Mary Balogh - Simply Unforgettable

Just a year ago he would have cringed at the thought of wanting all his family about him.

Just a year ago he would have cringed at the thought of marrying.

He certainly would not have believed that today—or any day—he would be marrying for love.

Ah, but love was not nearly a powerful enough word.

He adored Frances. He liked her and admired her in addition to all the romantic and lustful feelings he had for her.

And then there she was, stepping into the nave and approaching on Clifton’s arm, slender and elegant and darkly beautiful.

He remembered his first sight of her—a fleeting glimpse as his carriage passed hers in the middle of a snowstorm. And he remembered his second sight of her as he hauled her out of her submerged carriage—a bedraggled virago, breathing fire and brimstone.

He remembered her making beef pie and bread.

He remembered her carving a smiling mouth on her snowman and stepping back to regard it with pleased satisfaction, her head tipped slightly to one side.

He remembered her waltzing with him and humming the tune.

He remembered stepping into the doorway of the Reynolds drawing room and discovering that the singer who had so captivated his soul was Frances Allard.

He remembered . . .

But today he did not have to rely upon memory from which to draw pleasure. Today they were here before their family and friends to pledge themselves to a lifetime together.

She was here at his side, her very dark eyes luminous with the wonder of the moment.

It was a moment he would live to the full now while it was happening—and a moment he would hold in memory for the rest of his life.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“Dearly beloved . . .” the clergyman began.

The morning had been cloudy with the threat of possible rain. But when Viscount Sinclair stepped out into the Abbey Yard with his new viscountess on his arm, the sun was shining down from a sky of pure blue.

“We have gone through some extremes of weather together, my love,” he said, looking down on her. “But now we have sunshine. Do you suppose it is a good omen?”

“It is nothing,” she said, “but a lovely day. We do not need omens, Lucius, only our own will to grasp our destiny and live it.”

He took her hand and they dashed across the yard, past the small crowd of interested spectators who had stepped out of the Pump Room, and beneath the arches to the carriage that awaited them with Peters up on the box. It would take them back to the school, where a wedding breakfast awaited them and their guests.

“The hall has been forbidden to me for the past two days,” Frances explained. “But Claudia and Anne and Susanna have been in there for long hours at a time with the girls. I think they have been decorating the room.”

Lucius laced his fingers with hers.

“It will doubtless be a work of art,” he said. “We will admire it, Frances, and greet our guests and be happy with them. Today I have kept a promise, and my grandfather has lived to see it. And today we have made two elderly sisters, your great-aunts, very happy. But now, this moment, is ours alone. I do not intend to waste it. Ah, this is convenient.”

The carriage was making a sharp turn onto the Pulteney Bridge and had thrown them together.

“Very.” Frances looked across at him with bright, laughing eyes.

He wrapped one arm about her shoulders, lowered his head, and kissed her long and thoroughly.

Neither of them seemed the slightest bit concerned that there were no curtains to cover the windows.

The world was welcome to share their happiness if it so chose.