Catherine Coulter: Lyons Gate

At first Jason didn’t recognize her. He heard a light, lovely laugh, and his head turned automatically in its direction. Was this the bride? No. It was Hallie Carrick. Gone were the old breeches, the ratty hat, the thick dirty braid, the boots as dusty as her face. In their place was a gown of pale lavender, with big billowy sleeves, a neckline that could be more modest, and a waist the size of a doorknob. Very tightly pulled stays, he imagined, but what he was looking at now was her hair. It was golden, no other way to describe the color, the exact same color as her father’s-shiny as the satin gown his aunt Mary Rose was wearing-woven into a thick, intricate braid on top of her head with little wisps and curls dangling artistically around her ears. Small diamond earrings sparkled through those myriad wisps, sparkled just like her laugh.

Jason smiled an easy, very masculine smile. She was a girl, despite her boasts and braggadocio. Why not admire her since Lyon ’s Gate was now his? He could afford to be gracious. He’d won. His ownership hadn’t ever been in doubt, even though Thomas Hoverton hadn’t been in London when Jason had gotten there. It had taken him only an hour to track down the Hoverton solicitor, Arlo Clark of 29 Burksted Street, who’d nearly broken into tears and fallen on his neck when he’d realized Jason was there to actually make an offer for the Hoverton property. Mr. Clark had the papers right there in a drawer, where they’d moldered for nearly two years. The offer was more than generous, though Jason realized the solicitor would never admit that. One had to play the game. The game was finished soon enough, and Jason had signed his name with a flourish and a sense of deep pleasure. Mr. Clark then signed in Thomas Hoverton’s place since he was his legal representative.

Yes, Mr. Clark knew Wily Willy Bibber, the Sherbrooke solicitor, and they would see to the transfer of funds. Everything was right and tight. Jason could take possession of Lyon ’s Gate as soon as he wished to.

Yes, Jason could be gracious to this American baggage with her British accent and British blood. Now he could even appreciate her virgin blue eyes, her golden hair that surely belonged to a fairy tale princess-an image that didn’t suit her personality at all-and a figure to make any man whimper. And that laugh of hers-too free, too easy, far too American-sounded like she didn’t have a care in the world. Well, she shortly would when she realized she’d lost to him.

He’d arrived no more than ten minutes before the ceremony and had instantly been surrounded by his huge family. For today at least, there would be no swirling tension in the air because he wasn’t the focus of everyone’s attention, thank God. No one would ask how he was feeling or if he’d yet gotten over the betrayal that had nearly destroyed his family. His uncle Ryder, a child sitting on each leg and a child on either side of him, had everyone press together so Jason could fit on the same pew. His aunt Sophie was seated between two older children, Grayson next, holding two small children on his legs. Grayson, a born storyteller, was his uncle Ryder and aunt Sophie’s only natural child, tall with the Sherbrooke looks, and eyes as blue as a clear summer sky.

Jason’s parents, Hollis, James, Corrie, and the twins, twitching and yawning and jabbering in twin talk, were in the pew in front of him. Jason saw that every adult was responsible for one child, including his grandmother, who wasn’t frowning at the small human being seated quietly beside her, surely a special gift from God. He saw his aunt Melissande, all of fifty now, seated two rows up. She was still so beautiful she stopped young men in their tracks. She looked more like his and James’s sister than their mother’s elder sister. Uncle Tony, her husband, was seated next to her, one arm resting on the pew behind her, his fingers playing with a strand of her beautiful black hair.

The church was filled to bursting since all of the groom’s relatives had come to Glenclose-on-Rowan for the wedding. The only missing relatives were Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin from Scotland and Meggie and Thomas from Ireland. Jason settled in on the pew next to a four-year-old boy who, Uncle Ryder whispered over the top of the child’s head, was named Harvey. He looked too old for his years, and he looked afraid, but that would change now that he was with Ryder. He was a very lucky little boy. He would eventually forget all the bad things that had happened to him. Harvey had large, very dark eyes, nearly as dark as Douglas Sherbrooke’s eyes, and straight, shiny, dark brown hair. His cheekbones were still too sharp, his body too thin, but that would change as well.

When Miss Hallie Carrick glided down the aisle to support Miss Breckenridge, strewing rose petals from Mary Rose’s garden, he caught her eye and gave her a cheerful little wave. Was there a sneer of triumph on his mouth? No, surely he was too well-bred to allow any sort of gloating to appear.

Evidently she didn’t consider his little wave and smile gloating because, funny thing was, she looked momentarily surprised, and nearly dropped the lovely bouquet of flowers she carried. Jason would swear she giggled as she had to do a fast step to grab the small ribbon-tied roses. Then she smiled back and returned his little wave.

Harvey poked him in the ribs. “Who is that angel wot’s sashshaying down the aisle flingin’ rose petals about and eyin’ ye?”

“That’s Miss Carrick, the bridesmaid to Miss Breckenridge, the bride,” Jason said. “She is rather flinging the rose petals about, rather than gracefully strewing them, isn’t she?”

“Lawks,” said Harvey, his voice loud and crystal clear over the organ music, “she could dump ’em out o’ a bucket right on me ’ead. Ain’t she jest purtier than the sun shinin’ down on a puddle of clean water in Watt’s alley? I wants to marry the angel when I grows up.”

“No you don’t, Harvey. Trust me. She’s no angel. She’d chew your ears for breakfast.” He took the little boy’s hand and drew him closer. There were smiles and some laughter following Harvey ’s announcement. Harvey opened his mouth, but Jason, well practiced with the Wyndham children, said quickly, “I want you to count the hairs you can see on my arm until you’ve got them all.”

“There ain’t many showin’,” Harvey said, “an’ that’s good ’cause I can only counts to four.” That was too bad, Jason thought. Four-year-old Alice Wyndham could count to fifty-one. At least Harvey counted with great precision. It kept him quiet for about twenty seconds. Jason looked down the bench at his uncle Ryder, who’d just kissed a child’s head. He was nodding at Jason, smiling. Since his uncle Ryder had been a very young man of twenty, he’d been taking in abandoned children or rescuing them from drunken parents or sadistic masters. It was his aunt Sinjun who’d started calling his children the Beloved Ones.

Jason lifted the fidgeting Harvey onto his left leg, and thankfully soon felt the small body collapse back against his chest. Jason managed for the most part to keep his eyes on his cousin Leo Sherbrooke as he stood tall and proud opposite a heavily veiled girl who was, evidently, Melissa Breckenridge. She didn’t leap on Leo, at least until her new father-in-law, Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke told her, a wonderful smile on his face, that the bride could kiss the groom.

At the reception following the ceremony, guests overflowed the vicarage into the lovely vicarage gardens. Reverend Sherbrooke was heard to bless God for delivering up this magnificent sunny day a good dozen times. After three toasts of the excellent champagne provided by the earl of Northcliffe, Tysen cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention. Unfortunately at that particular moment, one of the children shouted, “I have to go behind that bush!” which had everyone dissolving into laughter. Tysen tried again. “My wife has informed me that to keep us all from becoming drunk as loons, eating and dancing is required. The countess of Northcliffe has consented to play if all the young men will assist in clearing space in the drawing room.”