by a high iron fence with the gate chained and padlocked. The last time Richard had approached these gates he was met by two stern-faced, armed groundsmen, one of whom had returned with a rebuffing message from Lady Fotherby as well as one from Lord Wrexham with the Earl’s official seal ordering him to vacate the premises or face the consequences. This time only one of the groundsmen was on guard, the frightened, wild look in his eyes escalating upon spying the three mounted men in uniforms plastered with medals and officer insignias. He shook his head when the three halted less than a yard from the bars, attempting to speak and glare, but he never had the chance to muster his authority because Richard calmly drew his pistol and with one well-aimed blast he shattered the lock. The chains fell in a metallic clatter to the ground, Colonel Artois spurring his horse forward and kicking the gates open. They rode through in a united front, none of them glancing at the stunned guard.
The drive was circular and short, the house seen from the gates, so there was no doubt that the shot would have been heard. But the soldiers were quick. They flew off their horses before the animals were fully stopped, swords drawn to meet the three footmen descending the entryway steps. Bloodshed was avoided, thankfully, as the servants were no match for the soldiers and they knew it. The orders to prohibit intruders were obliterated the second they laid eyes on the gleaming metal pointed their direction!
Richard warily entered the foyer, eyes keen and reflexes on alert. Warren and Artois followed in a flank position, equally vigilant. Strangely, the initial impression was of echoing emptiness. The footmen had backed away, silently watching from a safe distance. A couple of other servants were noted, frozen with shock and wide-eyed stares. No one spoke or made a single move. The seconds stretched, the warriors rapidly scanning the premises to gain their bearings. Just as Richard turned to signal Warren to remain posted on guard while he and Artois headed upstairs where he assumed Simone and the children would be, an angry voice pierced the air.
“You
Richard whirled to the right, the voice he recognized as Lord Wrexham’s reverberating down the long corridor running toward the back of the manor. He sprinted, sword clutched in a white knuckled hand, and unable to hear the murmured response. But the next words left no doubt who he was berating, not that Richard was questioning.
“He wanted you, would have bedded you from the beginning and been content. But, no, not Miss High and Proper! You’ll whore for your nobody lover, a soldier with nothing, but not for a nobleman willing to marry you! You, a used slut with that loathsome invalid you call your son!”
“No!”
A murderous Richard burst through the half open door, his pace not slowing as he took in the scene. Lord Wrexham was pacing, his arms gesticulating crazily as he continued to rant and swear, impervious to Simone’s shouted negation and the fact that she was fast approaching his back with a huge porcelain vase raised over her head. Neither of them noted the noisy entrance of three sword-wielding gentlemen, both too intent upon their individual fury.
“Simone!” Richard shouted.
But it was too late. She started slightly but it was only enough to switch the point of impact from square upon the back of her father’s head, as she intended, to his left shoulder. The vase shattered, the sound loud but not drowning the sickening crunch of broken bone. Lord Wrexham yelled in pain and staggered, blood rapidly soaking his shirtsleeve, yet he somehow managed to pivot toward Simone with eyes savagely blazing and right fist raised.
Richard launched forward, leaping over the low table in between, and bowled bodily into the earl. They crashed into the wall and his sword flew out of his hand. He compensated quickly, his fist a blur as it swung upward and made contact with the earl’s left temple, the stricken man’s eyes glazing and rolling back into his head moments before he bonelessly toppled to the floor.
Richard knelt, checking his pulse to assure he was alive and then peeling back an eyelid to assure he was deeply unconscious. Satisfied on both counts, Richard then turned to Simone.
She stood taut and straight, her eyes glittering with residual anger and gradually dawning happiness. Her cheeks were flushed, hair loose and disheveled, chest heaving with ragged inhalations, and the only thought that went through Richard’s mind was that she looked absolutely ravishing!
“You came,” she said simply.
“I came,” he responded.
And then the stasis broke. They crossed the short space between, arms embracing fiercely and mouths crushing together in a passionate kiss.
Artois nudged Warren, both men smirking as they backed out of the room.
“He always has all the fun,” Warren grumbled good-naturally.
“True. But no one knows the truth but us three, so the tale can be spun to our advantage. At least our wives can think we are the heroes and that should earn us more than a kiss.”
The marriage of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam and Lady Simone Fotherby took place three weeks after Christmas in the small chapel attached to the Fotherby estate in Buckinghamshire. It was a humble ceremony and reception with the bride wearing an unpretentious pale yellow gown that accented her stunningly youthful blonde coloring and glowing mien. She walked down the aisle preceded by her two sons tossing rose petals and escorted proudly by her stepson, Lord Oliver Fotherby, with eyes only on her earnestly waiting groom. The Colonel wore his most elaborate dress uniform with the wealth of earned medals adorning his chest polished until gleaming, wool tailored to perfection for his stocky physique, and a countenance beaming with transcendent joy.
The intimate gathering of friends and family were unified in their happiness for the couple. How could anyone feel otherwise when the two were so forthright in their giddy elation? The sacred vows were exchanged before the altar with due solemnity only broken for a second when Richard glanced toward Darcy, who winked and grinned. Many in the audience knew of the tortuous road these two had traversed to reach this place as the scandals surrounding Lord Wellson’s murder and the formal severing with her father, Lord Wrexham, were now common knowledge. But only a handful knew the full extent of the trauma, and thus rejoiced in the union finally coming to fruition.
Congratulations and blessings were abundant. Darcy was uncharacteristically effusive in his felicitations, saving the best of his teases for after the honeymoon. Lizzy did not hesitate in kissing her cousin smartly on the cheek and hugging his new bride. Dr. George Darcy was as effusive as his nephew and did not reserve his teasing. Raul and Anne Penaflor were genuine in their well wishes while Lady Catherine de Bourgh nodded politely. Lord Matlock was stately, as was Lady Matlock, but the controlled tears in their eyes spoke volumes. Jonathan clapped his brother on the back and offered a lusty “well done” while Priscilla tried not to express her chagrin over the younger brother marrying a woman of higher rank. Lord Montgomery accompanied his wife to her brother’s nuptials, although he looked positively bored stiff with the procedure, but Lady Annabella Montgomery was surprisingly moved by her brother’s happiness and bestowed a heartfelt kiss and embrace.
Georgiana extended sincere congratulations and wishes for eternal happiness to the couple. Simone embraced her young cousin in true joy and understanding of the circumstances, Richard having divulged his tumultuous emotions during their separation. The groom, however, avoided Georgiana’s eyes. His remorse and discomfort were evident, feelings that were ridiculous as Simone and Georgiana genuinely liked each other and neither woman wished for anything but his happiness. It was a strained situation that pained all three of them.
A number of Richard’s friends and military associates were present, each delighted to be a part of witnessing the long-time bachelor finally succumb. The Vernors, Sitwells, Hugheses, and Bingleys were in attendance, as were a select group of Lady Fotherby’s lifelong friends and her three sisters. Considering the prominence of the bride it was a modest assembly, many in Society shocked and angered to be denied an invitation; but Simone was unfazed. She readily embraced life as wife to an ordinary gentleman, who in her eyes was extraordinary in every possible way.
“So, Cousin, how is matrimony suiting you thus far?”
“I have been married for exactly one hour, Darcy, so aside from wishing desperately that I was alone with my bride, I do not think I can give an explicit accounting of the matrimonial state. Ask me again in a month or so.”
“Indeed I will. If you are then ready to quit your bedchamber for an evening with me.”
“Remember that I am marrying a woman with children so will undoubtedly not have as much time to dally in my conjugal bed as you probably did.”
