyes luminous against the pale pink of her bonnet and frock, her cheeks rosy, her smile shy.

Heart bursting, speechless, Simon accepted her hand, and the ceremony proceeded in a blur of high emotion that carried them all the way through the wedding breakfast for the locals at the village assembly rooms, and the family event that followed at Loughton Manor.

Then they were seated on the lowly cushioned bed of a freshly painted narrow cart, with streamers and rattling tins flowing behind.

The family’s coachman took the reins and drove them, bouncing and laughing, over the hurriedly completed bridge, dropping them in the sea of red and pink roses surrounding the folly.

They would spend their wedding night here and depart for the ducal yacht and France the next day.

Simon lifted her and carried her over the threshold.

“Where it all began,” she whispered.

“No.” He settled her to her feet and pulled her close. “It began long before that, my girl. It began in the music room with you playing a song about sheep.” He smiled. “I had to wait for you to grow up.”

“And I have.” She pulled his head down. “Now, teach me the rest. Make love to me.”

And he did.

The End