Then she smiled, and she was Emma again. She was his Tonya.
And he knew that all would be well for them. Somehow.
———
Emma’s hand tightened on her uncle’s arm as the doors opened and she was faced with the gathering of what seemed to be all Society. The Tsar was there, and the English Prince Regent, and Countess Lieven, and Sir Jeremy Ashbey, who watched her with perfect impassivity on his handsome face. Suddenly, Emma could not breathe. Her light stays, her silk bodice, seemed designed to suffocate her.
“Are you all right, my darling?” her uncle murmured. “If you have changed your mind…”
Her gaze swept over the room, over all the splendidly dressed people, and landed on Jack. It was undoubtedly Jack, with his brilliant eyes, his crooked smile, even though he seemed so awfully grand in the white pantaloons and red wool tunic of his dress uniform. One of his gloved hands rested on the hilt of his dress sword. The other he held out to her in a tiny but unmistakable gesture of welcome.
“No, Uncle Nicholas,” she whispered. “I have not changed my mind.”
“Well, then. We should get on with it.”
“Oh, yes. We absolutely should.”
The music changed to a more gentle, stranger sort of march waltz, and Emma moved forward to Jack’s side. She did not see any of the people, did not notice them staring at her. She just saw Jack and felt his hand take hers as her uncle handed it to him. Even through their gloves, his clasp was warm and strong, a clasp that could surely hold her up through all the years to come.
Surely not the clasp of a rake, as that silly newspaper had suggested.
Together, they turned to face the vicar.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy matrimony…”
Chapter Twenty-One
The hotel’s kitchens had prepared a sumptuous repast for the wedding guests, a vast buffet of mushroom tarts, lobster patties, medallions of lamb with mint sauce and fruit pastries. There was also a beautiful white cake decorated with ribbons and roses of pink marzipan, a champagne fountain and great silver samovars of three kinds of tea.
Emma nibbled at a strawberry tart, but she did not really taste its sour sweetness. She listened to the rise and fall of conversation around her, the echoes of laughter and the clink of crystal and china, but she did not really hear a thing. She nodded and smiled at what seemed like appropriate moments. All she could think, over and over, was that she was married.
Married!
The man who stood beside her, so handsome and noble in his uniform, had been a stranger only a very few days before, yet he was now her husband.
She looked at him as he laughed at something Bertie Stonewich told him and marveled that this could all be real. Jack was dashing and bright, like a flash of lightning, the roil of a blue sea, and as she saw the way the young women in the crowd watched him, she knew he could truly have had any woman he wanted, just as that silly newspaper had said. Yet he had chosen her, short, dark, daydreamy her.
Not that the circumstances of their betrothal had been ideal. He had been forced to offer for her, after all. But when she offered him a way out of this mess, he had refused. He had insisted on going through with this wedding. That meant he must have some sort of feelings for her, did it not?
Just then, he turned to her, caught her staring at him. She must have had some odd expression on her face, for the grin faded from his lips and he leaned toward her, looking concerned. “Are you well, Emma? You look pale.”
She smiled at him. “I am very well. Just a bit tired. It has been a very busy few days.”
“Busy indeed.” He took her empty plate from her hand and gave it to a passing footman. “I am sure this does not have to go on very much longer. We can cut the cake, perhaps have a dance; then we can be off.”
Off on their wedding trip, where they would do the— the deed. Somehow she could not think of it yet by any other word. Emma felt her face grow uncomfortably warm again, and she wished she had a fan to hide behind.
“I will just fetch you a cup of tea, while you sit here and catch your breath,” Jack said, escorting her to one of the small satin chairs near an open window.
As Jack set off across the room toward the buffet table, pausing here and there to accept good wishes, nodding and smiling, Bertie Stonewich appeared beside her. He sat down in the chair next to hers, without even being invited, and said, “It was a lovely wedding, Lady St. Albans.”
Emma tilted her head to peer up at him. He was quite different from the affable, slightly drunken man she had met the night of the illuminations. Today he wore his dress uniform, shining with gold braid and brass buttons, his golden cap of hair brushed to a bright luster. She was not too sure about Bertie. He seemed all surface, all jokes and brainlessness, yet she sensed that that was not all there was to him. She was not sure she liked him, though there must be something to him if he was friends with Jack.
And since he was Jack’s friend, and therefore sure to be a part of their lives in the future, she would always be polite to him. She nodded and said, “Thank you. It is too bad Lottie could not come.”
He had the good grace to appear a bit abashed, his cheeks turning a faint pink, and he looked away with an embarrassed little laugh. “Indeed. I am sure she would want to send her good wishes. But you may rely on my discretion about that day entirely.”
“Did you know who I was all along?”
“I had my suspicions. But I had confidence that Jack must know what he was doing. He always does. Almost always.”
“Have you known each other very long, then?”
Bertie nodded slowly. “For many years. Jack saved my life in Spain, more than once.”
“As you saved mine,” Jack said, coming upon them in time to hear this. “If either of us owed the other any favors, they were more than repaid. Many times over.” He gave them a grin, as if he had not just spoken such serious words.
