When she gave no answer, but, instead, met his gaze and arched her brows in invitation, he went on, “I would prefer it to be sooner rather than later, obviously. There are, however, formalities that are best observed—banns, for instance. I was thinking of late August.”
She considered, then nodded. “Late August will suit, my lord.”
Lips twitching, he inclined his head. “Having agreed on that—and on the need for banns—I assume you would prefer to be married here, from the Hall?”
She glanced at the house. “If you’re agreeable. I’ve known the people here and in the village all my life—I would like to have our wedding in their midst, at St. Mary’s.”
He raised her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “That’s as it should be. So a wedding at St. Mary’s in Hampstead Norreys on”—he swiftly counted through the days—“I believe it would be August the twenty-sixth.”
Lowering his arm, settling her hand in his, he met her gaze. “On to the next question—where should we live?”
She frowned. “Does it have to be in London?”
“In the main, no—I imagine we’ll spend most of our days, those when we’re not traveling to view exhibitions and such, in the country.” He tipped his head and acknowledged, “We will need to live in London for short periods scattered through the year, but given how rarely Ryder and Mary use Raventhorne House—it’s a massive old mansion in Mount Street—and I’ve always had rooms there, I suspect Mary will tell us that we’ll be doing her and Ryder a favor by using that as our London base.”
“All right.” She met his eyes. “So where in the country should we live?”
“I thought,” Rand said, trying to read her expression, “that as Raventhorne Abbey isn’t far, we might look for a property between here and there.”
Her answering smile set his mind at rest. “That would, indeed, offer the best of all worlds.”
Although Flora had stated that she would remain at Throgmorton Hall and keep the household functioning, Rand knew Felicia would prefer to be within easy reach of her brother, and Rand himself thought that wise, not least given the likelihood of further joint inventions. He had a suspicion that, brilliant though William John undoubtedly was, he would always need his sister’s mind to bring his ideas to their ultimate fruition.
“That’s settled, then.” Rand gripped Felicia’s hand more firmly and looked ahead. “We’ll start hunting for a likely property tomorrow.”
She laughed, but didn’t argue.
He glanced at her as she strolled beside him. There was a deep contentment inside him now that hadn’t been there before; he’d never before felt on such an even keel, with his future, clear and unclouded, stretching ahead of him.
And he owed his newfound certainty, his inner peace, to her. He was beyond grateful he’d found her—the right wife, the perfect helpmate, the partner-in-life he hadn’t had the faintest inkling could exist, much less that such an intelligent, independent lady was the bride he’d instinctively if unknowingly been searching for—the one lady in the whole world he needed to complete his life.
His life as he wanted to live it.
She offered him all he needed—she anchored him and gave him the necessary insights to imbue his chosen life of investing with a wider, deeper purpose, transforming it into a more fulfilling, long-term endeavor.
She was his future in every way.
With her walking by his side, her hand in his, he was...quietly joyous.
Felicia glanced at Rand’s face, took in the softened lines and the aura of relaxed happiness that invested his expression, and felt the same emotion, powerful and strong, dwelling inside her. Filling her and pushing out all doubts. She looked ahead—not at the old oak but into the future. The future that lay all but tangibly before them. By his side, that future was one she would embrace with fervor—one she would seize and hold on to with all her heart.
But that future hadn’t just accidentally found her—it had come to her courtesy of the nobleman pacing by her side, the knight in shining armor who had swept into her life and slayed dragons left and right, then opened her eyes and shown her who she truly was.
He’d released her true self to grow, then he’d taken her hand and encouraged her to be all she could be.
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.
On the steps before the altar, they lined up beside Rand, with Ryder to Rand’s right, Kit next to him, and Godfrey the last in the line. As they took their places, a wave of hushed feminine whispers rippled through the crowd. Kit straightened and, clasping his hands before him, exchanged a cynical look with Godfrey.
It wasn’t often society saw the four brothers all together, displayed in such a way. Although Kit stood just over six feet tall in his stockinged feet, Ryder and Rand both had several inches on him, and over the last months, Godfrey had nearly caught up, although he was still an inch or so the shortest. While Godfrey had inherited the lean, lanky build of their maternal grandfather, Ryder, Rand, and Kit had been blessed with the broad shoulders and powerful, athletic physique of their father; having all four brothers in their perfectly tailored morning coats and dark-gray trousers lined up with their backs to the congregation was setting quite a few of the females—and not just the young ones—tittering.
In his mind’s eye, Kit envisioned what the congregation saw. Viewed from the back, Rand, Ryder, and he were, in body, very similar, but the color of their hair instantly distinguished them one from the other. Although the way their hair grew and the styles they favored for their faintly wavy locks were similar, Rand had dark-brown hair, Ryder’s mane was a tawny mixture of golds and brown, while Kit’s hair was a rich mid brown. Godfrey had inherited their mother’s shade—a dark brown with russet tints, a true auburn—a feature he shared with their sister, Stacie.
As if Kit thinking of Stacie had called her into being, the organist changed his tune to a processional wedding anthem, and together with his brothers, Kit turned and watched the bride’s attendants walk up the aisle. Stacie led the way, a relaxed smile on her face suggesting she was glad to be there, although Kit had his doubts.
