She was Venus-Aphrodite translated to the here and now, and she stole what little breath he’d managed to draw in and left him giddy.
He was vaguely aware of a young girl-child—presumably Ryder and Mary’s daughter—cavorting ahead of Stacie and scattering white rose petals with gay abandon. Stacie was leaning on the arm of some man—Ryder, Frederick supposed—but he couldn’t shift his attention from her enough to be sure.
As the music played and Stacie drew nearer and he could finally make out her eyes, large and shining behind the fine veil, the only thought that surfaced through the fog of his entrancement was that hiding his feelings for her had just become much harder.
Through her fine veil, Stacie studied Frederick as he watched her slow approach, and sensed more than saw that she’d succeeded in claiming every last iota of his attention. Sylvia, Felicia, and Mary had been right; all the hours she’d spent at the modiste’s in pursuit of garnering just that reaction had been worth it.
She’d asked Ryder to walk her down the aisle, while Rand had accompanied her in the carriage to the church. Clarissa was dancing ahead of her, dispensing rose petals with unrestrained alacrity, while Mary walked a yard to the right to ensure her daughter adhered to their script.
Her nephews, Julian and Arthur, were acting as trainbearers, and Felicia and Sylvia, her matrons of honor, were following the pair.
This was the wedding she’d never thought to have, and in her eyes, it was perfect. Small, intimate, undemanding—an event she could enjoy without worrying who might think what. Only thirty guests, gathered in knots to either side, had been invited; all were either her family or Frederick’s.
This was one journey she’d never thought to take, pacing down the center of St. George’s nave to where Frederick waited, his eyes on hers, his hand rising and extending toward her as Ryder lifted her fingers from his sleeve and placed them in Frederick’s outstretched hand.
Ryder stepped back, and she stepped forward.
Out of one life and into another—and not a hint of panic stirred.
Frederick’s lips lifted in his slow, sensual smile as his fingers closed firmly around hers, then he turned, and she turned with him to face the altar and the Bishop of London, who, beaming, came forward to conduct the service.
She listened in a daze of awe and wonder as the familiar phrases rolled resonantly off the bishop’s tongue, and she and Frederick made their responses and their vows in clear, confident voices. Then came the moment when Frederick raised her left hand and slipped a delicately worked gold band onto her third finger.
And he and she were married. The bishop declared it was so, and she looked up and saw relief, expectation, hope, and happiness in Frederick’s hazel eyes and felt the same emotions bloom inside her.
This felt right—so very right. She’d made the correct decision.
Then, still smiling, Frederick tipped up her chin and bent his head, and his lips found hers in a kiss that spoke of promises—all those promises they hadn’t discussed but which were there, nonetheless, intrinsic parts of their bargain.
When he raised his head, she felt giddy. He searched her eyes and grinned—a very male expression.
Then he took her hand and turned her to meet their well-wishers, and the crowd, gay, happy, and delighted, swamped them.
For several minutes, a melee of congratulations, kisses, and slapping of shoulders held sway. The bishop joined them, as did the rector and the organist, but eventually, the group found their way onto the porch and into the line of carriages waiting to ferry them to Mount Street and the wedding breakfast.
Frederick and Stacie traveled in the first landau. As the top was down, several ladies walking along the fashionable pavements of Grosvenor Street spotted them, took in the profusion of her ivory lace veil and the pearl diadem anchoring it in her hair—saw Frederick in his morning suit sitting beside her—and halted, gasping, then, as they passed, immediately fell into rabid conversation.
She glanced at Frederick, and he arched a laconic brow. “I expect,” she said, “that our secret wedding will be the talk of the ton this evening.”
He lightly shrugged. “I don’t care. By then, we’ll have quit town.”
She blinked her eyes wide. She hadn’t thought to ask… “Where are we going?”
The curve of his lips deepened. Looking ahead, he raised her hand, the one he hadn’t yet let go, pressed a kiss to her fingers, then lowered their linked hands to rest on his thigh. “I thought we should go to Brampton Hall. It’s only just over two hours away, and it’s quiet there, and as I spend most of the year there, I thought you would like to get to know the place.”
She smiled and faced forward. “I would like that.”
Now she’d taken the plunge and they’d married, she found that she was eager to get on—to learn more about him, about his households and estates. Not just so that she could be the most perfect wife but also because she was curious as to what those places would reveal of him.
Their wedding breakfast proved all she’d hoped it would be—a warm, joyous, family affair. Even Aurelia Brampton unbent enough to smile, and she seemed surprisingly uncensorious over the antics of Julian and Arthur, let alone Clarissa’s insistence on depositing rose petals on every lady’s lap.
With just over forty sitting down to dine, the company was easily accommodated in the formal dining room at Raventhorne House—the house Stacie considered her childhood home. A portrait of her father looked down the length of the table; once the formal toasts were completed, Stacie seized a moment to turn to the portrait and raise her glass in a silent salute to her sire.
As she turned back to the table, Frederick arched a brow at her. “Your father?”
She nodded and leaned her shoulder briefly against his. “He would have approved of you—he would be very happy that I’ve married you.”
He met her eyes, then closed his hand over hers and lightly squeezed. “I’m glad.”