Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  Then, satisfied, certain, she closed her sketchbook, got up, and went to the window of her room that looked out to the Becks’ house and the long yard to the back. What she saw there made her smile. And then she went to get her pelisse.

  “Christopher, may I talk with you, please?” Gwendolyn said, and Christopher brought his axe down with a thunk into a fat yew log and split it in two.

  He turned to her and smiled, liking how the wind played with her hair and ruffled the hems of her white gown and rose-colored pelisse; admiring the grace and strength in her tall, slender body, the enduring beauty of her delicate features, the allure of her tenderly curved mouth, the exact shade of a ripe peach. A vivid memory rose up, from years ago, and in this very yard.

  He answered, not curtly this time, but softly:

  “Well?”

  “You see, I’ve had an idea.” Gwendolyn’s face was bright with a kind of mischievous joy.

  Christopher leaned on the axe handle, his smile growing. “I am, as they say, all attention.”

  “I must say that I think it’s quite a brilliant idea. You know, of course, that I love you?”

  I love you.

  The words were like a bell resonating within him, rich, deep, sonorous, bringing forth the instant echo of his own love for her. The secret hope, the wild longing he’d carried all these months—answered.

  I love you.

  Three short, simple words which would change his life, his world, forever.

  He looked down into Gwendolyn’s lovely face and said, in his voice a new caress: “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Well, I do love you, Christopher, and I thought that we could get married.”

  “Get married?” he said, teasingly repeating his own words from years ago. “Are you mad?”

  “Of course I’m not mad,” she answered, doing the same. Her eyes were sparkling like sapphires. “It seems to me a wonderfully clever plan.”

  “I thought girls were supposed to wait for a proposal.”

  “Oh, who cares? Besides, wouldn’t it be a splendid adventure?”

  At this Christopher tossed aside the axe and went to Gwendolyn, reaching down to take her hands in his. “Sì, signorina,” he softly said. “It would be the most splendid adventure.”

  “Oh, Christopher, do you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And—and do you love me too?”

  “Yes. Mind, heart, body, and soul. Yes.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Gwendolyn said, and pulled her hands away, but only to slide her arms around his neck, to come as close as one person could to another, and to bring her mouth up against his own.

  Into Christopher’s mind flashed the memory of that all-too-brief embrace at Vauxhall Gardens, the agony of self-control it took to not kiss Gwendolyn, to do the right and honorable thing while every part of him yearned to forget that she was engaged to the Earl.

  But that was then, and this—this, by God, was now, in all its wonder and glory.

  I love you.

  I thought that we could get married.

  Do you love me too?

  Mind, heart, body, and soul.

  He brought his own arms around Gwendolyn, and with a low, rough sound that was half a laugh, half a groan of pleasure, he kissed her. Slow, gentle, aware of a certain hesitancy on her part at first and keenly sensitive to her response. There was all the time in the world for them now, and her pleasure meant everything. Her pleasure, her joy, was his.

  Slowly, slowly, their kiss deepened. Her mouth as delectable as a sweet, ripe peach—and he a man hungry in every part of him for it. For her. For Gwendolyn, his light, his love. The woman who was his friend and would be his wife. Who was, in fact, kissing him back, her arms tightening around his neck, and for a while—it could have been a minute, it could have been forever—he couldn’t tell where he ended and Gwendolyn began. They were one, and it was right, so very right.

  When finally they pulled apart a little, he saw that she was radiant.

  “Oh, Christopher,” she said, rather dazedly.

  “Yes, Gwennie?”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything the whole time we were kissing.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Very good! I was just—being. Feeling. Feeling you and me—enjoying from head to toe, and everywhere in between! Let’s do it again.”

  “Yes,” he said, “let’s,” and he cupped her face in his hands, leaning down just enough so that he could slant his mouth against hers. Her lips, soft, warm, parting at once. The taste of her, the feel of her, it was heaven here on earth: eagerness and passionate response, fire and silken wetness. He gave and she took; she gave and he received. Then she very provocatively bit at his upper lip and pleasure juddered through him so strongly that the breath audibly left him.

