Holding her hands, he looked up at her. “There—you have it. Margaret Dawlish, will you do me the honor of being my wife, my lover, my heart—my duchess?”
He was trying to make it easier for her. They were skirting the issue—or rather she was, and he was letting her.
She stared down into his face—a face that had inhabited her dreams for years, ever since she’d first seen it. Knew he was being brutally honest, while she . . . she gripped his hands, looked into his eyes. “Gaston—I . . . it’s not you, not—” Tugging one hand free, she waved. “It’s not about households, and you and me. It’s . . .” Eyes locked with his, drawing strength from the connection, she dragged in a breath and said, “I’ve never liked losing control, and what’s between us—”
What flared between them was overwhelming, and she had no words to encompass what she felt, the sheer terror of simply letting go, of ceding control so completely to some force she had no reckoning of, no understanding.
He rose and recaptured her hands. “Listen to me, mignonne. There is nothing to fear. Yes, we can’t control it—no one can. That would be the equivalent of controlling the moon and stars. Yes, it will, to some extent, control us. That’s its nature. But if we want to be together, to live as we should, together, and make all that we can of the chances life has blessed us with, then surrender we must. It’s more powerful than both of us.”
She inwardly teetered, gripped his hands. “What do you mean when you call me mignonne?”
He didn’t shrug the question aside, but held her gaze solemnly. “My native tongue, the dialect, is derived from what scholars term Middle French. In that language, mignonne means lover, darling, beloved.” He hesitated, then said, “I love you, mignonne. I always have. And you love me. I could not let you go.” He paused, then more quietly added, “I cannot let you go.”
And she couldn’t step back from this—from the precipice he’d brought her to—any more than he could. Not now.
Holding her gaze, he drew a deep, tight breath. “Trust me, mignonne. Place your hand in mine and step with me into the fire and the flames—and let them have us.”
She was caught in his passion, his certainty. Clung to it. “Here? Now?” She asked only to be sure. If he would accept the risk, how could she not?
He nodded. “Here. Now.”
The breath she drew was shaky. She raised her head. Nodded back. “All right.”
He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed. His eyes burned into hers. “You will never regret this.”
Her smile wobbled. “Make sure I don’t.”
He smiled and bent his head.
His lips were still curved as they met hers.
And he waltzed her into the conflagration of the fire and the flames.
Through the long hours that followed, through the searing passion and the scorching desire, she saw, again and again, that all he’d told her was true.
They were equals even in this—equally bound, equally conquered, and at the end, equally blessed.
And there was, as he’d told her, nothing to fear, because even when they reached that pinnacle beyond which there was no beginning and no end, there was always one shining truth remaining—one beacon to guide them through oblivion and back to earth, to the bliss and joy of each other’s arms.
That truth would always be with them, engraved on both their hearts. He was hers and she was his, and between them, finally set free, their love shone in all its brilliant splendor, bright, strong, passionately fierce.
The years had never dimmed it, and no years to come would see it sundered.
No threat, no weapon, could ever come between two lovers love had chosen, who had the courage to embrace and surrender to love.
June 18, 1820, 11:00 A.M., the day of the wedding
St. James Chapel, Manchester Square, London
The ceremony uniting Robert, Prince du Garde, of the House of Bourbon, and Juliette, only daughter of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Rocher, went off splendidly, without a single hitch.
As expected, the senior groomsman handed over the vital gold ring at the appropriate moment, and countless sighs were heard as the handsome bridegroom slipped the ring on the radiant bride’s finger.
Later, outside the chapel, many guests, either while congratulating the happy couple or congratulating themselves on the felicity of being invited to attend such a signal event as a royal wedding, noted the absence of Lady Margaret Dawlish, but all assumed that her ladyship, having overseen the ceremony from some concealed spot, had rushed on to wield her magic at the ballroom in which the wedding breakfast would take place.
Fewer guests remarked on the nonattendance of the Duc de Perigord, assuming his visit to London had been fleeting, perhaps cut short, or that matters of state had intervened, keeping him busy elsewhere.
Had they but known it, all the above were true.
Luckily, none but their families knew of any reason to connect Lady Margaret’s invisibility with the Duc de Perigord’s defection, and as said families remained sunnily unconcerned, deflecting all inquiries with transparent confidence, no one in the wider ton paid the matter any heed at all.
June 18, 1820, 1:00 P.M.
Old Minstrel’s Gallery above the Ballroom, Durham House, London
“See?” From over Meg’s shoulder, Gaston looked down at the wedding breakfast in full swing in the ballroom below. “I told you they would manage perfectly well without us.”
Meg scanned the faces. “God only knows what happened at the ceremony.”
“Do you see any unhappy faces there, mignonne? No. Because all went perfectly, exactly as you had arranged.”
Meg glanced at him, eyes faintly narrow. “I hate it when you’re right.”
He grinned at her. “You will have to learn to get used to it—just as you did last night.”
Meg felt a blush climb up her throat and into her cheeks at the reminder of exactly what had filled their night, and most of their morning, too, resulting in her missing the only royal wedding she’d ever organized.
