She let out a satisfying little yelp and collided against his chest with a thud. He caught her up, digging his fingers into her hair and tipping her face up. Her eyes were bright with excitement and desire, and his own body surged, his heart thudding in his throat. They stood in the misty courtyard, frozen for a charged moment. He looked into the eyes that he hoped to see every day for the rest of his life and saw forever staring back. Autumn roses, the color of daybreak, bobbed around them, and the dog curled up in a dry spot beneath the bench and yawned.
Stoker gave a growl and swept a hand beneath Sabine’s knees, scooping her up. She gasped and threw her arms around his neck. He brought his mouth down hard on her lips, kissing away any doubt about his ability to engage or satisfy, kissing her until she broke her face away to breathe.
She clung to him as he strode to the iron steps that led to his rooms above the courtyard. He turned the key in the lock and kicked the door open with his boot. Sabine laughed as he carried her inside. He tossed her on the first available velvet surface and followed her down.
Epilogue
Six months later
It was, perhaps, a great irony that Sabine Noble, the third and final Bride of Belgravia, the most reluctant and cynical, was the bride to insist upon a second wedding, a real wedding, with proper guests and a vicar, a breakfast feast, and music.
“Our original wedding was the most rushed of all,” Sabine told Willow and Tessa as Perry dressed her hair. They sat in Sabine’s old bedroom waiting for the summons to the tiny stone chapel on the grounds of Park Lodge. Maids rushed in and out, collecting parasols and shawls and chasing Bridget with a yellow satin bow for her neck. The gardener had come and gone three times with possible bouquets and a pail of flowers for Sabine’s hair.
“I actually had a bloody lip and a black eye at my first wedding,” recalled Sabine, frowning into the mirror.
The housekeeper came in to show off a tray of honey tarts, one of a hundred baked for the occasion. Willow approved the tarts and sent the servant away.
“Stoker,” Sabine finished, “could not fill out the special license without sending a messenger to learn my full name.”
“I think the second wedding is a brilliant idea,” said Tessa, selecting fragrant purple crocus blossoms from the pail to tuck into her hair. “I might steal the idea and stage a second wedding of my own.”
“Is it unseemly,” wondered Sabine, “for the parents of three small children to indulge in a second marriage? Especially since their first wedding was one of the grandest in the country?”
Tessa tossed a limp flower at Sabine and then intercepted a maid who’d arrived with a note about the musicians.
When the servant had gone, Willow shut the bedroom door and clicked the lock. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re putting on a proper celebration, Sabine. And to include your mother, and the Courtlands, and my aunt Mary and uncle Arthur—all of us—it’s sweet.”
“Now you’re gloating,” teased Sabine, “because your master plan has come to such remarkable fruition. You are like Wellington, parading through the streets of London after victory.”
“Stop. It is your wedding, and I am merely a guest,” Willow said. “There is nothing about which to gloat. All I did was find a way for the three of us to leave Surrey. Falling in love was this magical thing we each managed on our own.”
“We always had more to offer the world than Surrey could offer,” sighed Tessa philosophically, gazing out the window.
Sabine and Willow exchanged a look. If Sabine’s second wedding was her irony, Tessa’s irony was that she’d gone along with Willow’s scheme, despite never having given the world outside Surrey a second thought. The old Tessa St. Clair had wanted nothing more than to be someone’s pretty wife and settle down on an estate in her serene hometown village of Pixham. Now she relished her job as Harbor Master in the bustling port town of Hartlepool on the coast of the North Sea.
“Will you take your children to Berrymede, Tessa?” asked Sabine casually, speaking of Tessa’s childhood home.
Tessa shrugged. “I haven’t decided. They’ve invited us to stay as their guests, but we are settled at the Pixham Inn. Joseph says that I may choose, but I shall consider it only after I’ve seen how they regard my children at the wedding—all of my children.”
