She was still riding the crest of that wave of newfound growth, buoyed high and on, into their future, and she had no plans to ever slide her fingers from his.
This is life.
This is love.
And it was glorious and wonderful and exciting beyond description—she would cling to this, to him, forever, and never, ever, let go.
EPILOGUE
August 26, 1843
Berkshire
Lord Christopher Cavanaugh reached the church just in time. On the southern edge of the village of Hampstead Norreys, the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, with its proud Norman tower, had—thank God—been easy to locate. After leaving his groom, Smiggs, to deal with the curricle, Kit found the reverend standing by the door; after shaking Kit’s hand with some relief, the reverend directed him around the outside of the church toward the vestry, where, apparently, his brothers were waiting.
Striding down the side of the church, Kit felt something of the good reverend’s relief. He’d overslept; if it hadn’t been for Smiggs, Kit would still be snoring in his room at the inn in Newbury. While such a lapse might be excusable, given he’d landed in Bristol yesterday afternoon and had had to make a mad dash across the country, driving for as long as he’d been able to make out the road, if he hadn’t made it in time, his brothers would never have let him hear the end of it. He’d reached Newbury too late to forge on, so had made a halt there, leaving covering the last ten or so miles to the village for this morning.
He’d driven those last ten miles like a madman, but he’d reached the church before the bride, and with time to join his brothers for Rand’s last minutes of freedom.
Lips quirking, Kit reached for the latch of the door to the small room built off the north transept. Before he could grasp the iron ring, the door was hauled open, and his younger brother, Godfrey, looked out at him.
“It is you—I thought I recognized your footsteps. About time.” Godfrey—who appeared to have grown another lanky half foot since Kit had last seen him, which had been only a few months before—impatiently waved Kit inside. “You’re just in time.”
“But I am in time,” Kit stated, stepping into the small room and letting Godfrey—at twenty-five years old, four years Kit’s junior—close the door behind him. “And that’s what counts.” Finding his two older brothers standing before him, Kit beamed. He nodded to Ryder, who, lazily amused, nodded back, then Kit turned to Rand, reached for his brother’s hand, and, simultaneously, clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, old man, so the time has come.”
As Rand shook Kit’s hand, Rand’s answering smile held a happiness—a contentment—Kit hadn’t expected to see. He felt a jab somewhere in the region of his solar plexus; unbelievable though it seemed, apparently, Rand truly had found what Kit had long thought none of them—Rand, Kit, their sister, Eustacia, and Godfrey—would ever claim.
The sort of love Ryder, their half brother, had found with his Mary.
After what their mother, Lavinia—Ryder’s stepmother—had put her own children, Rand especially, through, Kit had assumed none of them would ever be tempted by marriage. Although Lavinia had died nearly six years ago in a self-inflicted accident, her malignant influence lived on—or so Kit had thought.
When he’d received the letter informing him of Rand’s impending nuptials, he’d assumed either Rand had fallen victim to the matchmakers—a possibility Kit had found difficult to believe—or, more likely, Rand had decided to contract some sort of comfortable marriage in order to put an end to the unrelenting onslaught of the aforementioned matchmakers.
Looking at Rand, at the shinin
g expectation in his eyes, Kit realized his assumptions had been incorrect. With his Miss Throgmorton, Rand had found love.
“We’d thought you would meet us at the Abbey,” Ryder drawled.
Raventhorne Abbey, the principal seat of the Marquess of Raventhorne, was their ancestral home and, presently, Ryder and Mary’s principal residence, shared with their growing family. As the Abbey was only about three hours away, Rand’s family had elected to gather there before traveling to Hampstead Norreys for the service. “I’d hoped to,” Kit replied, then transferred his gaze to Rand. “But I was in Bermuda when your letter reached me—I had to race to get back in time. And then, of course, we ran into storms off the Bay of Biscay. Truth to tell, I’m just glad I got here at all.”
Rand grinned. “So am I—if you hadn’t arrived, the wedding party would have been unbalanced, and Mary and Stacie would have been exceedingly peeved.”
“The pair of them have done most of the organizing,” Ryder explained, somewhat unnecessarily as Kit was well acquainted with his sister-in-law’s and his sister’s proclivities.
Rand’s face softened. “Arranging social events is not Felicia’s forte.”
“Indeed?” Kit leveled a mock-challenging look at Rand. “It sounds as if I should be doubly sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet Miss Throgmorton before she agreed to let you put your ring on her finger.”
Rand’s eyes lit, and he laughed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have stood a chance—you know nothing about inventions.”
Ryder was chuckling, too.
Kit looked from one to the other and noticed Godfrey was doing the same. “You’ll have to fill us in on what inventions have to do with anything later.”
Rand grinned. Then the door leading into the church opened, and the reverend looked in. He beamed at them all, his gaze coming to rest on Rand. “Lord Cavanaugh—it’s time.”
Although the words should have sounded like the knell of doom, Kit noted that Rand’s expectation—his joy—only mounted. As the brothers filed into the church, Kit pondered that; he was increasingly curious to meet Rand’s soon-to-be wife.