  She withdrew, just a little, and looked up into his face. “Was that all right, what I did?”

  “Oh God, yes.”

  “You liked it?”

  “Hardly a strong enough word.”

  She smiled, glowing, radiant. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Gwendolyn brought up her hand and slowly she slid it along a lock of his hair that had fallen across his forehead. Dreamily she said, “Christopher, I don’t mean to be boastful, but I don’t think I’m half-bad at kissing.”

  “Gwennie,” he answered, smiling back at her, “you’re excellent at it.”

  “It’s very reassuring. I had my doubts, as I think you knew. Also, ma sherry moo, you’re quite excellent yourself.”

  “We may as well admit it, signorina. We’re perfect for each other.”

  She laughed. “Oh, we are! We are!”

  He caught at the hand that had caressed his hair and brought it to his lips. “Gwennie, how long have you known?”

  “How long have I known that I love you?” She was looking up at him, thoughtfully, with a kind of dreamy marvel in her beautiful bright eyes. “I’ve loved you as a friend since London. As for falling head over heels in love with you—it was a gradual thing, you know, a little seed that needed time to grow into something solid and sturdy and lasting and real. But I think it really began at the Lion’s Head inn, the morning I woke up and saw you there right next to me.” She smiled. “I’ve realized that I want to spend the rest of my life finding you there with me, every single morning.”

  “A brilliant plan indeed,” he said, and kissed her hand again.

  “I’m glad you think so! Christopher, how long have you known?”

  “Since London also. But there were—impediments.” She nodded, and he went on, “Thank God for Hugo inviting me to come back to Whitehaven. It was when you seconded his invitation—do you remember? You said, ‘Please do. I’d like that so much.’ Well, it gave me hope. The hope that you wanted me here, that our friendship might, perhaps, become something more. I’d have found some other way to come back to Whitehaven to see you—but Hugo made it easy for me.”

  “Hurray for Hugo! We’ll have to tell him he played Cupid for us. Oh, how patient you’ve been, ma sherry moo! You’ve been yourself all this time—your congruent self—never trying to force things along, or rush me into a declaration before I was ready. For all you knew, I’d never be more than a friend to you.”

  “It was a risk I was willing to take.”

  “Do I really mean that much to you, Christopher?”

  He caught her up in his arms again. “Yes. I love you, Gwennie, and I mean to show you just how much. Today, tomorrow, next week, next year—always. And now—to paraphrase Señor Rodrigo—kiss me again, you saucy wench.”

  She laughed, and she did.

  And when, some time later, they drew apart, her face was rosy and smiling. “Oh, goodness, I feel like a human stove! I’m so hot I feel like taking off my pelisse. Actually,” she added mischievously, “I feel like taking off everything.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “Would you? Well, you will. You’re marrying a brazen woman, you know.”

/>   “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She twinkled up at him. “I’m almost tempted for us to run away to Gretna Green tonight, and be wed over the anvil. But no—I’ll display superhuman restraint and wait till we can be married in Grandpapa’s church. If that’s all right with you?”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  “I think so too! It will be absolutely marvelous. Hugo can give me away, and Katherine will be my matron of honor—and oh my goodness, Cordelia and Rosalind can be flower girls. How they’ll adore that! Grandpapa will perform the ceremony, and he’ll do it so beautifully that Mama and Aunt Claudia for certain will cry, and Cook will too, and I may burst into tears myself from sheer thankfulness and joy.”

  “I’ll bring a handkerchief for you.”

  “Of course you will, dearest, most wonderful of men. It will be the best and most delightful wedding of all time! Because I’ll be marrying you. Do you think we should have Señor Rodrigo there too, and try to persuade him to say ‘You may now kiss the bride,’ at just the right moment?”

  Christopher laughed. “He’s more likely to say ‘Heave ho, you bilge-sucking scallywag.’ As he did just yesterday when he was eyeing my scone.”

  Gwendolyn giggled. “Alas, too true! Perhaps not quite the tone we would like. Do you think your family will be able to come?”

  “If they can’t, what do you think about visiting them in Nottingham afterwards?”

