The Proposal

of course they were all relieved that at last she had come out of the cocoon in which she had safely resided since Vernon’s death and was ready to live again.

Her mother had shed tears over her.

So had Lauren.

Lily had whisked her off to buy bride clothes.

And now it was happening. At last. A month for the banns to be read could sometimes seem more like a year. But the wait was over, and she was inside St. George’s on Hanover Square, and she knew that all her family and his were gathered there, though she did not really look to see. She clung to Neville’s arm and saw only Hugo.

He was looking very much as he had looked on that slope above the beach, except that then he had been wearing a greatcoat and now he was dressed smartly for a wedding.

He was scowling at her.

She smiled.

And then wonderfully, incredibly, despite the fact that he was on full view with a churchful of people to see, he smiled back at her—a warm smile that lit up his face and made him incredibly handsome.

A murmur throughout the church suggested that everyone else had noticed too.

She took her place beside him, the organ stopped playing, and the wedding service began.

It was as if time slowed. She listened to every word, heard every response, including her own, felt the smooth coldness of the gold as her ring slid onto the finger, sticking for just a moment at her knuckle before he eased it over.

And then, far too soon, but, oh, at last, the nuptial service was over and they were man and wife and no man was to put them asunder. He squeezed her hand and smiled at her, looking almost like a little boy brimming over with excitement, and raised her veil and arranged it over the brim of her bonnet.

She gazed back at him.

Her husband.

Her husband.

And then the rest of the service proceeded and the register was signed and they were leaving the church, smiling now to either side of them to make eye contact with as many of their relatives and friends as they could. Her arm was drawn through his and their hands were clasped tightly.

Sunshine greeted them beyond the doors of the church.

And a hearty cheer from the small crowd gathered outside.

Hugo looked down at her.

“Well, wife,” he said.

“Well, husband.”

“Does it sound good?” he asked her. “Or does it sound great?”

“Umm,” she said. “Great, I think.”

“Me too, Lady Trentham,” he said. “Shall we make a bolt for the carriage before everyone spills out of church behind us?”

“We are too late, I believe,” she said.

And sure enough, the open barouche that was to take them back to Kilbourne House for the wedding breakfast was festooned with ribbons and bows and old boots and even an iron kettle. And there were Kit and Joseph and Mark Emes and the Earl of Berwick lying in wait with fistfuls of flower petals that they pelted as Hugo and Gwen made a run for the carriage, laughing.

“I hope,” Hugo said as he gave the coachman the signal to start and the barouche lurched into well-sprung motion and rattled out of the square, “no one is intending to use that kettle ever again.”

“Everyone will hear us coming from five miles away,” Gwen said.

“There are two things we can do, love,” Hugo said. “We can cower down on the floor of the vehicle—and that alternative actually has much to be said in its favor. Or we can brazen it out and help take people’s minds off the din.”

“How?” she asked, laughing.

“Like this,” he said, turning to her, cupping her chin in his great hand, and lowering his head to kiss her— openmouthed.

Somewhere someone was cheering. Someone else whistled piercingly enough to be heard above the din of the kettle.

The second alternative, if you please, Gwen would have said if she had had her mouth to herself.