Tessa’s oldest son, Christian, was the result of an attack she’d suffered before she was married. When her parents discovered her pregnancy, they had expelled her from the family. Willow’s “Brides of Belgravia” scheme arranged for Tessa to marry Joseph Chance instead, and now he proudly raised Christian as his own son. Tessa’s family had since become conciliatory and, in their own way, repentant for turning Tessa out, but forgiveness was a struggle.
“I hope you don’t mind that I invited your parents, Tess,” said Sabine gently. “They might as well see that all of us have succeeded.”
“I look forward to showing off my children and my husband,” said Tessa. “Of course you should have invited them.”
“And your mother, Willow?” ventured Sabine, looking at her friend, now the Countess of Cassin.
“If ever I meant to promenade in victory, it would be before my mother,” said Willow. “And why not? I’ve found happiness on my own terms, and become a countess along the way.” She crossed the room to Sabine’s vanity. “The only missing guest is wretched Sir Dryden.”
“Indeed,” Sabine said bitterly, “but they do not allow furlough from Newgate Prison to attend weddings.”
“Will he hang, do you think?” Willow asked. “Your case for treason is strong.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Sabine waved the notion away. “When all trace of Dryden and his conspirators were removed from Park Lodge, I allowed myself to move forward and not dwell on him or smuggling or the rest of it.”
Behind Sabine, Perry secured one final miniature daffodil to the crown of her head and then stepped back, clapping her hands together. “There you are, Miss Sabine, er, Mrs. Noble. Just look at you.” She beamed in the mirror.
Sabine stared back, turning her head this way and that. “Lovely, Perry. Thank you. Having you travel from Yorkshire with Lady Willow was an unexpected gift.”
“Oh, I couldn’t have you marry Mr. Stoker a second time without being properly looked after.” The maid turned to the other women in the room. “You should have seen Miss Sabine’s hair the afternoon I arrived in London. It was like the hair of a wild woman, living in the forest, no hat, not a single pin. I’ve never seen so much wild, loose hair.”
Sabine cleared her throat, hiding a smile, and Tessa said, “Well, there is a style for every occasion, isn’t there? You will discover this after you are married to his lordship’s valet, Marcus. In the meantime, rest assured your current bridal creation is a stroke of genius. She looks beautiful.”
“Simply beautiful,” agreed Willow, coming to stand behind her friend.
There was a knock at the door and Mr. Fisk, Willow’s manservant, could be heard calling, “They are ready for you, Miss Sabine.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fisk,” called Willow and she stooped to gather Sabine’s long train. “Up you go,” she said. “We mustn’t keep them waiting.”
“Flowers!” called Tessa, scooping up a bouquet of daffodils, purple crocus, and white snowdrops.
The trio of women bustled to the door, Perry rushing to keep up with her box of hairpins, combs, stray flowers, and handkerchiefs. Sabine allowed herself to be swept along but she paused when Willow reached for the knob.
“Willow—wait,” said Sabine.
Willow turned back. “What is it?”
Sabine looked down at her dress and flowers and up to her friends. “Is this . . . silly?”
“Is what silly?” Tessa stepped around her.
“Making such a fuss over an event that, in the eyes of God and man, has already happened?”
Tessa said, “Sabine, you’ve always been too suspicious of things that might appear silly. Indulge yourself
. Enjoy it. You’ve earned this moment.”
“I am not suspicious,” corrected Sabine, “I am practical.” She gestured to the profusion of soft yellow silk that hung from her waist in frothy layers. “And this is not practical.”
“Yellow can be worn all summer, Miss Sabine,” recited Perry with authority.
Willow held out a hand to quiet the maid. “Forgive us, Sabine. We’ve dominated your dressing room with talk about ourselves and may have overlooked your . . . hesitation. But let us not be rushed. We will not lose this moment to flowers or cakes or the guests. Take a deep breath.”
“I can’t,” laughed Sabine, wiggling her torso in the tight corset.
“Perry, fetch a glass of water—no, actually, is that champagne in the drinks cart? Yes, let us have a toast. There you are. Now, Sabine. Mrs. Stoker.” Willow winked and they laughed. “You have our full attention. What gave you the notion to host a second wedding?”
