by Jagger, Kait
‘I have you to thank for it, Selkie,’ Tarquin was saying, meanwhile, of his engagement to Isabelle. ‘My instincts told me to strike when she was at her weakest, and watching your groom reduced to utter stupefaction by you at the altar turned the worm nicely.’
Only two small shadows fell on an afternoon that was otherwise nigh on perfection, from Luna’s perspective. The first came after the cake cutting, when she and Jem were sitting together hatching a plot to prevent Isabelle from beating Jem to the catch in the imminent bridal bouquet toss. ‘How long has it been since she’s been to the loo?’ Luna wondered aloud. ‘I could just hand it off to you when she goes for a wee.’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ Jem said with an evil laugh. ‘I’ll position myself outside the ladies’, holding the bouquet, and when she comes out I’ll be all, “You missed it!”’ Jem’s eyes strayed to something behind Luna and her face fell. Following her line of sight, Luna saw Stefan and Nancy in a corner of the room, engaged in an intense conversation. Nancy was jabbing a finger at Stefan’s chest and he was looking down at her dispassionately. His taut body language was telling a different, more dangerous story, however.
‘I guess it was too much to hope that first-class flights would turn them into best friends,’ Luna sighed.
‘She’s pissed,’ Jem said. ‘We better break them up before this gets ugly.’ She made to rise, but Luna put a hand on hers. James had clearly seen trouble brewing too, for he chose that moment to sidle to Nancy’s side and persuade her away to the dance floor. Crisis averted.
Luna managed to catch Stefan’s eye, giving him a questioning look, and he smiled back reassuringly. ‘Oh, oh!’ Jem cried. ‘Isabelle’s going to the loo!’
The second moment of shadow occurred as Luna and Stefan prepared to leave. After a Lundgren family conference, it had been agreed that Stefan’s aunts and uncles would stay at his apartment for the night and Sören and Christian would come back with them to Arborage. The Lundgrens being the Lundgrens, however, they decided to go en masse to the apartment to settle the guests in. Stefan told Luna to stay put at the restaurant until he texted her that he was on his way back.
She preferred it this way, really, Luna thought when the text came and she quietly snuck out of her own wedding luncheon. No fuss, no fanfare, no toss of the bouquet, which was sitting in pride of place on Jem’s lap as Luna slipped through the door of the restaurant.
Lifting her skirts and draping her veil over her arm, she stepped out onto the pavement. A tendril of cigarette smoke curled her way and she came to stand next to its source. Eyes fixed on the street in front of her, Luna said unemotionally, ‘I was surprised to see you standing up with Stefan at the ceremony.’
‘Well,’ came his equally flat reply, ‘I wanted to be sure you went through with it. I take it you’d rather it had been my little brother. So you could make absolutely certain you’d broken him.’
Luna nodded, not in agreement but as if to say, yes, we understand each other, you and I. Matthias began to speak again, but she held up a hand. ‘Be that as it may, there is something I need to say to you.’ She paused, eyes still staring straight in front of her. ‘You referred to Stefan as your client, when I made you tell me about your plans for the Russian. But the service you and your brothers have given us goes above and beyond anything he may have paid for.’
The Land Rover appeared at the end of the street, two blocks away. ‘You have my gratitude, Matthias, whether you want it or not,’ Luna said quietly. ‘And you also have a call upon the house of Lionsbridge. Upon me. I imagine it’s difficult for you to conceive of a situation where I might be of aid to you, but if that day comes, send word to me. I will answer your call.’
*
‘Is the coast clear?’ Luna enquired in a stage whisper, standing pressed against a stone angel’s wing. She and Stefan were sneaking through Arborage’s formal gardens, trying to avoid a bride and groom currently posing for photographs. They’d arrived home from London to find a wedding party in progress in the marquee, so Luna had insisted that Stefan drop Sören and Christian off in the portico and drive round to the barn.
‘We don’t want to steal their thunder, do we?’ she said appealingly to Stefan, waving her hand at him in the driver’s seat. ‘With you looking so…’ What was the word Kayla had used? ‘…hench. You’ll make the other bridegroom feel inadequate.’
