Last night had been more than an affirmation; it had been a promise enshrined in bliss.
Reaching the steps, she gave her hand to Charlie, into his keeping, and stepped up to stand by his side.
And so they were married, with the Reverend Mr. Duncliffe officiating, and their familes, immediate and extended, looking on. Clary, Gloria, and Augusta had followed her down the aisle; Jeremy stood on the other side of Charlie, along with two gentlemen Sarah hadn’t met before.
Beyond the fact that the church was packed, that was all she took in. The rest of her awareness was focused on the ceremony, on the words of the vow she made, and the one Charlie made in return.
To honor and obey. To honor and cherish.
He placed a golden wedding band on her finger, and they kissed to seal the pact, a caress that lingered longer than it should have. Their lips parted and their eyes met—for one instant there was just her and him and the joy between them—then reality returned, they smiled, resigned, and stepped apart. As one they turned and gave themselves over to their respective roles for the day.
Arm in arm they walked up the aisle, laughing and smiling, acknowledging the congratulations of all those packed inside the church. Once outside, they braved a shower of rice, but rather than simply climb into the carriage waiting to whisk them away, they paused in the crisp sunshine to receive the wishes of the crowd of locals who had gathered, to let the women coo over the exquisite pearl beading and Brussels lace adorning her white silk gown, while the men shook hands with Charlie or nodded respectfully.
Everyone beamed. It was a moment of golden fairy-tale-like happiness.
Both of them were locals; they’d lived most of their lives—in her case all of her life—within a few miles of the church. There was a small host of people lining up to wish her well, and she couldn’t find it in her to cut the moment short.
She half expected Charlie to grow restless and perhaps drift to where his groomsmen loitered beside the ribbon-draped carriage. Instead, he remained beside her, his arm linked in hers, and employed his ready charm, leaving all those who spoke with them feeling gratified.
Mr. Sinclair appeared out of the throng to bow over her hand. “My congratulations, Countess.” He smiled, debonair and sincere, then, releasing her, turned his smile on Charlie and held out his hand. “You’re a lucky man, my lord.”
Shaking his hand, Charlie inclined his head. “Indeed,” he murmured, his eyes on her. “So I think.”
Sarah felt herself blush; how she knew she didn’t know, but she knew precisely what Charlie was thinking. They parted from Sinclair, and she looked around for distraction. To one side of the milling throng she spied Maggs’s carroty-red head, then saw that Lily and Joseph had brought the older children to the church. She glanced at Charlie, but he’d already followed her gaze.
He caught her eye, smiled. “Come. Let’s go over and greet them.”
She caught the resignation in his eyes, yet there was something else in his demeanor, too—the something that had him so readily acquiescing to all the social demands of the day. She wasn’t sure what that something was, but she smiled and let him steer her to the children.
After they’d chatted with the group, all round-eyed, letting the girls ooh and aah over her gown, Jeremy came and whispered that they really had to leave.
“I’ll see you next week,” she promised the children. They waved as Charlie led her away.
Reaching the open carriage, he handed her in, then to cheers and huzzahs and a swelling chant of “Meredith!” he joined her. He sat, and his coachman flicked the reins. They smiled and waved, then as the carriage carried them away from the church and through the town they sighed and sat back. It was only a minute to the impressive gates that gave onto the long drive leading to Morwellan Park.
She breathed in, catching the scent of budding things on the faint breeze. Spring was on the brink of bursting through; the sense of a fresh, joyous start found an echo within her.
She would soon arrive at her new home; today was the start of the rest of her life.
Beside her, Charlie took her hand in his, conscious that, as so frequently happened when he was with her, this day was unfolding somewhat differently than he’d thought.
He hadn’t expected to actually enjoy his wedding, yet the instant he’d laid eyes on her, a vision in white gliding up the aisle toward him, he’d felt as if the sun had broken through and since then had been shining, glowing, on him. On them.