  “Oh yes, I love that idea! I can’t wait to meet Cora, and the baby, too! And do you suppose we could go to Italy, and stay with Mauro for a while? I’d love to get to know him, and see all those lovely horses.”

  “By all means. I know he’d like it—and I would also, signorina. And after that?”

  “Oh, the world is so wonderfully large and interesting, isn’t it? I’d like to go to Greece—to Athens, and see the Acropolis, and of course the olive groves you worked in, out in the countryside, and I’ve always longed to visit Constantinople, and visit the famous Hippodrome—and Egypt, too. The Nile—the Pyramids—the Great Sphinx! Do you think we can? Would you like that too?”

  “Very much. Because we’ll be doing it together.”

  “Yes. How glorious! And how lucky we are, aren’t we?”

  He kissed her again. “Very. Extremely. Incredibly lucky, signorina.”

  “And what about when we get back? What shall we do?”

  “Look around us. Figure out what we’d like to do with ourselves. But there’s one thing I’m sure about. I’d like to put Uncle Dan’s fortune to good use, by way of philanthropy. Recently I’ve been invited to join some charity boards in London—one is an animal protection society, and another’s for impoverished ex-sailors and their families—and I’ve accepted. When I was in Nottingham I asked Father to teach me about business, and how to wisely invest Uncle Dan’s money, so that I’ll be able to not just keep giving it away, but also ensure that there’s plenty to go around, and for a long time.”

  “Oh, Christopher, what a wonderful idea! And do you think we could also help with another endeavor? I noticed in the London museums and galleries that nearly all the artists whose work is being shown are men. It’s so silly and wrong, when there must be so many talented women who aren’t being given the chance to exhibit their paintings and sculptures. I’d like to help them if I can—with financial support, for housing and food and supplies, and perhaps fund a London gallery exclusively for the work of women artists.”

  He took her hand in his. “I think that’s a wonderful idea also. Let’s do it.”

  Gwendolyn beamed up at him. “Oh, Christopher, do you know what? Life with you really is going to be a splendid adventure. I can’t wait to begin.”

  He smiled back at her. “Gwennie,” he said, “I think we already have.”

  Chapter 19

  The wedding took place on a cold, cloudy winter morning in Whitehaven, but inside Grandpapa’s little church it was warm and bright, illuminated by many candles and also, Gwendolyn thought, by all the love filling it.

  As she had predicted, Grandpapa performed the marriage service with such simple, moving dignity that Mama, Aunt Claudia, and Cook wept copiously, and several other people in the packed pews dabbed at their eyes. As for herself, well, tears did come to her eyes once or twice, but being tears of joy they were easy to blink away. Besides, she knew that if she needed it, Christopher would have a handkerchief ready for her. He had promised, and therefore he would. Christopher, whom she could trust absolutely. Christopher, whom she liked, respected, loved, adored.

  Christopher, her husband.

  For Grandpapa had just said You may now kiss the bride, and so she and Christopher looked at each other, a smile flashing between them as they both thought of Señor Rodrigo (at present sulking at home on his perch), and then little Cordelia, standing proudly between Rosalind and Katherine, cried out:

  “Kiss her, Uncle Kwistopher!”

  A low laugh rumbled throughout the church, and Christopher, his dark eyes alight with humor, did indeed kiss her, and with so much tenderness that Gwendolyn, feeling as if her heart was overflowing with happiness, sent up to heaven a prayer of gratitude for the many, many blessings she had received.

  “Kiss me, Uncle Kwistopher!” said Rosalind loudly, and laughter rose again.

  Gallantly Christopher did, and kissed Cordelia on her plump cheek as well, and managed to tactfully decline their subsequent demands to be twirled about by mentioning that their cherished coronets of pink winter roses—which matched their Aunt Gwennie’s exactly—might not emerge unscathed.

  “Well done, Mr. Beck,” Gwendolyn whispered approvingly, and he had just enough time to answer with a smile, “Grazie, Mrs. Beck,” before they were enveloped in loving hugs, hearty handshakes, and congratulations from all sides.

