She might have mentioned “in madness and in health” at some point.
As the preacher intoned, “Those whom God has joined together let no one separate,” Gerard murmured, “And I may now kiss the bride.”
He circled her waist, drew her up against him, and when she gasped and attempted to protest this wasn’t part of the ceremony, he covered her open lips with his and tickled them with his tongue. And she leaned into him until he held her off the floor and there was no separating the spiraling passion between them.
Their guests cheered and laughed and clapped. The preacher harrumphed.
Iona wasn’t entirely coherent by the time the bagpipes broke into a triumphant march.
Their audience roared and flung flowers when Lord Ives turned her to face the world as his wife. She was too bewitched and bewildered to do more than smile like a fool.
Bewitched. The Earl of Ives and Wystan had magicked her, just like the Malcolm he was.
Triumphant and terrified, Gerard led his bride into the anteroom to sign the marriage papers along with the preacher. Max and Lydia witnessed them. Iona’s hand trembled as she added her signature.
She was eerily silent as they continued down the chilly stone corridor to the drafty great hall, but she’d been a full-fledged participant in that kiss. He hadn’t abducted her. Was she already regretting what they’d done?
When they reached the wildly adorned ancient hall, Gerard handed her a cup of punch and waited.
“Arthur may sue,” was her opening volley.
He could deal with the practical. “I left him in the capable hands of Lady Alice.”
His squabble with the lady hadn’t been very diplomatic, until he’d listed the great advantages of marrying a wealthy milksop who wouldn’t mind her extracurricular activities. Once Alice recognized Gerard’s wisdom, Arthur didn’t stand a chance. Her father was a powerful lord, after all, one who could pull all the strings needed to obtain a knighthood for his son-in-law if he desired. He even had an ancient barony or two that might be called upon, if needed. Gerard had done them both a favor. He’d left Alice in bed with Arthur, waiting for him to wake up.
Before he could explain any of this, excited voices echoed down the corridor, almost drowned out by the bagpipe’s wail. Lady Dare had promised to delay the party with her camera. She’d apparently lost control of the guests.
“And when Mortimer wakens?” Iona tasted her punch and wrinkled her pert nose.
She was so damned gorgeous, Gerard hoped Azmin had photographic plates left. He wanted a picture large enough to frame and hang over his mantel. Iona was the siren of his dreams, the unobtainable goddess he’d never thought to have—and the wicked wit to match his own.
He’d rather carry her off to a bedroom than stand here arguing, but he knew they couldn’t escape the festivities this early. Better to soothe Iona’s rightful wariness. She had to guess how close he was to the brink of losing everything.
The woman he’d chosen wouldn’t fall into a romantic fantasy about knights in shining armor. She knew him too well. Which oddly made him even happier. “Mortimer will wake on a ship sailing to Africa. He might eventually find his way to Egypt or India, if no one kills him for his cheating. Saves him from the thugs here, at least.”
To his relief, she nodded agreement. The throng descended on them, and there was no privacy for more.
While Lady Dare set up her photographic equipment, his cousin Max slapped him on the back, ignoring Gerard’s wince. “This is the happiest I’ve ever seen you!”
It was the happiest he’d ever been, he realized. And the most terrified. The den of thieves hadn’t scared him as much as Iona’s possible rejection. He’d hoped he was doing the right thing. He still couldn’t tell.
He’d find out when he took her to Wystan and explained how he’d spent most of his reward and couldn’t fix the roof and they’d have to look for a new place for the library.
He watched as Iona’s twin wept on her shoulder. Were those good or bad tears?
“The other one can be the Craigmore countess now, since you just made the eldest your countess.” Rainford handed him a glass of fizzing bubbles.
Titles had not even counted on Gerard’s growing list of concerns. “Does it matter?”
Musicians warmed up in the gallery. Ah, an opportunity to have Iona to himself again.
“It will matter to the queen.” Rain insisted on bursting his bubble. “They’re scheduled to meet with her and the Lord Chancellor this week.”
Well, damn. “Take Isobel. Iona can send a letter politely declining the title.”
“You don’t think your wife would like to meet the queen?” The marquess studied the happy crowd congratulating the bride.
“They’ve had a season. They’ve met the queen. They’ll probably only see Old Gruff Face over formalities this time. Besides, the title was for Arthur’s sake and doesn’t matter any longer.” Still, he’d have to ask. Wystan could wait, he supposed.
The important part was prying his bride from her celebrating friends and cementing this marriage so no one could take her away.
“Have you learned how to choose a wife then?” Rainford asked gloomily.
Gerard recalled the night they’d discussed this while watching a ballroom swirling with tempting feminine confections. He considered the question, but it didn’t take long.
“You want the woman who will bring out the best in you.” He smacked Rainford’s arm and left him pondering this impossible piece of wisdom.
He had a wedding night ahead. He couldn’t remember ever anticipating anything so much. For one whole entire day and night in his life, he would say to hell with his family, his estate, and his duties.
Twenty-six
Iona posed again for Lady Dare’s camera while nervously studying the celebrating crowd. Was it time to leave yet?
The punch bowl was empty. Dancers teetered precariously as they swung and