She was now his, and while part of what he felt was relief, a more solid part was pride. Pride in her, that he’d secured her as his bride, that he’d been so lucky even if he hadn’t fully understood her worth when he’d first offered for her hand. He’d thought her an excellent candidate for the position of his countess, but he hadn’t known then just how very true that was.
Seeing her moving through the hordes outside the church, smiling and knowing just what to say to the most crusty, tonnish beldame, and also to the miller’s wife, and to the orphans, had brought the point home. She interacted with all levels of society easily, as did he, but that wasn’t an ability shared by all young ladies. Others would have shrunk from what to them would have been a mere duty, and would have relied on him to deploy his charm and see them through. Sarah, instead, had a sincere interest in all who lived in the area; she’d done most of the talking, leaving him to play the relatively easy role of proud groom and local noble lord.
He looked down at her as, eyes briefly closing, smiling, she lifted her face to the sunshine. She looked radiant, and she was his. A warm glow suffused him, and settled in his chest.
A pleasant, very comfortable feeling.
Many of those invited to the wedding breakfast had driven ahead; a crowd was waiting in the drawing room to greet them. Within minutes of entering to joyous applause, they’d separated as friends and relatives claimed them. He was surprised to find himself highly aware of Sarah’s absence from his side, but he’d attended fashionable weddings enough to know the ropes without thinking. Independently, they circled the room, chatting, then, at Crisp’s announcement, came together again to lead the assembled host into the ballroom for the wedding breakfast.
They sat at the long tables draped in white linen, with silver and crystal glinting in the weak sunshine pouring through the long windows. Flutes of champagne were already waiting at each place; it should have been his father who proposed the first toast, but his father was dead. Gabriel Cynster had largely stood in loco parentis, but in deference to Charlie’s title, it was Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives, who rose and proposed the first toast to the happy couple, welcoming them into the congregation of the wider family.
Everyone rose, lifted their glasses, echoed, “To Charlie and Sarah,” then drank. His hand covering Sarah’s as she sat beside him, Charlie smiled at the company, then glanced at her. And felt that odd feeling in his chest lurch, then intensify.
She was so happy it nearly hurt to look at her; the sight made him blink several times, and feel strangely humbled.
But then with much talk and laughter everyone sat again, and the meal was served. There was talk on every side. The majority present were now related in some fashion. With the Season yet to start and Christmas more than two months in the past, there was much to catch up with. Noise rose all around, yet it was the pleasant, embracing, congenial sound of shared familial happiness.
The next hour passed unmarred by any incident or consideration. The customary toasts were observed, predictably with some hilarity. Good humor and unalloyed gaiety were palpable threads twining through the gathering as guests stood and started to circulate.
Turning from chatting with Lord Martin Cynster, Charlie found that Alathea had captured Sarah. They sat together at a nearby table, engrossed in discussion. He suspected he should listen in to what ever “wisdom” his eldest sister was imparting; instead he simply stood and drank in the sight of Sarah’s face. The sight of her transparent happiness.
It was a glow that radiated from her fi
ne skin, that seemed to light her from within and shine from her cornflower-blue eyes. They seemed brighter, more sparkling, than he’d ever seen them.
For one instant alone within the whirl, he grasped the moment to wonder just what he was feeling, why that sight stirred something so deep, so profound inside him. Why his response was so strong, so powerful that it momentarily cramped his chest.
And left him faintly dizzy.
He raised the glass he held and sipped. And recalled his reasons for marrying. Recalled Sinclair’s and others’ comments; he was indeed a lucky man. He studied Sarah’s face and heard again in his mind the vows he’d so recently spoken: to honor and cherish.
Unbidden, unintended, his mind supplied another vow, one he silently made as he watched her: He would do all he could to defend and protect the happiness shining in her eyes.
He would do all he could to make her anticipation of future happiness as his wife a reality.
“There you are!”
Charlie blinked and turned as Jeremy, looking faintly harassed, appeared at his shoulder.