And now more evasive manoeuvres as a photographer positioned the couple in various scenic settings around the garden. Luna could hear him now, stage directing. ‘Lift your head! That’s it, now gaze up into his eyes!’ So she stayed where she was, shaded from the late afternoon sun by a reproduction of one of the Venetian palazzo’s angels, until the sound of the photographer’s voice finally receded and Stefan nodded to her, holding out his hand.
They walked in silence through an arbour dripping with wisteria, fingers entwined, Luna’s skirts shushing against Stefan’s trouser leg.
‘I can’t believe that this time yesterday I was panicking about us getting married,’ she said as they emerged onto the gravel path beyond, close to the Rose Temple, wherein a fountain tinkled and burbled invitingly. ‘This has been a perfect day.’ She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. ‘Thank you.’
He stopped and drew her to him, his hands spanning her silk-bound waist. ‘You’re welcome, min älskling,’ he said, ‘but the day isn’t over yet.’ She tilted her head up at him and he explained, ‘Your staff are waiting to congratulate the new Lady Wellstone.’
Exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds later, Luna was sitting on the steps of the Rose Temple with her head between her knees, Stefan rubbing her between her shoulder blades. ‘I don’t…’ she gasped, breaking off into a breathless pant. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just, when you said—’ She couldn’t bring herself to repeat it. ‘—it was like I couldn’t breathe.’
‘Why, Luna?’ he asked gently. She sat up and looked at him, her face ashen, and shook her head. Stefan pressed on, ‘I know these things are hard for you to talk about, but try.’
She raised a hand, pointed a finger toward the house, and blurted out, ‘I don’t want to be married to that place, like Augusta was. I love it, but I saw what it did to her and John. Don’t try to tell me they spent thirteen years apart because of your cousin dying, or John’s infidelity or Augusta’s spite. It was Arborage, always Arborage. It kept them together, but it drove them apart.
‘Also, I don’t want to be…’ She swallowed and said the dreaded words, ‘Lady Wellstone. And I don’t want to be Luna Lundgren either. I want to be Luna Gregory. It’s who I am. It’s my father’s name and if I stop being his daughter then it’s like another bit of his memory goes.’
The words were pouring out of her now. ‘I’m not a Lady Anything. I’m twenty-seven years old and yesterday I was running around in this garden, wearing the kit you bought me and feeling… do you not think, sometimes, that we’ve both grown up too fast? You with your business and me being the way I am, it’s like we missed out on being young and carefree and not beholden to anyone. And now suddenly we’re married and expecting a baby and I’m Lady Wellstone!’
Luna stopped herself. She was rambling – she sounded crazy even to herself, complaining about these things.
Stefan waited a few seconds, then said in the comforting, eminently practical tone he reserved especially for moments like this, ‘First thing, Luna, how much have you had to eat today?’ She made a face, shrugged a little. ‘Right, well, in a minute I’m going to get you some food. Problems that seem big on an empty stomach always get better when you eat. Second, and please don’t think I’m belittling your concerns, because I’m not. But you are talking bollocks.’ Her mouth fell open and a look of affront flashed across her face, but he carried on: ‘I can’t change the fact that we are married, and expecting a baby, and that we have responsibilities. And I don’t think you want to change those things either,
not really. Maybe you and I are older than our years in some ways…’ He trailed off, but then sat up straight and thumped his chest. ‘But there is life in this old man yet, flicka, watch and see.
‘As to your name, have I asked you to change it? I am a twenty-first-century, enlightened Swedish man and am frankly offended that you thought I expected such a thing. Yes, you will sometimes have to go by your title for estate-related business, just like I have to, but otherwise you are and always will be Miss Gregory to me.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Maybe Ms Gregory now.’
He took her hand, his expression becoming serious. ‘And last,’ he said, ‘we are not John and Augusta Wellstone. The minute I start to think Arborage is more important to you than me, I’m getting on the phone to Crispin in Peebles, telling him his time has finally come, and dragging you away to a desert island to fuck some sense into you.’
