gorgeous, Gabriel.”
He brushed himself off before taking his place beside her and the coachman put up the steps and shut the door. “You could not have left that line for me, I suppose?” he asked.
“Do I look gorgeous?”
The brim of her straw bonnet was trimmed with tiny pink rosebuds. The wide silk ribbons that were tied in a bow to the left side of her chin were a richer shade of the same color. Her dark hair was gleaming. Her flushed, wide-eyed face was pure beauty.
“You, my dear wife,” he said, “look scrumptious.”
She laughed. “Scrumptious?” she said. “Well, that is something new. No one has ever called me that before.”
“I am glad of it,” he said.
And somehow she was not smiling any longer. Neither was he.
“I made you certain vows,” he said. “I do intend to keep them.”
“Oh,” she said. “And I will keep mine.”
He hesitated, set an arm about her shoulders, touched one side of her jaw with his fingertips, and kissed her.
“A mere promise for tonight, Mrs. Thorne,” he said against her lips.
There was a faint cheer from their guests, who had spilled out of the church to see them on their way, but it was totally obliterated when the carriage rocked on its springs and moved away from the church, dragging an impressive array of noisy metal items that had been tied beneath.
She grimaced. And laughed. And then shouted over the din. “Gabriel, why has there been a change of plan? Why are we staying in London a little longer?”
“Manley Rochford and his wife have arrived in town,” he told her.
Her mouth formed an O, but if sound accompanied it, it was impossible to hear.
So much for their quiet wedding.
The large hallway beyond the front doors of Archer House and the dining room looked and smelled like a rose garden. And the long table in the dining room had been set with all the very best, rarely used china and crystal and silverware. Someone—or, rather, some persons—had been very busy indeed in the relatively short while since she left for her wedding, Jessica thought.
After one peep into the dining room she ran upstairs to remove her bonnet and have Ruth make some repairs to her hair. Yes, she really did run. Her old nurse and her former governess would have had an apoplexy apiece.
A couple of large trunks and hatboxes stood in the middle of her bedchamber, ready to be loaded onto a baggage carriage tomorrow for the journey to Brierley—now delayed. Because Mr. Manley Rochford and his wife had arrived unexpectedly early in town. Jessica’s stomach lurched. Whatever was it going to mean? But she refused to think of all the implications of that just now. Not on her wedding day.
Had there ever been a lovelier, more romantic wedding? Not that she was biased or anything, but he had not taken his eyes off hers throughout the brief service, not even when Mr. Vickers almost dropped her ring and had been forced to perform a few very inelegant twistings and lungings in order to save it—not to mention his language, which fortunately had probably not been too audible beyond their little group. That episode, she supposed, had been rather funny, but she had continued to gaze at Gabriel the whole time and observe it only from the corner of her eye.
It had seemed almost like a love match. Perhaps all weddings did to the two people who were marrying. For a wedding made everything change. The future that stretched ahead was full of possibility, full of hope, full of dreams. Not that one must believe in happily-ever-after. One would be foolish to do so even if the marriage was a love match. But one could believe at least in the possibility of more happiness than misery. If that was what one wanted. If it was also what one’s spouse wanted. Ah, so many ifs. So much uncertainty.
“Ruth,” she said after her hair had been restored to her maid’s satisfaction, “I am Lady Jessica Thorne.” Countess of Lyndale, she thought, hugging that secret knowledge to herself. “Does that not have a lovely sound?”
“Yes, my lady,” Ruth said as Jessica caught up the sides of her dress and twirled once about, just like a young child on her way to a party. Like something Josephine would do. Or four-year-old Rebecca.
Her eyes rested upon the trunks again. A few bags would already have been taken over to Gabriel’s hotel, where she would spend the night and perhaps more than