“Who would have imagined getting my older brother wed would prove such a trial?” Jeremy resignedly but pointedly glared at him. “The musicians—you did remember we had musicians, didn’t you?—have been waiting, not patiently, for you to give the signal for the first waltz.”
“Ah.” Charlie drained his glass, and handed it to Jeremy. “In that case, consider said signal given.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes, heaved a put-upon sigh, and turned to wave to the musicans stationed at the other end of the room.
As the first chords sounded, Charlie crossed to take Sarah’s hand. Catching her eyes, he smiled and drew her to her feet. “This is our dance, I believe.”
Her smile, her joy, visibly brightened.
As he led her to where the central part of the floor was clearing, he felt her fingers tremble in his; turning her into his arms, he caught her eyes and murmured, “For this moment at least, it’s just you and me.”
She held his gaze; as he stepped out and swept her into the dance he felt her relax, losing the sudden nervousness that had assailed her at being the sole focus of everyone’s complete attention. She followed his lead without hesitation, her skirts flowing about his legs as they twirled; he smiled, and drew her closer as he whirled them through the turn, then set them revolving back up the room.
“It’s over,” he murmured, smiling down into her eyes, keeping her close as, their lap of honor completed, Alathea and Gabriel, then Dillon and Pris and Gerrard and Jacqueline, took to the floor. Other couples followed.
Smiling back, Sarah sighed. She searched his eyes. “It’s been…perfect, hasn’t it?”
He felt his smile deepen. “Yes.” And the day wasn’t over yet. He didn’t utter the words, but the direction of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes because she blushed, then looked away.
Inwardly grinning, he glanced around at the numerous couples now circling about them. Martin and Celia whirled past, laughing. Charlie had seen Devil sweep his duchess, Honoria, onto the floor; they whirled past with Honoria lecturing Devil about something, transparently to no avail. From the expression on his starkly handsome face, Devil seemed to be enjoying it.
Charlie wondered if he and Sarah would be like that after they’d been married for years. He looked into her face, and again felt the warmth inside him resonate with what he saw there.
The music ceased and the dancers re-formed into various chatting groups. Sarah remained on his arm and showed no inclination to desert him.
She glanced at the corner where the older ladies had congregated on a collection of chaises. “Should we…” She waved at the gathering. “Do you think?”
He didn’t. “We spoke with all of them in the drawing room before.” Lady Osbaldestone was there, and the old tartar’s pointed comments had only grown sharper with her advancing years. With her sat Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, Lady Horatia Cynster, the Marchioness of Huntly, and various other grandes dames, all of whom shared one scarifying attribute; they could be counted on to see far too much—such as his unexpected response to Sarah’s happiness in becoming his wife—and there was no power on earth capable of preventing them from commenting when and wherever they chose.
“We don’t need to give them another chance at us.” Charlie turned his new wife toward less unnerving guests. “There’s the twins—Amanda and Amelia. You know them, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Sarah was delighted to join the group clustered about the two bright heads.
They were greeted with delight, then the group separated into two halves. The female half—Amanda, Countess of Dexter, her twin sister, Amelia, Vicountess Calverton, and Sarah, now Countess of Meredith—became engrossed in a discussion of children (the twins now had three each and had apparently decided to call a halt to their unintentional rivalry) then turned their attention to the upcoming Season, and the likelihood of them meeting in London shortly.
The male half—Charlie, Amanda’s husband, Martin, Earl of Dexter, and Amelia’s husband, Luc, Viscount Calverton—exchanged long-suffering glances and instituted their own conversation about matters politic. The three of them were linked in that Devil and Gyles Rawlings, Earl of Chillingworth, had acted as sponsors and mentors in steering each of them through the process of taking their seats in the Lords, and guiding them into the sometimes confusing political arena.
Politics was an aspect of life the five—Charlie, Luc, Martin, Devil, and Gyles—as peers of the realm shared, keeping abreast of the vissicitudes that shaped the country, making sure they were in London to take their seats and vote when necessary, even though none of them harbored political aspirations.