Not that she truly minded; Gaston, and all he’d shown her, was more than adequate compensation.
But it hadn’t been until fifteen minutes ago that she’d realized that none of their respective families had expected them to make an appearance at the ceremony, or indeed, at the breakfast. She and Gaston had slipped into the house through a side door, and gone straight to her room so she could change. He had a yacht standing by to catch the afternoon tide, and she had agreed to go with him.
On entering her room, she’d come to an abrupt halt. Gaston, following, had propelled her farther in and shut the door. Leaving her gawping at her traveling trunks, all packed and ready, waiting.
There’d been notes, too—from Cicely, Rosalind, and Miranda, her sisters, from her two brothers, and her mother and father, too. From Juliette and Robert, and the de Rochers.
But it was the present Cicely, Rosalind, and Miranda had hidden in the top of her night case that reduced her to tears. A scandalous nightgown of silk and lace, all but diaphanous, with a note pinned to the abbreviated neckline:
You gave us our dreams—we hope this helps in making yours come true.
She’d been laughing and crying at the same time.
Gaston had looked at her warily, then carefully taken her into his arms. He’d kissed her forehead, then after a moment murmured, “I know you are crying because you are happy, mignonne, but I cannot say that I like to see you cry.”
She’d cried even harder then.
After she’d dried her eyes, and with Gaston’s help changed into the traveling gown someone had helpfully left out, while she’d checked her jewelry, brushes, and combs, Gaston summoned the footmen and sent her trunks down to the carriage waiting to whisk them to the coast.
At her insistence, they’d come up to the tiny gallery; Gaston had seen no reason to go anywhere near the wedding breakfast and the hordes of people attending, but she’d pressed and he’d bent and agreed she could look f
rom afar.
Now that she knew her family and the de Rochers, and Robert, too, had been in on his plan all along, she wasn’t so surprised to see no anxious glances being cast about, no hint of any tension marring the joy of the gathering below.
His gaze on her face, Gaston said from beside her, “The organization was done—your role, and mine, too, were played and complete.”
She nodded.
He stepped back to the curtains at the rear of the gallery.
Hands on the railing, she turned.
He captured her gaze, his eyes dark and intent, and held out his hand. “Come. You have started enough couples on their roads to happiness—it is time to step out along your own path.”
She held his gaze, then without a single glance back, she turned from the railing, turned her back on the noisy gathering below, placed her hand in his and let him draw her on—into life, into love, into their shared future.
August 1820
Drawing Room, Lady Osbaldestone’s town house, London
“ ‘In an exclusive report, this publication can advise its readers that Lady Margaret Dawlish, eldest daughter of the Duke of Durham and widely regarded as the ton’s most successful organizer of exclusive weddings, has married the Duc de Perigord in a very private ceremony in Paris. It is rumored that the bride and groom, both having reached a certain age, saw no reason to indulge in the pomp and circumstance customarily attendant on marriages of such eminent scions of ducal houses, and thus chose to marry quietly.
“ ‘An alternative hypothesis is that, having just concluded the organization of the recent royal wedding of the Prince du Garde, a close relative of the duc, in London, Lady Margaret and the duc opted for a smaller family ceremony in order not to be seen as in any way competing with the younger couple for society’s attention.
“ ‘Regardless of which of these theories holds most water, it is known that the couple, having been granted the required royal assent from Loius XVIII, were married in the family chapel of the elegant Hotel de Perigord in Paris on the sixteenth of July. The bride’s family is known to have been vacationing in Paris over that time.
“ ‘Sadly for all young ladies in any way connected with the House of Durham, we must report that our sources have indicated that Lady Margaret is unlikely to resume her previous hobby. She is believed to have returned with her husband to his estates in the south of France with the stated intention of devoting her considerable energies henceforth to assisting the duc in ruling over and rebuilding the far-flung de Perigord family holdings.
“ ‘It is with sincere regret that we at this publication bid Lady Margaret a fond adieu. In view of the many events she has organized which have provided our readers with such vicarious excitement over the years, with all due regard we take this opportunity to wish her well.’
“Well! That was very nicely put, I must say.” Cicely laid the morning paper aside. “I must remember to post a copy to Meg—she’ll appreciate that last bit.”
“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes gleamed. She nodded at Cicely with overt approval. “You did well, child. There are weddings, and weddings, and while Meg may have been expert in organizing the first sort, you did very well. Clearly she isn’t the only Dawlish who can plan a wedding and pull it off.” Catching Cicely’s eye, Lady Osbaldestone asked, “Are you going to tell her? Confess that it was you that devil Gaston enlisted to aid him?”
Cicely thought, then, smiling fondly, shook her head. “I don’t think so. There are some secrets between sisters that are best left . . . secret.”
Ever After
Gaelen Foley
In London society, it was altogether unfashionable to be in love with one’s own spouse, as Eleanor Montford, the Countess of Archer, was well aware. But seated at her vanity, she went motionless when the earl, her husband, sauntered into her boudoir, tall and handsome, devastating in his full dress uniform as a former officer of the Blues.
“Almost ready, darling?”