Bertie gave him an answering smile and stood up to shake the hand Jack held out to him as he balanced a teacup in his other hand. “It is to be hoped there will be no need for such favors in the future.”
“Not until after the wedding trip, anyway. I am sure you will both be very happy.”
“I am sure we will,” Jack answered. Bertie moved away from them, joining a beautiful redhead and blending into the crowd with her.
Jack sat down in Bertie’s abandoned chair and handed Emma the cup of tea he bore. She sipped at the smoky brew, grateful for its bracing strength. It helped to clear the champagne and sugar and giddiness from her mind. “Your friend is a very—interesting man,” she said.
“Oh, lud, no. I am horrible at matchmaking. I am just beginning to have the suspicion that everyone should be married.”
“I agree. So far, anyway, I am finding marriage to be a great success,” Emma said lightly.
Jack took her hand and kissed it, his lips lingering on the silk covering her knuckles. Then he turned it over and kissed her wrist, in the tiny bit of bare skin that showed between the pearl buttons.
Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
“I would agree,” he murmured, pressing her palm to his cheek. “Marriage assuredly has its advantages.”
It was as if they were all alone in that crowded drawing room, their own small island of two in the midst of the waves of celebration. The doubts she had had seemed silly and vastly insignificant now that they were together. All that was important was that, by some great miracle, they had found one another.
Jack seemed to feel the same. He groaned low in his throat, and it vibrated against her skin, deep inside of her. “We must still be dutiful for a while longer,” he said. “But soon we can be alone.”
“What a touching scene!” Emma’s aunt’s voice said. Emma reluctantly turned her attention from Jack to Aunt Lydia and Uncle Nicholas, who stood before them arm in arm. Now that all was settled an
d done, the marriage and all its attendant settlements concluded, they looked more relaxed, happy even.
“You are truly a handsome couple,” Lydia said, and leaned down to kiss Emma’s cheek. She smelled comfortingly of violet scent, satin and champagne. “And I know you would rather be quiet together, but perhaps you should cut the cake now? The Prince Regent has already devoured all the lobster patties and profiteroles and will be looking for marzipan.”
Emma laughed at the vision of the pudgy little man with the immensely high collar points stuffing his mouth with the cake’s exquisite candy ribbons. “Of course, Aunt Lydia. We will be there directly.”
She rose and followed her aunt to the small table where the cake waited in solitary splendor.
Jack started to follow her but was stopped by her uncle, who said something quietly in his ear.
Emma wondered what it could be.
———
“I wish you happy, Lord St. Albans,” Count Suvarov muttered through his smile. “Just always remember, Russia may seem a very great distance from London, but no expanse will protect you if you mistreat my niece. We will always protect her, even from you, if need be.”
Jack regarded him solemnly and saw the fierce protec-tiveness of true fatherhood in his expression. Jack could not help but feel a flush of resentment at the implication that he might mistreat Emma, but he understood. He imagined that he himself would one day feel just the same about his own daughter.
“You need never fear such mistreatment of me, Count Suvarov,” he answered. “I will always treat Emma with every consideration and affection.”
The count nodded. “That is all very well. But remember that the English are not the only ones with spies— as you well know.”
Jack had nothing to answer that with, so he remained silent. Count Suvarov nodded and went to join his wife, taking her arm as she arranged the cake knives. She turned to him with a radiant smile, and they both turned beaming glances onto Emma. They were the very picture of proud parents.
Emma glanced up at Jack with a quizzical half-smile, a questioning quirk of her raven brow. He nodded to her, and came to take her hand in his. His wife’s hand.
They folded their fingers together on the etched silver handle of the knife and cut into the rich, white icing of their wedding cake.
———
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” Lydia said, watching as Natasha fastened the jeweled buttons at the back of Emma’s garnet-colored carriage gown. Nearby, Madame Ana, already dressed in her cloak and bonnet, carefully folded the wedding gown into a box. “Especially considering how quickly we had to plan it!”
Emma smiled and shrugged into her matching pelisse. “It was indeed beautiful. I did not expect anything less from an event you arranged, Aunt Lydia! I will always remember it.”
“I’m glad, my dear.” Lydia kissed her and held her in a gentle hug for a long moment. “I will always remember it, too, because of how you glowed with happiness.”
Emma thought she might start to cry. She had known she would have to part with her aunt and uncle, of course, but somehow it had not seemed exactly real in the excitement of the wedding. Now it was real. She would go downstairs and get into the carriage with her new husband, and Lydia and Nicholas would go back to Russia without her. She would not see them again for a very long while.
Suddenly, she felt almost shockingly alone.
Lydia drew back, smiling, and tapped Emma gently on the chin. “Oh, now I have made you sad, Emma dear! Do not feel sad. You have a whole new life before you.”
“I know. But I will miss you and Uncle Nicholas so much.”
“As we will miss you. But we will always be with you.” She kissed Emma one more time and let her go. “Now, your husband will be waiting.”
Emma nodded and picked up her reticule and a small bandbox. All the trunks and cases had already been loaded onto the carriage Natasha and Madame Ana would travel in. All was in readiness. Letting her sadness float away as if on a bubble, Emma decided that she had to be ready, too.
