by Jo Beverley
He pinned her to the ground. “No, you don’t!”
So like that first night, but now everything was different. It turned into a kiss. It turned into more, sprawled there on the rough greenery above Irish Cove, but they did not make love. They drew apart in the end, though seething with hunger.
“Cold water,” she said, glancing at the sea. “I hear it’s a good cure for this.”
He leaped to his feet and took her hand to pull her up. “There’s no cure for this save death, love. Let’s go to your home and see how quickly a decorous wedding can be arranged.”
With a license and many willing hands, it took only days, and could likely have been quicker except for the time needed for Con’s family to travel from Sussex.
Van escorted them, and brought along his bride-to-be, Mrs. Celestine, as well. Susan understood that the matter had been uncertain, but no one could doubt the love and veiled passion between them now.
“I confess,” said Mrs. Celestine, on greeting her, “you make me regret my setting a date some weeks from now.”
She was an elegant, composed woman—except when Lord Vandeimen made her blush. Susan sensed genuine warmth in her, however. It was pleasant to think of them as neighbors and friends.
“I wanted a grand celebration in Van’s home,” Mrs. Celestine said. “A homecoming. A new start. A way for me to begin to belong, I hope. Please say you will take part, even though your wedding is to be here.”
Susan took her hands with true gratitude. “That is so generous of you, Mrs. Celestine. Are you sure you won’t mind? I confess, the idea of going to live among strangers daunts me.”
The older woman smiled. “Van and I are not strangers. Nor is Major Hawkinville. Nor is Lord Wyvern’s family.”
Susan had already been warmly accepted by Con’s mother and sister, and knew the words were true. She would not be going to live among strangers. Venturing forth into the world did still make her a little nervous, but it was becoming a more anticipated adventure day by day.
On the eve of their wedding, however, as they strolled in the orchard, Con said, “Somerford Court is not by the sea.”
Susan kissed him. “I’m not a fish, love. I can live away from the sea.”
“It’s five miles away.”
She looked into his eyes seriously. “I can live anywhere with you, Con. You are my world. I should have realized that long ago.”
“No dwelling on the past.” He pulled her close and they rested in one another’s arms, a lark filling the soft air with song. “If I am your world, then I will work to make your world as perfect as humanly possible. That is, and always will be, my main intent.”
“And I yours,” she replied. “We have a second chance at heaven, and will treasure it.”
Susan felt as if they said their vows then, but the next day, in a gaily decorated church full of family, friends, and neighbors, they said the traditional vows, then ran out together to be showered with grain.
When the first person greeted her as Lady Wyvern, she shared a look with Con, one that smiled at the folly of the past. It was only for a little while, anyway, and then she would become Lady Amleigh, a title that held no dark shadows or memories.
They shared their joy with everyone, but then at last they were alone together, man and wife.
Susan looked at the big bed, its sage-green coverlet strewn with petals. “Con, I have to say that I feel very strange about doing this in my aunt and uncle’s bed.”
He embraced her from behind, laughing. “I, on the other hand, am exceedingly grateful to them. I certainly had no intention of sleeping again in Crag Wyvern.”
Henry and David had moved up there to make room in the manor, and they were playing host to a number of the guests. The Delaneys were sleeping there, along with Lord Vandeimen and Mrs. Celestine, and Major Hawkinville. There were some other Rogues there, too—the Earl and Countess of Charrington, Mr. and Mrs. Miles Cavanagh, Major Beaumont, and Mr. Stephen Ball.
There had been warm messages and generous gifts from the Marquess and Marchioness of Arden and Lord and Lady Middlethorpe. Apparently both couples were awaiting a happy event.
Susan felt as if she were swimming in new and welcoming friends. It was terrifying in a way, but glorious, like swimming in the high waves.
Con nuzzled her neck. “However, if you truly don’t think it right, we can wait....”
She turned in his arms. “I could call your bluff.”
“I’d win.”
With a smile, she eased free the silk fichu that filled the low bodice of her gown. “Are you sure?” The bodice, by her design, was extremely low.
She saw his eyes darken and his lips part. Stepping back, she raised one foot on a chair and slid up her skirts to reveal a flesh-colored silk stocking embroidered with red roses. A red, rose-trimmed garter, held it up. Slowly, she undid it—
He fell to his knees beside her and took over the task. “You win.”
“I thought so.”
He looked up, laughing with her. “I am undoubtedly the happiest loser the world has ever known.”
Later, lying limply in one another’s arms, Con said, “Shame about that bath, though. There’s no room for such a thing at home. When David’s earl, we’ll have to pay him a visit.”
Susan rolled to face him. “Only when he’s done considerable renovations.” She traced the coiled dragon on his chest. “Shame about this too, but you are not the dragon, Con Somerford. You are Saint George. My Saint George.” She had to refer to the past, though it was a past no longer able to hurt them. “I said it once, and I mean it now. My George, forever and ever.”
“Amen.” He rubbed his head gently against hers. “And I’m pleased to see that I was right,” her murmured.
“Right?”
His tongue traced slowly around the rim of her ear, making her shiver. “I always suspected that when Saint George rescued the dragon’s bride, his true reward came later, more or less like this....”