“Well,” Sabine said, examining the vibrant flowers in her bouquet, “it would bring no end of joy to my mother. I was lost to her these past five years. And Stoker and I began our marriage under duress, as you know. He was quite literally my last resort. When I found him five years later, he’d been left for dead, so in a way, I became his.” She shook her head at the flowers. “Surely, practicality can be put aside for one day to transcend these tragedies with something pleasanter?”
“Practicality can always be set aside,” proclaimed Tessa, relieving Perry of the champagne glass and taking a sip. “Life will wallop us with tragedy whether we plan for it or not. It’s our duty to fight back by making fun when we can, prioritizing celebrations, reveling in the happy times.”
“The epitaph on your gravestone, Tessa, will read, ‘Here lies Tessa Chance. She prioritized celebrations,’” said Willow.
“I love it,” said Tessa, taking another drink. “Someone please make a note.”
Outside the door, a servant knocked insistently. “The carriage is ready, ladies.”
“Another moment,” called Willow, bracing her hand against the door. To Sabine she said, “But what has Stoker said about today?”
“He did not challenge the idea when I raised it,” said Sabine, looking up. “The idea came a fortnight or so after we’d moved to Park Lodge from London. I was showing him yet another corner of the grounds when we came upon the chapel. I said something wistful about having a real wedding. I was thinking out loud, really; and he said, it should be done.”
Someone knocked on the door again and Willow fell against it, her back to the wood. “In a minute!” she called with irritation. “But perhaps it is for him that you are doing it—for Stoker?”
Sabine turned and fell against the door beside her friend. She looked over, and her eyes were bright with tears. “So very few things were done properly in his life, don’t you see? His childhood was horrifying. His father endeavored to claim him, but not before he tried to have him killed first. He was educated by a loving family, but their love feels like charity to him. I married him to save my own skin. I . . . I want him to have a fresh start that feels proper and legitimate and considered in every way. I want the vicar to say, ‘You may kiss the bride,’ and for him to feel as if I am his proper bride, in earnest, and that I long to be kissed. I want him to feel as if he is a part of this estate and this family and future that we build together.”
“Careful, Sabine,” said Tessa, patting her hair, “these reasons sound very practical to me.”
Willow laughed. “There. You have your reasons, do you see? Now, let us enjoy this wedding and this day and each other. We’ve won this round, all three of us. It is Sabine’s wedding, but we shall all celebrate today.”
In the vestry of the chapel on the northwest corner of Park Lodge’s estate, three of the wealthiest men in England, the so called “Guano Barons” of 1835, waited for their summons to the altar, a bridegroom and his two best men.
“Perhaps she’s cried off,” said Joseph Chance, taking a nip of brandy from a flask and passing it to the Earl of Cassin.
“Perhaps she prefers you unconscious and in bed,” said Cassin.
She does not prefer me unconscious in bed, Stoker thought but he said nothing, accepting the flask from Cassin.
“I’ve something more to mark the occasion,” said Joseph, reaching into his pocket. He produced a crumpled, faded piece of parchment, frayed at the edges, and unfurled it on a table. “I thought we would appreciate a look back at how this all began.”
“The advertisement,” breathed Cassin, peering down. It was the notice their wives had posted on the London docks some five years ago, calling for investment opportunities for their dowries.
“There are two impossibilities here that I must point out,” said Joseph, smoothing the parchment. “The first is that the money they invested in our expedition multiplied so exponentially. We knew the guano had potential but no one knew to what degree.”
“Naturally, Joseph mentions the money first,” joked Cassin.
“Stop,” said Joseph. “I fell for Tessa within minutes. It took you, Cassin, months, and Stoker years. And a brush with death.”
“If you would have told me we would marry these women and eventually find love,” said Cassin, “I would have left the partnership. I would have considered you as mad as King George.”
“And that is the second impossibility,” said Joseph. “We did marry them and the marriages have revealed themselves to be love matches. Sometimes the impossible happens.”
“I’ve a third impossibility,” said Stoker, reaching into his own jacket.