With that he stood, pulling her up with him. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’
As they rejoined the gravel path to the house, he extracted his mobile from the breast pocket of his morning coat and made a call. ‘Two-minute warning,’ he said, and rung off, popping his phone back in his pocket. Giving Luna’s hand a squeeze, he instructed, ‘Pretend to be surprised, yes?’
She didn’t have to pretend, when they rounded the corner of the house to find over two hundred staff waiting for them on and around the portico, spilling out onto the Queen Charlotte lawn. Roland, Caitlin, Nigel, Marta, Gus, David… everyone she knew and cared about at Arborage was there. An audible ripple of excitement flitted across the crowd at the sight of the bridal couple, and when Ashley Eccles called out, ‘I give you the Marquess and Marchioness of Lionsbridge!’ a cacophony of applause, cheers and whistles went up as, in the distance, the bells in the chapel rung out across the estate.
They stayed for an hour, she and Stefan, in the now completely restored front hall, where scaffolding had been hastily removed for the occasion. Again the two of them circulated, this time arm in arm, accepting congratulations and posing for photos with all and sundry. Marta brought Luna a plate of food, Stefan removed his cravat, and Sören and Christian, who had changed into rather natty three-piece linen suits, regaled the party with tales of how the groom almost fainted when he saw his bride.
Eventually Luna leant her head against Stefan’s shoulder. Understanding, he drained his glass of champagne, passed it to his father, and looked to the corner of the room, curling his finger. At this Megan and Tilly stepped forward, dressed in matching sundresses, each carrying a basket of rose petals.
‘Off you go,’ he instructed, and the two girls ran giggling up the marble staircase, scattering petals as they went. ‘Friends and colleagues,’ he said in a louder voice, ‘please carry on enjoying yourselves. The Marchioness and I have business to attend to upstairs.’ Luna pursed her lips at him as a ribald laugh went up around them, and in response Stefan promptly hauled her to him, lifting her in his arms.
‘How in heaven’s name did you manage all this on such short notice?’ she laughed as he carried her up the stairs.
‘I delegated, of course,’ he replied, smiling down at her. ‘Your new personal assistant was particularly helpful.’
‘Hunh,’ Luna said, curling her hands around his neck. ‘She seems intimidated by you. I can’t for the life of me imagine why.’
‘I can,’ he said with a dark smile.
The trail of rose petals led up the stairs, into the private wing, down to the end of the hallway. ‘James’s room?’ Luna said questioningly as Tilly and Megan ran back past them, their baskets empty.
‘Augusta suggested it,’ Stefan said, carrying her over the threshold and setting her down. ‘She said it was time.’ The room had been transformed since the last time they’d used it, all of the sporting paraphernalia and knick-knacks belonging to Stefan’s cousin removed, the brocade curtains and canopy on the four-poster bed cleaned, and the leaded windows thrown open to allow the last of the sunset’s golden light to splash into the room.
The household staff had installed a table pour deux for them in the middle of the room, with a candelabra and a crystal bowl of water containing water lilies from the ornamental pond. ‘I’m still starving,’ Luna announced, sniffing at the various dishes and cloches on the table. So, after Stefan helped her out of her lace and silk overdress and she donned the embroidered silk shawl Patrice had given her ‘for the nuptial evening’, they sat and ate. Lemon sole, asparagus and baby new potatoes; ‘Just what I wanted,’ Luna declared, crowing over an accompanying basket of homemade bread and lovely pats of butter shaped into the entwined letters L and S.
They talked about the day’s events: about how surprised she’d been when she saw Magnus (‘Very,’ Luna said, at which Stefan looked suitably chuffed), and about Isabelle and Tarquin’s engagement, and Christian’s speech. She asked him what Nancy said to him in the restaurant and Stefan made a face. ‘She thought to instruct me on how to be a good husband to you,’ he said.
‘And you…?’
