“With happiness?”
“No, with annoyance.”
“Then I cannot hope?”
“Of course you can! Mama swoons at anything! And if I am in her black books for the day, well, so be it. It shall be no different from most days, I assure you!”
“Then you will kiss me?”
“Be quiet, Lord Sandford, and just do it.”
So, with great aplomb, Lord Sandford—or Lord Warwick, to be more strictly accurate—did.
Then he removed her spectacles and did it again. It took a few moments for the memories of a certain candlelit balcony to stir. They were a few wild, heady, blurry, intoxicating moments. How was it possible for Lord Eric Sandford and Lord Riccardo Warwick to feel so identical? To rouse the self-same tremors, to be the same height, the same masterful blur? Even their names—Eric, Rick, Riccardo, Rick . . . Fern gasped. She groped for her spectacles. She stared very hard at Lord—bother it, at Rick. The dimple was very much in evidence, but so too the charming beast of five years ago. How could she not have seen it before? It was perfectly clear, despite the fading light. The glow in Warwick’s eyes was tender but just faintly amused at her slow realization.
Fern did not stop to think. She fiercely slapped the smile off Lord Warwick’s debonair countenance—for she owed him that, surely? Then, perfectly sensibly, she kissed him again.
Postscript
The wedding of Miss Fern Reynolds and his lordship, the Marquis of Warwick took place in summer amid a great deal of fanfare and pomp. Lady Fern was still the despair of her mama, for she refused to pay due regard to her trousseau or to her newly acquired rank.
It was quite comme il faut for a betrothed to be treated with the elevated status due her new position—this Fern found to be true, with a tedious stream of morning callers, toadies, petitioners. Oh, the list was endless! So, to her mama’s annoyance, she escaped—to the orchards that bounded the Evensides property from Warwick’s. What in the Lord she did there all day, her mama could never conceive, but since she always dutifully brought home a basket of oranges, eyes suspiciously bright, she never did complain.
On the day of the wedding, Fern was not beset by nerves but by a wild excitement that her mama found unmaidenly and her papa found unedifying. But Fern, stubborn as always, did not seem to care. She wore a gown of the utmost simplicity, styled in rosewater silks. Her hair, unbound, hung loose from her head. Her locks were straight, cropped, classical, and as bright as the morning sun.
Upon her head was no coronet, no tiara—Lady Reynolds wept daily at this piece of stubbornness—but a single rose. On her nose, the most glorious pair of spectacles ever witnessed—even by the most fashion conscious of critics. They were wrought from purest gold, gossamer thin, and light. Fern thought them as light as the air that she breathed: Lord Warwick’s best wedding gift by far!
The pomp of the church was awe-inspiring. Fern nearly faltered, for up until that moment she had not really thought of herself as the Marchioness of Warwick, or of Riccardo as a true marquis. Well, she had, of course, until she’d been his page, until his staff had regaled her with numerous anecdotes . . . she smiled.
He was waiting for her, immaculate, as always, in full court dress, with the ubiquitous diamond pin at his throat and a tricorn tucked smartly under one arm. Fern could hardly breathe, for his eyes were dark, and though she looked, there was no dimple in that famous chin. He had never been more serious in his life.
He was waiting for her, and she cared nothing at all that Lady Willis and Lady Stonecroft, and yes, even Lady Winterton, were curtsying as she made her way up the aisle. But Mimsy did—dear Miss Garret—who had loved Fern since she was only so high—she noticed, and it was she who wept for the purest joy.
The vows were simple, but Fern had to remove her spectacles twice, for they were blurred with tears. Warwick, fortunately, had an excellent handkerchief, and he murmured a great deal of nonsense that brought the gurgle back to her laugh and the flush back to her modest cheeks.
The dinner was huge, the grandeur all that the Duchess of Hargreaves—fussing about with table arrangements and place cards, to the complete distraction of the housekeeper—desired. Warwick had brought Fern to his mother that same memorable night, for sleeping on the pallet bed had become out of the question and far too great a temptation for them both. Fortunately, the duchess lived in Cavendish Square, very close to Warwick’s London quarters.
They had taken instantly to each other, though the duchess moaned over Fern’s bright hair and impeccable skin.
“See, I am a crusty old crab,” she had said, wrapped up heavily in a fur coat to her throat and a turban that almost entirely covered her head. It sparkled bright with jewels. Fern had laughed and liked her, despite the fact that she prodded prodigiously hard with her ivory fan, and that her eyes were shrewd and probing.
“Squawk!” had commented Kate.
“Talk?” said the duchess. And she had, endlessly, with the parrot interrupting at short intervals. True to her elevated status, she dined now upon platefuls of seeds and pine nuts. Every so often the duke, a quiet man but fond of pets, snuck her some unidentifiable but sticky treat. Fern could hardly contain her mirth.
Two days before the wedding, the duchess, pleased with her new daughter, announced in a booming voice that it was she who could take all the credit for the bridals. Her handsome son refrained with difficulty from mentioning how close her bad advice—to approach Sir Peter and not his daughter—had come to ruining everything. But they were very fond of the old dear and consequently endured the endless thunder of carriages, the rolling out of carpets, the fanfare, the footmen, the outriders, all that was necessary to the grandeur of the occasion. For the duchess doted on pomp and in Lady Reynolds, who up until now had only aspired to such heights, she had found a kindred spirit.
Unfortunately, now, at the height of the bridal festivities, when plain Miss Fern Reynolds was transformed into her very regal ladyship the Marchioness of Warwick, the future Duchess Hargreaves, the bride and groom had vanished completely. It was really extremely vexatious, especially as the orchestra was striking up for a waltz and no one in the entire spectrum of guests was more elegantly attired or more nimble of foot than the wedding couple.
Lady Reynolds, Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Hargreaves, Sir Peter, Peter Reynolds Jr., and almost all of the noble guests, tut-tutted in disapproval.
But Fern and Riccardo did not care a whit. If anyone had cared to look, they would have found them floating high above the topiary gardens in a crimson balloon made of the finest Chinese silk. If they had looked any farther, they might also have seen a sharp yellow beak and a bright feathered blue tail aloft in the basket.
“Kiss kiss kiss . . . kiss kiss kiss,” came the impertinent squawk. Warwick, following this advice precisely, threw a dark cloth over the gilded cage. It was really, Kate thought, most unfair.
KENSINGTON e-CLASSICS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2002 Hayley Ann Solomon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3056-2
First electronic edition: April 2013
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