Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

Jessica looked at him in surprise, but her grandmother and her great-aunt had come up and she turned to hug them.

Viscount Dirkson had come to shake Gabriel’s hand. The viscountess hugged him and kissed his cheek.

“Weddings are invariably romantic occasions no matter where they take place or what the size of the congregation,” she said, beaming at him. “This one is no exception, Mr. Thorne. No, Gabriel . You are one of the family now. I am Aunt Matilda.”

Her husband grinned at him. “If you should ever call me Uncle Charles ,” he said, “I do believe I would have to deck you, Thorne.”

Aunt Matilda was the first to laugh merrily.

They exited the church a few minutes later to bright sunshine instead of the high clouds that had covered the sky when Gabriel arrived. A small crowd of curious pedestrians gathered outside murmured and even applauded and cheered a bit self-consciously when it must have become apparent to them that this was the bride and groom. Jessica smiled brightly at them and waved her free arm, her yellow rose clutched in her hand. Gabriel lifted a hand in acknowledgment. And then they were showered with rose petals, hurled by Lady Estelle and Bertrand Lamarr and by the Wayne brothers—and the little girl, who was giggling helplessly.

“Oh goodness,” Jessica said as Gabriel handed her into the flower-decked carriage that would take them to Archer House. “That has happened at every wedding I have ever attended. Why was I not expecting it with my own?” She sat and gazed at him. “You do look gorgeous, Gabriel.”

He brushed himself off before taking his place beside her and the coachman put up the steps and shut the door. “You could not have left that line for me, I suppose?” he asked.

“Do I look gorgeous?”

The brim of her straw bonnet was trimmed with tiny pink rosebuds. The wide silk ribbons that were tied in a bow to the left side of her chin were a richer shade of the same color. Her dark hair was gleaming. Her flushed, wide-eyed face was pure beauty.

“You, my dear wife,” he said, “look scrumptious.”

She laughed. “Scrumptious?” she said. “Well, that is something new. No one has ever called me that before.”

“I am glad of it,” he said.

And somehow she was not smiling any longer. Neither was he.

“I made you certain vows,” he said. “I do intend to keep them.”

“Oh,” she said. “And I will keep mine.”

He hesitated, set an arm about her shoulders, touched one side of her jaw with his fingertips, and kissed her.

“A mere promise for tonight, Mrs. Thorne,” he said against her lips.

There was a faint cheer from their guests, who had spilled out of the church to see them on their way, but it was totally obliterated when the carriage rocked on its springs and moved away from the church, dragging an impressive array of noisy metal items that had been tied beneath.

She grimaced. And laughed. And then shouted over the din. “Gabriel, why has there been a change of plan? Why are we staying in London a little longer?”

“Manley Rochford and his wife have arrived in town,” he told her.

Her mouth formed an O, but if sound accompanied it, it was impossible to hear.

So much for their quiet wedding.

The large hallway beyond the front doors of Archer House and the dining room looked and smelled like a rose garden. And the long table in the dining room had been set with all the very best, rarely used china and crystal and silverware. Someone—or, rather, some persons—had been very busy indeed in the relatively short while since she left for her wedding, Jessica thought.

After one peep into the dining room she ran upstairs to remove her bonnet and have Ruth make some repairs to her hair. Yes, she really did run. Her old nurse and her former governess would have had an apoplexy apiece.

A couple of large trunks and hatboxes stood in the middle of her bedchamber, ready to be loaded onto a baggage carriage tomorrow for the journey to Brierley—now delayed. Because Mr. Manley Rochford and his wife had arrived unexpectedly early in town. Jessica’s stomach lurched. Whatever was it going to mean? But she refused to think of all the implications of that just now. Not on her wedding day.

Had there ever been a lovelier, more romantic wedding? Not that she was biased or anything, but he had not taken his eyes off hers throughout the brief service, not even when Mr. Vickers almost dropped her ring and had been forced to perform a few very inelegant twistings and lungings in order to save it—not to mention his language, which fortunately had probably not been too audible beyond their little group. That episode, she supposed, had been rather funny, but she had continued to gaze at Gabriel the whole time and observe it only from the corner of her eye.

It had seemed almost like a love match. Perhaps all weddings did to the two people who were marrying. For a wedding made everything change. The future that stretched ahead was full of possibility, full of hope, full of dreams. Not that one must believe in happily-ever-after. One would be foolish to do so even if the marriage was a love match. But one could believe at least in the possibility of more happiness than misery. If that was what one wanted. If it was also what one’s spouse wanted. Ah, so many if s. So much uncertainty.

“Ruth,” she said after her hair had been restored to her maid’s satisfaction, “I am Lady Jessica Thorne.” Countess of Lyndale, she thought, hugging that secret knowledge to herself. “Does that not have a lovely sound?”

“Yes, my lady,” Ruth said as Jessica caught up the sides of her dress and twirled once about, just like a young child on her way to a party. Like something Josephine would do. Or four-year-old Rebecca.

Her eyes rested upon the trunks again. A few bags would already have been taken over to Gabriel’s hotel, where she would spend the night and perhaps more than one night if indeed they were to stay longer in London. Either way, she would not be coming back here. She might visit Archer House any number of times in the future and perhaps even stay here occasionally. She might and probably would visit Morland Abbey. But after a lifetime of thinking of both houses as home, she could no longer do so. She did not belong here now. She belonged wherever Gabriel belonged.

And where was that?

Brierley Hall? He had lived there for only ten of his thirty-two years. And they had not been happy years. By contrast, the thirteen he had spent in Boston had been happy. But duty and his concern for a lady who was about to be turned out of her home had brought him back—to stay. Yes, they would live at Brierley Hall, Jessica thought. A house she had never seen, in a part of the country with which she was unfamiliar. Far from either London or Morland Abbey. Far from her mother and Avery and Anna. Far from Abby and Camille and Harry. Far from everyone except perhaps Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas.

She would make it into a home. For herself. For Gabriel. For any children they would have—oh please, please, dear God, let there be children. At least one son for the succession and a few other children just because. She would make it a happy home. It was what she had been raised to do. It was what she could and would do. She was Lady Jessica . . . Thorne. She was the Countess of Lyndale.

There was a light tap upon the door of the bedchamber and it opened before Ruth could reach it. Gabriel stepped inside, and Jessica’s breath caught in her throat at the realization that he now had every right to do so. She had sacrificed privacy an hour ago as well as name and home and the little freedom she had insisted upon asserting since her twenty-first birthday.

“Everyone is awaiting the bride,” he said.