Possibly even more than Rand, Stacie had had her mind and certainly her view of marriage manipulated and impacted on by their mother and her doings. Stacie was already twenty-six years old and, to date, had shown no interest in marriage—and that wasn’t an issue her brothers, or even Mary, bossy as she was, sought to push. Kit thought it very likely Stacie would never marry. That conclusion stemmed not so much from a judgment on any likely suitors as a suspicion that Stacie would never trust herself in such a union; she’d seen all too clearly what their mother had become.
He might be her brother, but Kit was also a man; as his gaze took in Stacie’s artfully arranged dark-auburn hair and her figure stylishly gowned in pale-violet silk, he couldn’t help but admit that his sister bade fair to being as voluptuously attractive as their mother had been.
As Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh, Stacie hailed from an ancient noble lineage and was well-dowered and well-connected. Kit cynically mused that the grandes dames had to be severely exercised over the prospect of such an eligible bride insisting on placing herself beyond their reach.
As Stacie neared the end of the nave, she met Rand’s eyes, and her smile brightened with patent sincerity—then her gaze skated along the line of her brothers, fleetingly meeting each of their gazes. Kit allowed his lips to curve as his eyes met Stacie’s, then as she turned to take her place along the bride’s side of the steps, he looked up the aisle at the second bridesmaid.
The young lady who would, he realized, be his partner in much of what followed.
Gowned in the same pale-violet silk as Stacie, the unknown lady was tallish, slender—distinctly willowy—with golden-blond hair piled in a neat knot on the top of her head. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion pale with just a hint of color in her cheeks. Her forehead was wide above finely arched brown brows; her eyes were large and well-set beneath those brows, but Kit couldn’t guess their color, and somewhat to his surprise, he discovered he wanted to know. His gaze lowered to her lips...and, for several heartbeats, lingered there. Perfectly sculpted in pale rose, the curves drew his gaze even when he tried to look away.
Following in Stacie’s wake, the young lady’s figure was nothing in comparison, yet...
Kit drew in a breath and shifted his gaze and his attention to the determined lines of the lady’s nicely rounded chin. As she walked, she looked ahead, but, apparently, without focus, yet as she neared the steps, she smiled sweetly at Rand.
Kit waited, but she—whoever she was—didn’t glance his way.
He felt vaguely cheated; she had to know that he would be her partner for the rest of the ceremony and the associated events.
Surreptitiously, he nudged Ryder. When Ryder cast him a sidelong glance, Kit murmured, “Who is she—the other bridesmaid?”
As Mary, a delighted smile on her face, was presently walking down the aisle, “the other bridesmaid” could mean only one person.
“A Miss Sylvia Buckleberry—a distant cousin and childhood friend of Felicia’s,” Ryder murmured back.
Mary reached her place, then the music swelled, and the bride—an utterly radiant golden-haired young lady gowned in ivory silk—walked down the aisle on the arm of a gentleman Kit realized must be her brother, William John Throgmorton.
The brother halted before the altar and, with an insouciant grin, placed his sister’s hand in Rand’s.
Even though Ryder’s bulk was between them, Kit would have sworn he literally felt Rand’s and Miss Throgmorton’s—Felicia’s—joint happiness, an incandescent joy like a small sun casting its rays over everyone near.
As one, the bridal party faced the altar and, with the congregation, gave their attention to the reverend as he commenced the service.
Kit had stood beside Rand at Ryder’s wedding; he knew the ropes. Having sensed the nature of the connection Rand and Felicia shared, Kit wasn’t surprised by the clarity and sincerity that rang in their voices as they made their vows.
This, Kit inwardly acknowledged, was ho
w marriage ought to be. He felt both glad and humbled that Rand had found his way to Felicia and had had the courage to embrace love and thus secure all it would bring them.
Kit knew himself well enough to admit that he also felt just a tad jealous. Not over Felicia herself, but over the future Rand now had a chance at creating with her.
On the one hand, he would dearly like such a chance himself, but, on the other hand, after all he’d learned of his mother and her doings—in actuality, far more than Rand, Stacie, or Godfrey had ever known, and a great deal more than Ryder had ever guessed—marriage was an entanglement he couldn’t see himself ever risking.
Then the reverend pronounced Rand and Felicia man and wife, and they shared a kiss before God and the congregation. Kit found himself grinning, infected with the newly-weds’ happiness as the pair drew apart, then, arm in arm, their faces glowing, led the bridal party up the aisle.
With a proud smile, Ryder offered his arm to his marchioness. Mary took it, and they fell into step behind Rand and Felicia—slowed by the well-wishers on either side, all wanting to press their congratulations.
Kit duly paced to the center of the step and offered his arm to his enigmatic partner. “Miss Buckleberry.” He watched, waiting to catch her eyes if, finally, she glanced at him.
She did, and he discovered her eyes were a soft violet blue—periwinkle blue.
Somewhat to his surprise, she met his gaze with a very direct, level look.
Before he could say anything more, she dipped her head crisply. “Lord Cavanaugh.”
Then she placed her fingertips on his sleeve and stepped down—perforce, Kit moved with her.
As they took their place behind Ryder and Mary, Kit glanced sidelong at the confounding Miss Buckleberry, but even though he waited—and he was fairly certain she could feel his gaze—she didn’t look his way again. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed forward, her chin high...almost as if her nose was, at least figuratively, in the air.