‘Told her in no uncertain terms where she could put her instructions.’ He raised his eyebrows, shrugged. ‘And then James rescued me.’
‘I think there’s something going on between the two of them,’ Luna confided, polishing off a dish of raspberry sorbet.
‘Hunh,’ Stefan grunted non-committally.
‘James was the one, wasn’t he,’ she said, looking at him across the candles on the table. ‘The one who took you to a sex club. Is my friend going to be alright with him?’
‘Better to ask whether James is going to be alright, when he finds out Nancy includes berating and pestering in her definition of BDSM…’ He took a sip of his wine. ‘I take it you and Matthias were having a similarly frank and honest exchange when I pulled up in front of the restaurant?’
Luna smiled. ‘I take no instruction from him, either.’ They both started laughing, and then Luna thought she heard the sound of voices beneath their window. ‘Funny,’ she said, looking out into the now complete darkness outside. ‘I’d have thought the floodlights would be on by now.’
‘How very observant of you, Miss Gregory,’ Stefan said with a smile. ‘As it turns out, I have one final surprise for you tonight. Come.’
They went to stand inside the window casement, their bodies cast in relief against the candlelight behind them, the lawn and grounds spread out below like a murky, insubstantial dreamscape. A man’s voice floated up to them, reverberating in the shadowy stillness:
‘If thou lovest me still, if thou wilt have me, light a candle.’
The hairs on Luna’s neck stood up at this, the final line of Robert’s first letter to Margery, the catalyst for their reconciliation. A flame appeared on the lawn below, a candle being lit inside a lantern. And then another. And another. More and more until a trail of light snaked out from the house, across the grounds. Luna stopped counting at thirty, shaking her head in absolute incredulity, and still they kept coming.
‘Oh, Stefan…’ she said, the lights before her shimmering as tears filled her eyes.
‘This was Tilly’s idea.’ His chest rumbled behind her. ‘She’s out there somewhere. Keep watching, käresta.’
The stream of lanterns wound to a finish somewhere in the middle of the woodland that adjoined the lawn, near to where the Dower House had once stood. A larger light appeared there, flickering, then swelling. A bonfire.
‘Wait for it,’ Stefan said. Then Luna heard a distant, muffled ‘pop’. Seconds later, a ‘boom’ rent the air and the sky above filled with light.
‘Fireworks!’ Luna screamed, jumping up and down with excitement, leaning out of the window to get a better view as a succession of white, red, green and gold explosions, punctuated by the occasional burst of blue, danced across the horizon. A proper, professional display that had the audience that gathered below their window, lanterns still lit, oohing and ahhing regularly.
‘How did you get permission from the council for this?’ she shouted to Stefan as the display drew to its blazing, deafening close.
He made a mock guilty face. ‘I have, yet again, been a naughty marquess. Seek forgiveness not permission, eh, Lady Wellstone?’
‘Yes, Lord Wellstone,’ she replied happily, clasping her hands around his waist. In the lull that followed, the scent of gunpowder heavy around them, a commotion rose up amidst the lanterns below and a female voice – Caitlin’s, Luna was sure of it – yelled up, ‘Go on, gissa kiss then!’
Stefan lowered his forehead to hers and a few more shouts of encouragement went up. ‘Give the people what they want?’ he enquired warmly. Luna shut and opened her eyes in assent and he drew her to him with one hand in the small of her back, reaching the other to the nape of her neck. Luna’s shawl dropped to the crook of her elbows, revealing her shoulders and the delicate strap of Patrice’s stays.
‘I love you,’ she said, just before Stefan’s mouth joined with hers. He bent her backwards, playing to the crowd, which erupted in cheers below. Unseen by them, his hand slid down from her coccyx into the folds of her underskirt, gripping her arse, pulling her hips against his. Luna pulled back with a slight gasp, shooting him a naughty marquess look, and Stefan released her, turning to the window and making a shooing gesture with his hands.
‘Off with you, you rabble!’ he commanded cheerfully, and promptly shut the casement windows.
