The crowd filled a great reception room, chattering and browsing the lavish buffet.
When the time seemed right, Randolph slipped away to fetch his lute. Then he stood before them all with his new wife beside him. Together, they sang the song that had come to him in a kind of dream, apparently for this moment precisely. That was what Verity had said, anyway, when he told her the story and taught her the tune.
More than honey, the words you speak are sweet,
Honest and wise, nobly and wittily said.
Yours are the beauties of Camiola complete,
Of Iseult the blond and Morgana the fairy maid.
If Blanchefleur should be added to the group,
Your loveliness would tower above each head.
Beneath your brows five beautiful things repose:
Love and a fire and a flame, the lily, the rose.
They let the harmonies twine and soar. Variations emerged unexpectedly, chiming sweet in a minor key. What one began, the other caught and embroidered. Their voices were perfect complements; their artistic instincts beautifully matched. This was what their life would be like, Randolph thought, as the ancient words vibrated in his chest. Thrilling. Reciprocal. A marvelous edifice built together, not all easily, but with delight.
There were tears here and there in the crowd when the last notes died away. The duke and duchess had twined hands.
“I got him the lute,” Randolph heard Sebastian explaining.
“I beg your pardon,” Nathaniel replied. “You taxed me with finding it.”
Sebastian grinned. “Oh well, Randolph wouldn’t know the song if it wasn’t for us, would he, Georgina?”
His wife nodded, smiling with wet eyes.
“Have you nothing to add?” Flora asked Robert. “There must be some way that you made all this possible.”
Robert shook his head. “I’m speechless. I only wish I’d found such a gift to give to you.”
Flora had to blink quickly then.
Verity leaned close to Randolph. “Do you think one can burst with happiness?” she asked.
“You’d better not,” he teased. “I have a great many plans for later.”
“I might need help with my laces,” she murmured in his ear.
“My fingers are yours to command. Always.”
They might have stood gazing into each other’s eyes forever. But one of Verity’s somewhat tipsy cousins offered a toast. “To Lord and Lady Randolph.”
The others echoed him and sipped champagne.
“Lady Randolph.” Verity tried the new title on her tongue, a little dubious.
“It’ll sound well on accounts of your travels,” Randolph suggested. “Sell more books.”
Verity’s answering smile was all he could desire, for the moment.
Read on for a peek at Book 1 in Jane Ashford’s
brand-new Lovelorn Lords series
The Loveless Lord
Available August 2018 from Sourcebooks Casablanca
As Benjamin Romilly, fifth Baron Furness, walked down Regent Street toward Pall Mall, tendrils of icy fog beaded on his greatcoat and brushed his face like ghostly fingertips. The rawness of the March evening matched his mood: cheerless and bleak. He couldn’t wait to leave London and return to his Somerset home. He’d come up on business—annoyingly unavoidable—not for the supposed pleasures of society. His jaw tightened. Those who complained that town was empty at this time of year were idiots. Even though walkers were few in the bitter weather, he could feel the pressure of people in the buildings around him—chattering, laughing. As if there was anything funny about life. It grated like the scrape of fingernails across a child’s slate.
Some invitations couldn’t be refused, however, and tonight’s dinner was one. His uncle Macklin was the head of his family and a greatly respected figure. Indeed, Benjamin felt a bit like an errant child being called on the carpet, though he could imagine no reason for the feeling. He didn’t see his uncle often. Well, lately he didn’t see anyone unless he had to. He walked faster. He was running late. He’d had trouble dragging himself out of his hotel.
He turned onto Piccadilly and was instantly aware of several figures clustered in the recessed entry of a building on the right, as if the light from the tall windows could warm them. Ladybirds, not footpads, Benjamin recognized, even as a feminine voice called out, “Hello, dearie.” One of them moved farther into the strip of illumination that stretched from the window, her appearance confirming his judgment.
Benjamin strode on. She hurried over to walk beside him. “A fine fella like you shouldn’t be alone on a cold night,” the woman said. “Look at the shoulders on him,” she called to her colleagues. “And a leg like a regular Adonis.”
“No, thank you,” said Benjamin.
She ignored him. “Such a grim look for a handsome lad. Come along, and I’ll