The Wedding Affair (42 page)

“Please don’t stay away,” Penelope said shyly. “I like making love with you.”

“You did well to rid yourself of Etta. However, I must in all honesty tell you she was right about one thing, Penny. You
are
a wanton.”

Her cheeks burned.

He laughed. “But only the most fortunate of husbands has a wanton for a wife, so I promise never to speak of it to anyone but you. Did you throw away that nightgown? Because if not, I wish for you to—what was Etta’s word?—
cavort
around in it for me sometimes.” He buried his face in her hair. “I think I love you, Penny.”

Her throat closed up. She had made up her mind to be happy with whatever he was willing to give her. Being his wife, carrying his title, bearing his children—she had told herself that would be enough, and even in the wildest of her imaginings, she had never dared to dream of more. She had been determined to be a good wife, all the while loving him silently.

“I admire you,” he said quietly. “You’re sweet and honorable and funny and lively and incredibly attractive…”

“You
must
love me, to be so blind.” Suddenly shy, she whispered, “I didn’t mean to tell you—ever—that I love you, Charles. I thought you wouldn’t want to hear it, to be bothered with my feelings.”

“Bother me anytime you wish. The morning the invitation came to Daphne’s wedding, and you came downstairs in your dressing gown to ask if we were going, you were so naturally beautiful with your hair down and your eyes still sleepy…”

“The wedding,” Penelope said. “I
knew
we were forgetting something.”

“No hurry. Daphne will be late for her own ceremony. Nevertheless, I suppose we should make some effort to get to the church.” He set her off his knee. “You told me once that you felt like a loaf of dark bread masquerading as cake.”

She remembered saying it. He had asked, on their first evening at Halstead, why she was not wearing jewels, and she had said to do so felt like adding icing to a rough loaf, pretending to be something she was not. She nodded slowly.

“Penny, you
are
cake for me. You are every treat I can think of wanting, and though I have dealt with you badly, in the future you will have no reason to regret our arrangement.”

“Charles…” she whispered against his lips.

“Hmm?”

“Will you still love me if I have a boy after all? I can’t
guarantee
only girls, you know.”

He kissed her for a while longer, and just as Penelope forgot the question, he said carelessly, “Whenever you like, my dear. I’m sure I’ll find some other way to annoy your father.”

***

Moonlight drenched the nursery. Charlotte was curled around a doll Olivia had never seen before, and a new pale pink dress hung on the wardrobe door. Nurse had retired to her room, and the nursery maid was asleep on a pallet in the corner. Simon and Olivia tiptoed across the room and stood holding hands, looking down at the sleeping child.

“She’ll be just as beautiful as you are.” The low warm rumble of Simon’s voice sent quivers through Olivia. He drew her down onto the narrow bed next to Charlotte’s cot and sat beside her. Olivia basked in the warmth of his arms, the comfort of his presence. When she yawned, he tucked a blanket around her.

When Olivia opened her eyes, she already knew she was being watched. Her daughter stood beside her, still clutching the doll and staring. Olivia stretched and bumped into something large, warm, and solid. Simon’s arm tightened, keeping her from sliding out of the too-small bed. “Running away, my duchess?” he murmured against her ear.

“Mama, did you bring me a sweet from the ball?”

“I forgot, darling. But I brought something better.”
A new papa… if I can figure out how to explain it.

“That’s all right. The duchess will bring me a sweet.”

“My mother?” Simon sat up and cast a quick look at the window. “She might be along at any moment, so we’d best make this quick.” He shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, planted his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward until his eyes were level with the child’s. “Charlotte, how would you like to live here at Halstead with Nurse and Mama and me, and your very own pony and a puppy and—”

“That’s plenty of promises to go on with,” Olivia said.

Charlotte considered. “Forever and ever? Just like the fairy tale?”

Olivia’s heart gave a funny little bump.

“Just like the fairy tale,” Simon said gently. “
And they all lived happily ever after
.”

***

Lady Daphne’s wedding in the village church was exactly the spectacle everyone had anticipated—elaborate, long, and tedious. For nearly an hour the vicar expounded on the parallels between marriage and the church, and he only wrapped up the sermon and got on with the ceremony after one of the bridesmaids fainted and had to be revived with a sprinkle of water from one of Kate’s altar bouquets.

But the second wedding of the day—held immediately after the new marchioness left the church on her husband’s arm—was brief, quiet, and moving, with only a dozen people present. Olivia and Simon had eyes only for each other; the archbishop presided with a smile; Charlotte, wearing her pink dress, clutched the hand of her new grandmama; and the few witnesses who meant the most to the bride and groom looked on. The Earl of Townsend held his Penny’s hand quite openly, while Andrew stroked Kate’s wrist using her prayer book as cover.

The moment Simon kissed his bride, Lady Stone muttered to the gentleman beside her, “That’s
another
ten guineas you owe me, Colonel. But I’ll give you a chance to win it back, if you’d care to lay a wager on whether Daphne has a tantrum because Simon has stolen her wedding day.”

After the new Duchess of Somervale was officially introduced to all the guests, the first toast was history, and Daphne had indeed thrown a tantrum, Iris Somervale lifted a sleepy Charlotte into her lap and said, “Now I’m officially in the shade—the
dowager
Duchess of Somervale. I suppose I may as well get used to it.”

“I understand one does become accustomed—and after all, Iris, it’s little enough to give up.” Lady Stone lifted her wineglass in an informal toast. “You’re merely sacrificing one title in exchange for a slightly different one. Look at what you’ve gained in return—a daughter and a granddaughter, and I’ll wager quite soon there will be an heir to the dukedom.”

“Not
too
soon, I hope.” The duchess sipped her wine and looked down at the child in her lap.

Charlotte blinked. “Is that grape juice, Grandmama? I
like
grape juice.” The duchess looked bemused, but before she could answer, the child’s eyes drifted closed.

Lady Stone sighed. “Yes, you have all the benefits. I, on the other hand, have had to sacrifice a perfectly good employee in the cause of love. Last time I hired a companion, she stayed with me for six entire weeks before she left my employ to get married. This one lasted barely twelve hours.”

“Perhaps,” Colonel Sir Tristan Huffington said, “that’s because you’re looking for the wrong sort of companion, Lucinda.”

Lady Stone eyed him coolly. “You must give me the benefit of your wisdom, Colonel. What sort of person should I be seeking to bear me company in my declining years?”

“Me,” the colonel said simply.

The dowager duchess’s mouth dropped open.

Lady Stone gave a raspy laugh. “Tristan, I thought you’d never ask. Or is it just that you don’t want to have to honor all those bets you’ve lost to me?” She laid her hand on his arm. “Come and walk with me in the garden, and we’ll talk it over.”