For a second, staring at him, she could not find her voice, and rued the girlish flutter of her heart.
“Almost,” she managed coolly.
“Allow me.” With gallantry polished to a sheen like the war medals on his chest, Roland James Augustus Montford, Colonel Lord Archer, stepped up behind her dainty chair and took over the task of fastening her necklace for her.
The warm brush of fingers against her nape made Elle quiver, much to her dismay.
“There,” he murmured.
She lifted her hand absently to the necklace, but could not tear her gaze away from the magnificent man in the reflection behind her.
Oh, she could not even imagine what he would say if he knew the depth of her passion for him, jealousy and all. He’d probably find it amusing. But for Elle—a lady who prided herself on decorum—she could not bear for him to think her silly.
She resolved to keep her secret to herself. Especially now.
Doing her best to ignore him, she picked up the powder puff to finish adding a hint of color to her cheeks. He remained behind her, a smile curving his hard, narrow mouth as he leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her on the edge of the vanity. With a fascinated look, he watched her proceed to darken the tips of her lashes with black frankincense resin on a tiny camel-hair brush. “Such intricate goings-on,” he remarked. “I had no idea.”
She met his glance in the mirror, his warm gray eyes full of that irresistible charm, and for a moment the tension between them of late was forgotten. “Well, we have our standards, don’t we?” she teased.
He bent his head and kissed her bare shoulder. “You are perfection, darling.”
Amid her rush of pleasure at his rare attention, she absorbed the compliment with a measure of cynicism. Perfection, or as close to it as one could come, was merely the expectation she’d been held to all her life. She’d gone from striving through her childhood to be the perfect daughter, to playing the part of the perfectly well-behaved debutante, and now she was cast in her current role as the perfect political wife, and mother to their two young sons.
Not that she was complaining. She understood her duty quite as well as he. Five years ago, as a new bride, having had the good fortune to marry a national hero, she had overcome her dread at the prospect of disappointing him by dedicating herself to supporting her husband in all his endeavors how ever she could, but she did not flatter herself to think that he was in love with her. He had married her because it was a good decision—her looks, her pedigree, her temperament—not out of some fine romantic feeling. No highborn bride in her right mind expected that.
The way she felt about Archer was the way he felt about England. His specialty was love of country; hers was love of home. Together, it had made them a force to be reckoned with in Society.
But in their long campaign to get to this point, they barely saw each other anymore, drifting ever farther apart in their separate spheres.
“Perfection,” he repeated softly, his clean-shaved chin brushing her shoulder, and when his warm gray eyes met hers in the reflection, her one wish would have been to forego the royal wedding and let him throw her onto her nearby bed.
But of course that would have been unthinkable.
She dropped her gaze, her cheeks pink with more than her cosmetics. “You’re looking rather smart yourself,” she admitted, though she supposed it was folly to feed his ego with her praise.
“Ha! You think so?” Archer straightened up with a roguish grin and smoothed his dark blue, neatly belted tunic. It had shiny gold buttons down his chest, gold braid on his shoulder; the scarlet stand collar, cuffs, and facings were made brilliant with rich gold embroidery.
White buckskin breeches adorned his perfect lower half, a gold tassel dancing from the hilt of his dress sword. As he pulled on his white gloves, she feared he might outshine the royal bride-groom—and then what would become of his new career as a rising star in politics? “I’m just glad it all still fits,” he muttered, “what with all the sit
ting around Town I do these days.”
No doubt he still preferred a good cavalry charge, though he was not as unscathed by it all as he liked to pretend. There were, of course, the nightmares. But they didn’t talk about that.
It was just one of the rules.
Bringing it up was the surest way to send him stomping out of any conversation. He had come away with his life and limbs intact, while many of his friends had not, so he refused to acknowledge any hint of pain; still, a wife knew. It was no mystery to her why he preferred to bury himself in work—and other, more recent diversions.
At the moment, however, all that difficult business was tucked away. He flashed one of his dazzling smiles and flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “Do you know the last time I donned this uniform, our son asked me if I was off to fight a battle?”
She glanced adoringly at him in spite of herself. “Aren’t you always?”
He sent her a twinkling look and shrugged, conceding this point. Intentio altus. Aim high—the Archer family motto. He started to walk away, then suddenly stopped himself, turning back with a snap of his fingers. “That reminds me.”
Oh, Lud, she thought, here it comes.
“Tonight, if the opportunity should arise to chat with the Regent or the Queen, do try to drop a hint if you can—about my post.”
Elle’s smile turned brittle.
“Just say that I’m very interested and willing to take on the responsibility—well, you know better than I do how to put it.”
“By all means, my lord, perhaps you should write me a script.” She smiled politely. “I could memorize it in the coach.”
He raised a brow in astonishment; Elle swallowed hard, scarcely knowing herself where the barb had come from. She lowered her lashes, cleared her throat, and went about her business. She shut her Chinese box of colors and stubbornly avoided his gaze.
Why the hell did you just bite my head off? his puzzled stare seemed to ask. “This is important to me, Ellie. I thought you understood that.”
Royal Weddings: An Original Anthology Page 5
