by Tessa Candle
This last bit intrigued Frobisher, but he forbore from taking the bait. This was Rosamond's decision.
She turned and looked at Andrews, then crossed her arms and said, "I am not introducing you to anyone. Tell me about this relative."
"Well," Andrews looked pleased, "it will be a bit awkward without introductions, but let us at least sit down to tea, and I will tell you all about him. Delville is the name. And if you think that my imitation of Lazarus was spectacular, you will marvel at his. He was dead for ages, if you can believe it, and no one any the wiser. Just imagine!"
So it was Andrews who had rousted Delville from whatever hiding place on the continent he had burrowed into. The obvious rapture Andrews was thrown into by his professional admiration for Delville made Frobisher laugh, in spite of his resolve not to.
In retrospect, Frobisher probably should have punched Delville for his dirty trick, too. But he was rather busy at the moment he encountered the resurrected scoundrel. And in truth, he could not get up enough anger for it. That was just Delville. He was terribly diverting, but you could never rely on him for anything, except to drink all your wine and behave like an utter degenerate.
Andrews and Delville were cut from the same cloth. Frobisher’s admiration for Rosamond grew. She was related to and raised by such wolves, and yet she had not grown jaded. Her heart was pure and kind. She was amazing.
"Wait until you meet him! He is devilishly handsome, and terrifyingly clever." Andrews looked terribly pleased with himself, and his chest puffed out as he drew breath to tell his story.
Frobisher felt sorry for the sudden deflation he was about to experience when Rosamond told him she had already met Delville. But she was content to sit and listen to his tale. He proved to be a charming narrator. Frobisher could see how he made his way so plausibly in polite society. Someone so vastly entertaining would never be without invitations to London ballrooms and country house parties.
Frobisher kept waiting for Rosamond to throw her dart and shoot Andrews' soaring narration out of the lofty clouds. But she never did.
Frobisher smiled. She was glad to see Andrews after all, but she needed an excuse not to storm off and never speak to him again. At least Delville had that much usefulness.
Chapter 80
The chapel was all aglow with candlelight and smiling faces. The smell of the dried rose petals Rosamond walked over made her feel as though she were floating through the perfumed aisles of paradise.
Could this really be happening? She would have pinched herself, if she did not fear marring the pristine finish of her ivory silk dress. The lines were perfect and the fabric hung down from the empire waist in delicate gathers so that as she moved, it swayed in arcs expressive of some secret ideal—the proportion that all the classical artists had sought after in days of old. And it was hers.
Having the finest couture houses design and make one's dress was one of the perks of waiting so long—almost until Christmas—for her wedding. But the dress, as lovely as it was, and as much as it evoked memories of the happily ever after princess stories that had mesmerized her when she was a little girl, was nothing compared to the banquet of exquisite happiness that spread out before her.
Screwe never made an appearance. She survived to her twenty-first year, and there was no opponent to her legal claim that she was Rosamond Delville, the rightful heir to the Delville estate. Mr. Delville was thus spared having to prove his identity in court, though his competitor for the Pallensley dukedom was trying his best to put down the rumours that Delville had returned. Why Delville insisted on this Mr. Dee business was beyond her. But at least she inherited her fortune, which was somewhat diminished, but at Frobisher's insistence, was all her own.
He was wonderful, and he was to be hers for life. She would finally wed him, have the home with him she had always wanted. And then there was the family—Delville and Andrews, and, of course, Mrs. Johnson and Catherine—that had been restored to her, dropped into her lap, really. It was a bit banged about and patched up, but family was family, and it had descended upon her as a miraculous gift from heaven.
She smiled happily at these thoughts, but she believed Andrews might actually be a bit more radiant even than she was, as he walked her down the aisle, beaming at everyone around him. She had relented and let him into the wedding party, for, as she told him when he asked to take part in the ceremony, "You have already cast me aside. I suppose you might as well give me away, too."
She was not quite finished punishing him, and she was concerned that the jewels of some of the guests might be in peril, but it was good to have him here, to have him back in her life. Perhaps with the influence of decent people, he might adopt a more straight and narrow path. Maybe she would turn Tilly loose upon him.
Frobisher's mother gave her a thin lipped smile as she passed the front pew. The matron had expressed concerns about Rosamond's scandalous past. However, when she discovered that Rosamond's cousin might actually be a duke—if only he could be made to own his identity—she suddenly welcomed Rosamond to the Frobisher line. Frobisher said he thought his mother would have accepted his bride in any case, if out of nothing else than relief that her son would not die a bachelor.
She looked into the face of her soon-to-be husband, who waited at the altar for her with love shining from his dark eyes, and as the ceremony began, she felt faint with the rush of emotions. This was really happening. She pushed back the happy tears as they were pronounced to be a wedded couple. Finally she had everything she had wished for.
When he kissed her, he whispered, "I love you, adore you. And I really, really need to pleasure you right now."
A warm flood of longing coursed through her body and quickened her pace as they quitted the sanctuary under a guard of honour and a hail of rose petals, until they made the refuge of the carriage.
She climbed into his lap. Beautiful dress or not, he was finally hers, and she was not going to wait until they reached the manor before showing him how much she loved him.
Do you want to read the epilogue? It is coming soon, and I am making it available free to everyone in my Reader Group before I add it to the e-book. Turn the page to find out how to sign up…
A Letter to the Reader
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Also by Tessa Candle
Three Abductions and an Earl, Book 1 in the Parvenues & Paramours series. Get it on all major online retailers.
Three Abductions and an Earl, audio book, as read by the author. Get it on these online retailers.
Mistress of Two Fortunes and a Duke, Book 2 in the Parvenues & Paramours series. Get it on all major online retailers.
Writing as T.S. Candle:
Accursed Abbey, a Regency Gothic Romance, Book 1 in the Nobles & Necromancy series. Get it on all major online retailers.
Or get links to all my books on all major online retailers.
Acknowledgments
Three Masks and a Ma
rquess would not have been possible without the hard work, encouragement and support of many people.
If you passed eyes over this book, or its cover, or had to listen to me chatter on, pepper you with hundreds of questions, or bewail my piteous lot, thank you.
You know who you are, and you are wonderful. (Ev, you are a saint. I owe you wine, and you probably need it by now, having listened to me for so long!)
I would like to particularly thank two members of my street team, Eris and Corinne, who went above and beyond in applying their amazing proofreading skills.
Thank you for your diligent work. You are such treasures!
About the Author
Tessa Candle is a lawyer, world traveler, and author of rollicking historical regency romance. She also lays claim to the questionable distinction of being happily married to the descendant of a royal bastard.
Tessa writes steamy historical romances featuring heroines who stand up for themselves, the unsuspecting noblemen who fall in love with them, and all the high jinks involved in getting them together. Sexy times will ensue (doors wide open and very sexy) but not until the characters have earned it.
When she is not slaving over the production and release of another novel, or conducting research by reading salacious historical romances with heroines who refuse to be victims, she divides her time between gardening, video editing, traveling, and meeting the outrageous demands of her two highly entitled Samoyed dogs. As they are cute and inclined to think too well of themselves, Tessa surmises that they were probably dukes in a prior incarnation.
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