“Beyond moving to Surrey to become a country squire?” teased Joseph. “Although, I’d consider that to be more of an inevitability. You were always bound to live with your mother-in-law in a musty pile in Surrey.”
“No,” said Stoker levelly. “This.”
He dropped a second piece of parchment on the table. The paper curled, flakier and more faded than the first.
“What is it?” asked Cassin. “They are finally bringing you up on that larceny charge in Tobago?”
“No,” whispered Joseph, carefully picking up the parchment. “It’s a marriage license.”
“The license from marrying Sabine? Don’t tell me it wasn’t binding. The union had to be sound for us to take her dowry.”
“No,” said Joseph, reading it again. “It’s from the bloody 1790s, more than thirty years old. It’s a marriage license between Marie Stoker and Saul Newington, the Duke of Wrest.” Joseph looked up from the paper. “Stoker, is this authentic? Your parents were married?”
Stoker shrugged. “I cannot say. When Wrest died last month, his solicitor posted the sealed document to me, along with a few other papers and a box of rubbish. There was no note.”
“But is it possible the old duke and your mother were married for a time?”
“I refused to believe it before,” said Stoker. “But perhaps I will look into it. For Sabine’s sake. And . . . if we are blessed with children.”
“But if this is legitimate, you’re a bloody duke, Stoker. Does Sabine know?” Cassin reached for the document.
Stoker shook his head. “No one knows. I’ve only just received it here in Surrey. It had been sent to my London apartment. I will tell her tonight. We will . . . decide what to do about it together.”
“I can’t believe you bloody outrank me,” said Cassin, scanning the document. “Your Grace.”
“I am the same as I’ve always been,” said Stoker, folding the parchment back in his pocket. “No matter how authentic or forged. You are the same. Joseph is the same. We are not changed by who died and made us noble, but rather who we love and who loves us. In this, we are all kings. Remarkably, impossibly, as Joseph said.
“It’s happened,” he continued. “Remarkable, impossible thought it may be. Finally, after years of rescuing women and children, my own life has been saved.”
Acknowledgments
A generous team of creative geniuses helped me with th
e medical technicalities of this book (which I distorted for my own devices) and the plotting and characterization of Stoker and Sabine (who I loved too much to wrestle into a viable story without outside intervention). Thank you, Barbara Taylor, MD, and JoLynn McEachern, RN; also critique partners Cheri Allan and Lenora Bell, as well as Wounded-Heroes Expert Sarah Goldstein.
As ever, thank you to my indulgent and loving family.
The Brides of Belgravia Series
And don’t miss the rest of the Brides of Belgravia and their journey to love!
ANY GROOM WILL DO
Lady Willow Hunnicut has always dreamed of living in London. With design talent and aspirations grander than London’s finest houses, she knows an unmarried heiress will never be allowed to live in the capital alone. But a married woman may come and go as she pleases. With a little imagination, a lot of courage, and one carefully worded advertisement, Willow concocts a plan to get everything she wants . . . even if she must take a husband in exchange.
Lord Brent Caulder, the Earl of Cassin, is destitute, his Yorkshire castle is crumbling, and his tenants are without work. He has an ingenious scheme that’s a surefire moneymaker—if only someone would invest. When he discovers an advertisement seeking adventurers to fund, he is determined to claim the money. But his world is turned upside down when the investor turns out to be a flame-haired heiress.
The deal is simple: In return for marrying Willow, Cassin will receive her substantial dowry—and nothing else. All she asks is that after the wedding, each go their separate ways. But for all her careful preparation, the one thing Willow couldn’t have planned is the way she feels about Cassin . . . or the desire that threatens to enflame them both.
ALL DRESSED IN WHITE
Self-made shipping magnate Joseph Chance never planned on falling in love. He simply needed financing for a new business venture and a marriage of convenience provides it. Then he meets Tessa St. Croix, his future bride, and is instantly smitten. But when the angelic beauty reveals a life-changing secret on their wedding night, Joseph thinks maybe some dreams shouldn’t come true. He leaves England, reconciling himself to a detached, convenient marriage after all.
You May Kiss the Duke Page 28
