She was right. They were here, together, safe and free. Their future, joint and shared, beckoned. Their partnership for life.
He couldn’t argue, didn’t want to.
And she knew.
She took his hand and led him to her bed, and he let her. Let her take him in her arms, into her body, and lead him to paradise. To the wild and reckless place that together they could journey to, to the world that was wholly theirs, one of shared pleasures and joys created and embellished by one powerful, undeniable, irresistible force, their shared love.
They gave themselves up and it took them. Lifted them high, filled them with glory, fractured and claimed them, then, like warmed husks tossed on the wind, left them to drift slowly back to earth, to the soft sheets of her bed, to the warmth of each other’s arms.
He settled her beside him, within the circle of his arms, felt the power drift like a benedictory hand over them.
She nuzzled his chest, then sighed.
Eyes closed, his arms around her, he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, “Regardless, I’m not letting you near a pistol again.”
She chuckled, then softly humphed.
He smiled, and slept.
Late the next morning, Dillon stretched beneath the covers, then glanced at Pris, slumped, sated, beside him.
He hadn’t left before dawn; he much preferred waking up beside her-he might as well start as he meant to go on.
“You should go,” she mumbled, prodding his side.
The prods were weak; he grinned and remained where he was. From where he lay, all the world seemed rosy…except for one thing.
He glanced at the tumbled jumble of black curls poking above the covers. “This wedding of ours…does it really have to be so large? So involved?”
She stirred; one eye opened and regarded him, then she raised a brow.
“What I mean…” He sighed, shifted to face her, and confessed, “I’d much rather get a special license, do the deed, and whisk you away, back to Newmarket, so we can make a start on setting up our home together.” He raised his brows back. “What do you think?”
The truth was he was feeling rather desperate, especially after the previous evening. Especially after all he’d felt, all he’d realized. Being married to Pris, getting her married to him, was his most urgent priority.
She studied his eyes, then smiled, raised a hand, and patted his cheek. “I think that’s a pleasant dream, but it
He managed not to frown, but disgruntlement wasn’t far away. “So you really want a huge wedding?” He wouldn’t have thought it of her-she was normally as impatient, if not more so, than he.
“Heavens, no! But they do.”
He frowned then, but she shook her head at him. “You can’t disappoint them, and, in truth, they’re doing it for you.”
“But…” He wheedled, he whined, he tried every argument he could think of, but, finally, he realized she was right; he didn’t have it in him to disappoint Flick, Eugenia, Horatia, and all the rest. Especially not after all they’d done to help him.
He pulled a face at her, then inspiration struck. “Perhaps if you ‘persuaded’ me?”
She grinned, and did. She put her heart and soul into addling his brain sufficiently for him to smile and accept the inevitable.
A monstrous big wedding, complete with all the associated tortures.
In the blissful end, a quiet voice whispered that it was a small price to pay for this much love.
They were married in the church at Newmarket. The event, held just after the end of the racing season, was hailed as the highlight of the social year.
The other members of the Dalloway family and a host of connections traveled from Ireland to be present; still others journeyed from all over england to witness the nuptials of the Earl of Kentland’s eldest daughter. The Cynsters and various other Caxton connections thronged the town; the gathering outside the church when the bride and groom emerged from the chapel was immense, swelled by hordes of local residents eager to see their hero wed.
Smiling proudly, Dillon refused to let go of Pris’s hand as they stopped here and there on their way to the waiting carriage; they’d already weathered a veritable storm of rice. There were many among the crowd they owed a word, a greeting, an acknowledgment, but finally they reached the carriage, and amid rousing cheers, rolled away to the wedding breakfast.
Demon and Flick had insisted on holding the celebration at their home. By the time Dillon and Pris stepped out on the lawn beyond the drawing room, the wide expanse was already dotted with guests.
Dillon’s two closest friends, Gerrard Debbington and Charlie Morwellan, had stood as his groomsmen. Gerrard was waiting just beyond the terrace with his wife, Jacqueline; Dillon and Pris joined them. As Gerrard and Jacqueline had wed only a few months before, the four had much in common.
“I’m still struggling to keep all the names and connections straight,” Jacqueline confessed. “And the clan only keeps growing!”
Pris laughed. “And in more ways than one.” She met Jacqueline’s bright eyes; Jacqueline had whispered that she was increasing, something anyone seeing her beatific smile would surely guess.
Charlie came up as Gerrard and Jacqueline moved on. “Two down. I’m the last man left standing.”
Dillon clapped him on the shoulder. “Your time will come.”
Pris listened as Dillon and Charlie ribbed each other; when she and Dillon were about to venture on, she murmured, “Just remember-there’s no escape.”
Charlie stared at her. She smiled, patted his arm, and let a chuckling Dillon lead her away.
There were so many guests to speak with that her head was soon reeling, but it was a giddy, pleasurable feeling, one she embraced. While she hadn’t specifically wished for it, she was now glad she’d listened to older and wiser heads, agreed to the large wedding, and persuaded Dillon to do the same. There was something so special in having everyone there to share the day; she would never forget these moments for as long as she lived-and that felt very right.
Barnaby was waiting amid the crowd. He apologized for broaching the subject before saying, “Stokes told me they pulled Abercrombie-Wallace’s body from the Thames a week ago.”
She frowned. “He drowned?”
Barnaby hesitated, but at a nod from Dillon said, “No. His throat was cut…eventually. From what Stokes said, Wallace’s death wasn’t peaceful.”
All three of them exchanged glances, then, as one, closed the door on the past and turned their minds to thoughts more in keeping with the day.
Dillon was conscious of a heightened sensitivity, an awareness of people and their interactions, that he couldn’t recall possessing before. He sensed a connectedness, warm and assured, intangible yet so powerful he felt he could almost touch it, as they chatted to devil and Honoria, to Demon and Flick, to Gabriel and Alathea, and the other Cynster couples who had been a constant in his life over the last decade.
He felt the touch of that intangible force even more personally when he embraced his father, then watched the General beam at Pris, when he was the recipient of backslaps and warm handshakes from Rus and the earl, and when Pris laughed and wildly hugged them both.
He felt it when he saw Rus and Adelaide share a secret smile.
Pris’s brother Albert, and her younger brother and sisters, were all present, Albert interested in all around him- in the stud and the town and Dillon’s work-while the younger crew ran wild beneath the shade trees, laughing and playing with Nicholas and Prue and the small army of other children present. Dillon saw Pris, Flick, and a host of other ladies smile fondly, not just at their own siblings or offspring, but at others, too.