Regardless, all of them accepted they had political responsibilties; that was part and parcel of who they’d been born and raised to be.
However, as Parliament wasn’t sitting and there were no major upheavals threatening, there was little they had to discuss, unlike their ladies. But before they’d been reduced to feeling redundant, Barnaby approached from one side, while from the other, Reggie Carmarthen, a longtime friend of Amanda’s and Amelia’s, and his wife, Anne—one of Luc’s sisters—joined them, along with Penelope, Luc’s youngest sister.
Sarah greeted the newcomers with delight; thanks to Alathea’s having married into the Cynster fold, and Sarah’s family’s being invited to all the major gatherings at the Park and also at Casleigh, the Cynsters’ house, she’d met all these ladies before. While no one had guessed she would marry Charlie, now that she had, Amanda, Amelia, and all the rest were intent on embracing her and wholeheartedly welcoming her into that unfailingly warm and supportive set.
Their interest and the promise of evolving friendships added yet another layer of joy to her day.
Barnaby Adair was one gentleman she hadn’t met, but when Charlie introduced him, he smiled and charmingly complimented her. Blond, exceedingly handsome, and understatedly sophisticated, he was clearly another of this group, unrelated maybe but transparently a part of the circle.
Charlie introduced Barnaby to Penelope, the only other lady he hadn’t previously met. She regarded him seriously through her spectacles, then offered her hand. “You’re the one who investigates crimes—do I have that correctly?”
Taking her hand, Barnaby admitted that he did, but glibly turned the conversation to other, less sensational avenues. Penelope narrowed her eyes, then, retrieving her fingers, turned to Sarah and the other ladies.
As they stood in a loose group at one side of the ballroom, with the sunshine streaming over them, chatting and talking of this and that, the looming uncertainty Sarah had felt over managing Charlie’s London house and all the tonnish entertaining his position necessitated evaporated. With friends like these, she had nothing to fear.
Both Amanda and Amelia insisted she call on them for any help she might need. “We’ve been through it all,” Amanda said. “And while it’s daunting at first—”
“It’
s the way our world is,” Amelia cut in, “and once you’ve survived hosting your first ton ball you can manage anything.”
The assembled ladies laughed, then Amelia and Amanda firmly collected their spouses and led them, unresisting, away.
Charlie, Reggie, and Barnaby resumed their discussion of horse flesh. Sarah turned to Anne and Penelope, neither of whom she’d spent much time with before.
Her gaze direct and fearless, Penelope met Sarah’s eyes. Unlike Luc’s other sisters—the softly feminine Anne and the eldest, Emily, and the strikingly attractive Portia—Penelope always appeared rather severe, with her thick, dark hair tightly restrained and her spectacles perched on her straight little nose. She spoke very directly, too. “Mama mentioned,” she said, “that you manage an orphanage nearby.”
Sarah smiled. “Indeed. I inherited it, you might say as a going concern, from my godmother.” Penelope’s glance was openly inquiring; Sarah glanced at Anne and found her interested, too. She briefly outlined the scale and scope of the orphanage, and their aim to give their children a future trade.
“Aha!” Penelope nodded. “That’s what I need to hear about. You see, together with Anne and Portia, and others, of couse, I manage the Foundling House in London. We face much the same difficulties as here, but we’ve yet to institute any real program to help the children once they’re old enough to leave.” Penelope glanced around at the wedding guests, but refused to be deterred. “Would you mind terribly taking a moment to explain how your system works?”
“No, of course not. The orphanage is my principal interest.” Sarah paused, then amended, “Well, after my house hold.”
“I know Portia’s around here somewhere. She should hear this, too.” Stretching on her toes, Penelope scanned the room. “Can you see Simon Cynster?”
“Why?” asked Anne, looking, too. “Was he with her?”
Penelope snorted. “No, but if you find him, I’ll lay you odds he’ll be scowling at her.” When Sarah frowned in question, Penelope shrugged. “In gatherings such as this, he always does.”