She went down the stairs to where Jack waited, changed from the splendor of his uniform into traveling clothes. He took her hand, and they rushed through the foyer in a shower of rose petals and good wishes.
It seemed to Emma in that moment that nothing could go wrong for them, that their lives would always exist in this same enchanted plane.
This perfect, perfect place.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The carriage jolting to a halt jerked Emma awake JL when she did not even know she had fallen asleep. The last thing she remembered was talking quietly with Jack as they raced along in the dying light of day, leaving the streets of London behind and moving into the quiet of the countryside. They had spoken of the wedding, she remembered, of the people who had been there, the decorations, nothing very deep or profound. The darkness that crept into the carriage, wrapping around them like black velvet, the champagne she had drunk, must have conspired to put her to sleep.
Now the carriage was stopping, a beam of light arcing across her face. Emma blinked and slowly sat up. A weight fell from her shoulder, and she realized that Jack’s arm was around her, that she had fallen asleep against his shoulder. She was half-sprawled against his side, her pelisse collar unbuttoned, and she could feel the strands of loose hair against her neck like tickling feathers.
Emma gave an embarrassed little laugh and tried to push the hair back into its pins. She suddenly felt uncomfortable with Jack, uncomfortable in her disarray. All evening they had talked and laughed together so easily, and she had no idea why she should so worry about such things now, but she did.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”
She glanced back over her shoulder at Jack. He still lounged against the leather squabs, completely at ease even though the dark waves of his hair were tousled and she had pulled the capes of his greatcoat askew. He smiled at her and reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“It is of no matter,” he said. “It has been a very long day, a very long several days. You probably have had very little rest ever since you came to London.”
That was very true; she had not even really been able to rest since she left St. Petersburg. It was strange that her deepest sleep had come in this swaying, lumpy carriage. His casualness made her feel better, but she still could not quite meet his eyes.
The light outside the carriage window moved, and she could hear the blur of voices. “Where are we?”
“An inn. I made arrangements for us to stop here on the way to Weston Manor. I thought you might be too tired to drive all the way through.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. How thoughtful.” She touched her hair again, unsure of what to do now. What she should do at an inn with a husband.
Jack’s smile widened. “Would you like to get out now, Emma?”
“All right. Yes.”
As if at some invisible command, a footman opened the carriage door and held out a hand to help her down onto the gravel of the inn’s courtyard. Emma tipped back her head to look at the building, working the kinks out of her neck. The inn appeared to be a solid, respectable sort of establishment, a Tudor half-timber with welcoming golden lamplight spilling from the mullioned windows. The door opened, and a woman, round and solid to match the house, appeared there, wiping her hands on her apron.
“My lord, my lady?” she called. “Welcome to the Dog and Duck! Your servants have already arrived, and all is in readiness. We have prepared a supper and our finest chamber for you.”
“Excellent! Thank you.” Jack offered Emma his arm.
He had pulled his coat straight and run his hand through his hair, and now he looked perfect. It was really so unfair, the minimal preparations men could make.
Emma herself still felt like a ragamuffin. But the landlady was smiling eagerly, and the inn looked welcoming and warm, a quiet haven after a busy day. She slid her hand onto Jack’s arm and let him lead her out of the night
.
The landlady led them to a private parlor where a fire crackled in the grate and supper was laid out on a table before it. The meal was a simple collation of cold ham, cheese, bread and wine, but to Emma it looked like a feast set before her in a palace. Their first meal alone as husband and wife.
She took off her pelisse and laid it with her gloves and reticule on a bench just inside the door before seating herself at the table.
Jack dismissed the landlady, telling her they would serve themselves, and came to sit across from Emma. He poured some of the ruby red wine into their glasses and said, “It is just plain fare, I fear.”
Emma shook her head. “It is perfect. The food at the wedding was wonderful, but I scarcely had time to eat any of it!”
He smiled at her and lifted his glass in a salute. “Here’s—to the future.”
“To the future.” To their future? Emma touched his glass with hers and sipped at the sweet, rich liquid. She looked forward to that future, to seeing what it would bring.
Most of all, she wondered what their immediate future, this very night, would bring.
She still felt a bit strange, a bit flustered, with Jack, a bit unsure of what to say. What did a proper wife, a true wife, do? What did he expect? But the wine and the warm fire did their slow work, and she relaxed back into her chair, giggling at some silly story Jack was telling her. She slid her feet out of her slippers and popped a morsel of cheese into her mouth.
It was beginning to feel like Jack and Tonya having a quick meal at the public house again.
As the level of the wine in the bottle diminished and the food disappeared, the conversation slowed and stilled, lapsing into silence, but it still felt natural and comfortable to just sit there together.
Emma rested her chin in her hand, a little drowsy, a little tipsy, and just looked across at her husband. He also appeared sleepy, his hair falling forward over his brow again, his cravat loosened. He nudged aside his plate and glass and leaned his forearms on the table, so close to her that she could see the traces of green in his ocean blue eyes. “I dreamed of a scene just like this,” he said softly.
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