get used to it.”
She sent him a chiding smile and opened the box, then muttered something in Russian. Seb didn’t know exactly what she said, but it sounded gratifyingly breathless. He was going to have to learn her language at the earliest opportunity.
“I thought we could start a new tradition,” he said. “Denisov brides might wear that tiara when they wed, but you’ll be a Wolff by the end of the day. These are for you, to pass down to future generations.”
He fastened the necklace around her throat and pressed a kiss to her exposed shoulder. He enjoyed the way she sucked in a little breath at the contact.
“Thank you.”
“I think you’d better start teaching me Russian. What’s the word for wife?”
“It’s pronounced zhena. Or you could call me lyu-bee-ma-ya. It means ‘beloved one.’”
He enjoyed the movement of her lips as she shaped the words.
“Or maybe daragaya,” she said. “That means ‘darling.’”
“Da-ra-ga-ya,” he echoed obediently.
“Very good. Or you could simply say, ‘moya.’”
“And what does that mean?”
“Mine.”
“I like that.” He dropped a soft kiss on her lips. “Very much.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Are you ready to go downstairs? It’s almost eleven.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand. “Yes.”
* * *
Anya felt as light as a snowflake as she descended the stairs on Seb’s arm.
The feeling of buoyant happiness had surrounded her ever since he’d accepted her proposal. It was so unusual, so different from the state of anxiety she’d had for months, that she’d hardly dared to believe it at first. But the longer it remained, the more she believed it could become a permanent state.
Sebastien loved her. He’d shown her with his body when they’d made love, and with words and actions in the weeks since. Even though they hadn’t managed to do more than steal a few heated kisses, he’d been a most attentive fiancé. He’d danced every permissible dance, flirted outrageously with her at every function they’d attended, and made love to her with honeyed words so effectively that she’d been on the verge of throwing herself into his arms and doing something decidedly scandalous on any number of occasions.
Now, at last, the torture was over, and she was thoroughly impatient to give herself to him. And to claim him in return.
They entered the drawing room and she smiled in delight to see so many of her loved ones there. The dowager had stoutly declared that all of Anya’s friends, irrespective of their profession, were welcome in her house. Which was why Charlotte, looking utterly ravishing in seafoam silk, was seated next to Dmitri, and a shameless Jenny was flirting outrageously with Prince Trubetskoi.
“I can’t believe you managed to persuade Father Barukov to perform the service,” Anya whispered to Seb.
He chuckled. “I’ve paid for his passage home to Moscow. It’s the least he could do. And besides, I thought it only sensible to have our wedding sanctioned by both the Church of England and the Russian Orthodox church. I want to know you’re my wife on every single continent.”
Anya accepted a bouquet of white roses from a beaming Jenny. The priest began the service, and her heart swelled with happiness as she and Seb exchanged rings and made their vows. She almost burst with pride when Tess stepped forward and in a wavering but clear voice read aloud a passage from the Song of Songs.
She slid a glance over at Elizaveta, who sent her a supportive smile even as she swiped at her tears of happiness with Oliver’s oversized handkerchief.
The dowager duchess, seated on Elizaveta’s other side, sent Anya a conspiratorial smile. Her satisfied, cat-who-got-the-cream expression suggested she considered herself fully responsible for orchestrating this particular happy ending.
Dmitri, Anya noted with a secret smile, was barely paying any attention to the service; he seemed completely enraptured by Charlotte. He’d barely taken his eyes from her, and the two of them were deep in hushed conversation.
Anya mentally crossed her fingers for them. That would be a sweet match. Both of them deserved to find happiness after everything they’d experienced. Dmitri would care nothing for Charlotte’s less than spotless past, being no angel himself. And Charlotte, for her part, would be the very best wife, loving, caring, and worldly wise. She would be just the person to help Dmitri heal.
The priest cleared his throat and Anya returned her attention to the final part of the ceremony. Father Barukov placed a twisted crown of laurel leaves on her head, then gestured for Sebastien to bend down so