Gillian stared down at the nosegay of flowers and nodded. Colin lifted her chin with the tip of his index finger. Gillian tilted her head to one side and looked at him from beneath her veil in a move that would have seemed coy on another woman but was completely natural for her. She watched as Colin lifted her wedding veil off her face, then closed her eyes as he leaned toward her and gently brushed his lips over hers. She expected a different sort of contact, but Colin’s kiss, made up of equal measures of tenderness and reverence, affected her far more deeply than she thought possible. It was almost as if he’d touched her soul instead of her lips. And although she didn’t remember closing them, Gillian opened her eyes and met Colin’s intensely poignant green-eyed gaze. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“My pleasure.”
“I meant for the beautiful ring,” Gillian clarified. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for remembering to procure one for the occasion.”
Colin smiled. “I meant for the kiss.”
Gillian blushed.
“But I’m delighted to know you like the ring.”
She glanced back down at her hand. “It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
“I have.” Colin stared down at her.
The husky tone in his voice caught her attention, and Gillian looked up at him once again. “You have?”
He nodded. “A few minutes ago,” he replied, softly. “When you walked in the door. And I’m very grateful that this particular occasion called for that dress and a kiss.”
“Oh.” She swallowed hard, barely managing the one syllable as her body sizzled with awareness at the look in Colin’s eyes. “You like my dress?”
His voice was barely recognizable. “Very much.” Gillian beamed at him. “I was going to wear blue, but this one matched my betrothal ring.”
“Thank God for pink sapphires,” he breathed.
The rector cleared his throat. “The ceremony is over, my lord, except for the signing of the register.” He nodded toward the far end of the drawing room where the parish register lay open to the proper page, waiting for the bride and groom and the witnesses to record the wedding.
Colin offered her his elbow. “Shall we?”
Gillian nodded.
“All right,” Colin said, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and making his way through the small gathering of friends and family to the parish register.
Colin signed the register and handed the pen to Gillian. “Your turn, Lady Grantham.”
Gillian blinked at the use of his title in relation to her, then carefully penned her second new name in as many months. Gillian McElreath, Viscountess Grantham.
Chapter Sixteen
“Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.”
—William Shakespeare, 1564-1616
Romeo and Juliet
“May I offer you our most sincere felicitations on your wedding, Lady Grantham?”
Gillian looked up as the Duke of Avon bowed over her hand. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace. I’m honored that you and Her Grace stood up for us.”
Gillian greeted guests in the huge dining room of her parents’ town house as they arrived for the wedding breakfast. When they’d entered the dining room and begun welcoming guests, Colin had been right beside her, but now he stood a few feet away, surrounded by late arrivals. Although the wedding party was quite small and the guests limited to immediate family and friends, the baron and Lady Davies had issued a greater number of invitations to the wedding breakfast. And it seemed that everyone who had been invited had decided to attend.
The dining table, large enough to seat thirty people, had been moved from the center of the room to one wall, draped in yards of white satin and lace, and loaded with a buffet of fine foods—from thick juicy roasts to delicate seafood. Smaller tables had been set up in the center of the dining room for the bride and groom, their families, and members of the wedding party.
Gillian nervously fidgeted with the skirts of her wedding dress and readjusted her veil. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited impatiently for the trial by fire to begin. She glanced at her new husband, wishing she appeared as relaxed as he did. Although she told herself everything would be fine, Gillian dreaded the scrutiny and the comments of the guests. The staff had worked long and hard in order to arrange such an impressive breakfast on incredibly short notice, and they had managed beautifully, but rumors about her still abounded, and her sudden marriage to Lord Grantham was certain to add a bit of fuel to that flame. It was only a matter of time before one of the wedding guests forgot their manners long enough to mention it.
Fortunately, marriage to Lord Grantham came with a few bonuses—none the least of which was the fact that the Duke and Duchess of Avon had not only attended the wedding but had participated, serving as best man and matron of honor for the bride and groom. The duke and duchess’s parents had also accepted invitations to the wedding breakfast, and now, Gillian’s father—a baron who had previously only dreamed of moving in such imposing circles—was playing host to the Duke and Duchess of Avon, the Dowager Duchess of Sussex, the Marchioness of St. Germaine and the Dowager Marchioness of St. Germaine, the Earl and Countess of McElreath, the Earl and Countess of Weymouth, the Earl and Countess of Tressingham, as well as Viscount and Lady Harralson and a half-dozen other prominent London hostesses and businessmen who had all come at Lord Grantham’s invitation. She didn’t know quite how he had managed it or why they had chosen to do it, but the cream of London society had just closed ranks around her and her family, accepting them into their midst. Gillian still couldn’t believe it.
“The honor was ours.” The Duchess of Avon moved to stand close to her husband’s side. “May I?” She reached for Gillian’s left hand. “I’ve been dying to get a closer look at your ring.” She studied the flawless pink sapphire. “It’s stunning!” She glanced at her husband.