  After, there was a breakfast at home, with so much food and drink that Gwendolyn said to Christopher she was sure she heard the tables literally groaning under the weight of it all. Cook, near to bursting with excitement and pride, had brought on a cadre of helpers to produce a truly remarkable array of dishes including eggs in various forms, sausages and bacon, fried potatoes, delicately marinated asparagus, muffins and rolls, preserves of all kinds, tarts both savory and sweet, fresh fruit, cold meats and cheeses, several different types of biscuits, and dozens of little iced cakes in addition to a large and magnificent three-tiered butter-cake. Owen FitzClarence, who had come with Francis for the wedding and the winter holiday, opened his eyes wide at the sight of it all, and went on to earn in Cook’s heart a lasting approbation by the sheer quantities he zestfully consumed.

  It took an entire lemony Shrewsbury biscuit for Gwendolyn to coax Señor Rodrigo out of his sulks, but by the end of it, having scattered crumbs beneath him with abandon, he visibly cheered up and even cackled agreeably when Gwendolyn told him she loved him. “Blimey,” he said, and in such outrageously dulcet tones that she couldn’t help but laugh.

  She went around the drawing-room, talking happily with Bertram, who had also come home from Oxford, and then with Katherine, Aunt Verena, Owen, Mrs. Studdart, and many other guests including several of Hugo and Will’s employees, afterwards sitting with Cordelia and Rosalind for a quick sketch Aunt Claudia begged to make of them, and finally looked around for Christopher. He was talking with Grandpapa and Will Studdart, but as she came toward them he broke away with a smile and a pleasant word, and took her hand as together they went toward one of the windows.

  They stood, fingers intertwined, looking out into the wintry afternoon. The sky was a soft pearly gray, and snow had begun to fall, drifting down in large, lacy flakes.

  “How beautiful it is,” Gwendolyn said dreamily.

  “Not as beautiful as you, signora.”

  “Signora,” she repeated, smiling. “Signorina no more. That’s as it should be. But you’ll always be ma sherry moo, you know—my dear friend.”

  “I’m glad.” He smiled back at her. “And likewise.”

  “I wonder how th
e Viscountess of Tarrington would say ‘my wonderful husband’? Probably something along the lines of ma merry mervy yoo. So that’s what you’ll be too. Oh, Christopher, I’ll always remember that night at Vauxhall. The beginning, I think, of my great unhappiness at being engaged to the Earl, but also the beginning of understanding myself better, and loving you.”

  His hand tightened on hers. “A night to remember indeed, signora.”

  “Yes. And there’s something else, too.” She smiled up at him. “The Viscountess said, ‘Things work out for the best. We must always follow our dreams.’ Do you remember that? I don’t think I quite registered it at the time. But now I do. And now I believe she was right.”

  “Wisdom arrives in many forms, doesn’t it?”

  “Very true. Oh, I wish Percy were here! If only he hadn’t gone so far away. Do you think we might go visit him sometime?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “You would? I’m so glad. I’ve been reading up on Sumatra, and—”

  “Aunt Gwennie!” It was Cordelia, tugging at the lilac-colored silk of Gwendolyn’s gown, and she looked down at her niece with a smile.

  “Yes, Cordelia?”

  “Come see! Aunt Claudia’s made a picture of Uncle Kwistopher and you!”

  Gwendolyn and Christopher turned away from the window, and Cordelia led them to where Claudia, perched on the arm of a sofa, had been sketching them as they stood looking out into the soft winter sky. She showed them the drawing, and Gwendolyn exclaimed:

  “It’s wonderful, Aunt Claudia! Is that for us?”

  “Yes, to be sure, and all the other little sketches I’ve been doing today. I even did one in the church, of the two of you together at the altar. Verena thought it rather irreverent of me, but I must say I think she’s not quite right. For what could be a more beautiful, more sacred moment? And the light!” A rapt look on her face, Aunt Claudia gestured with one slender paint-splotched hand, the slow, delicate movement expressive of a very real awe. “Magical, my dears. Magical!”

  “It seemed magical to us, too,” said Christopher, and Gwendolyn, with yet another rush of happiness, clasped his warm strong hand in hers again. She said: