Inside the mansion, the huge celebratory engagement dinner, attended by every member of the family and all the senior connections, had just drawn to a rousing and noisy close, with three cheers being called for and enthusiastically delivered in honor of the glowingly happy affianced couple.
Angelica, with an emerald and diamond ring on her finger, and a suite of fabulous emeralds blazing green fire about her throat, left Dominic to the mercies of her aunt Helena, and Lady Osbaldestone, and Great-aunt Clara—he would have to learn to cope with them sometime—and quickly tacked through the stream of bodies heading for the door, the hall, and the stairs to the ballroom. Reaching out, she snagged Henrietta’s sleeve and tugged.
When her cousin looked her way, Angelica tipped her head to the side of the room. “Over here—I have something for you.”
Obligingly, Henrietta slipped out of the crush. She followed Angelica clear of the melee.
Halting by a sideboard, Angelica hunted through her tiny silver reticule. “There it is.” Carefully freeing the links, she drew out the amethyst and gold chain with its rose quartz pendant. “This is now officially yours.”
Handing the necklace to Henrietta, lowering it into her cousin’s palm, Angelica said, “I have my hero now, and so have Heather and Eliza. Wear this, and the chances are that you’ll find your hero, too.”
Henrietta watched the delicate links fall and fold into her hand.
Reading her cousin’s expression, and knowing Henrietta had a sometimes distressingly conventional streak, Angelica added, “That said, you most likely need to believe, at least a little bit, that it will work. If you will, if you do, then there’s every likelihood it will work as well for you as it has for the three of us.”
“Thank you.” Henrietta opened her plum-colored reticule and dropped the necklace inside.
“Oh—and once you’ve found your hero and your betrothal is decided, Mary’s the next in line, but as I understand things, she can’t use it until after it’s succeeded with you.” Angelica frowned, then added, “If in doubt, ask Catriona.”
“All right.” Tugging the drawstring of her reticule shut, Henrietta looked around. “Come on—you’d better hurry. You need to take your place in the receiving line.”
Angelica rushed upstairs; everyone smiled and gave way to her. Two minutes later, becomingly flushed, she was standing beside Dominic as the first guests—Lord and Lady Jersey—were shown in.
Dominic soon lost the battle to keep all the names and titles straight. He decided that as Angelica knew everyone, he would simply smile and trade on her knowledge—and her distracting beauty. She appeared utterly scintillating in a gown of coruscating, delicately watered silk in a shade of teal that echoed yet was distinctly different from her mother’s favorite turquoise, the hue fractionally darker than she’d previously worn—more intense, more vibrant, more Angelica.
She smiled and laughed; she was clearly in her element. Yet time and again she would pause and talk to him, focusing solely on him.
He still wondered, worried. But when he asked her if she would miss it, she looked at him, genuinely puzzled, and asked, “Miss what?” and he smiled and waved his own question aside.
She was his, as devoted to him as he was to her . . . thinking back to the night he’d asked her to help him, he realized she’d been his from the first.
He heard the musicians tuning up, but so accustomed was he to ignoring the sound that the implication didn’t register.
He didn’t remember that, in the ways of the Sassenachs, he and Angelica were expected to lead the company in their engagement waltz.
Then the first chords floated over the burnished heads, and Angelica turned to face him. About them, the smiling crowd drew back, giving them room; within seconds they stood in a wide cleared space, just the two of them alone.
She looked into his eyes; if she saw his sudden panic, she gave no sign.
Instead, she smiled and held out her hand. “Trust me. I won’t fail you, and you won’t fail me. You will always be able to lean on me, just as I will lean on you. I will hold you, now and forever, and I will never let you fall.”
Confidence and love shone in her eyes. He knew she’d planned this, but he also believed her every word.
The horror of what would happen if his knee gave out flashed into his mind.
He pushed it aside.
Lost in her eyes, in her love, he took her hand, drew her near, and as the music swelled, they stepped out.
Together.
Slowly, at first a trifle stiffly, but eventually with rising confidence and burgeoning, effervescent joy, they waltzed their engagement waltz.
So captured were they by the moment, by the meaning, that neither heard the resounding applause. They barely registered when, the dance half over, other couples, led by Celia and Martin, Heather and Breckenridge, and Eliza and Jeremy, joined them revolving around the floor.
Angelica’s heart felt so full she wasn’t sure she could contain the welling, swelling, surging emotions.
Then Dominic’s lips quirked and she focused on his face. “What?”
He hesitated, then said, “Earlier, along our long road to here, I wondered if fate would really let me be this happy. By that, I meant as happy as I was then. Now . . . I have my answer, and it’s clearly no—fate has it in mind to slay me with happiness. I’m not sure I can take much more.”
She laughed and let her happiness soar.
She had everything she wanted, for now and evermore.
She’d succeeded in all she’d set out to do: She’d captured the Earl of Glencrae.
Epilogue
There was chaos in Dover Street on that morning in mid-September. Crowds of onlookers had gathered, eager to see the bridal party emerge, to see the distinguished father and his handsome sons, the older ladies in all their finery, and, above all, the brides.
Footmen and stable lads from various households had been drafted to keep the street clear. Some manned barricades blocking off a section of the pavement along one side of the street, while others did their best to hold back the swelling throng.
When three black carriages picked out with gold, with white plumes dancing on the roofs, each drawn by four prancing jet-black horses also sporting white plumes, turned into Dover Street from the Piccadilly end, the crowd surged, expectation rising, leaving the footmen and stable hands having to push people bodily back to allow the carriages to pull up, one after another, along the protected pavement outside Lord Martin Cynster’s house.
“Wedding of the year, it is!”
“Won’t ever be another like this one.”
Such comments ran rife through the crowd. The event had fired London’s imagination, ton, gentry, and the lower orders alike, and while only a select number of the upper echelons of the ton would have seats in the galleries of St. Georges and so be able to actually view the critical moments, all the rest of London was determined to see whatever there was to be seen, and given this was a triple wedding involving one of the country’s foremost noble families, that was already proving, as many commented, “More’n worth the effort of coming along.”
As for the atmosphere inside Lord Martin’s house, bedlam was nearer the mark. His three daughters had insisted not only that they all be married on one day but also that they all be married at one ceremony. The logistics involved made Martin’s head ache, even though, personally, he hadn’t had to deal with any of it. Just the thought of the myriad things that could go wrong . . . but he’d been told to leave it to them—the females of the family—and like all Cynster males, he knew when not to argue.
He and his sons, equally dismissed, had retired to the library to sit at their ease savoring the latest bottle of whisky to arrive from the Guisachan Distillery. Neither Rupert nor Alasdair had any idea precisely where their wives or children were; when they’d inquired, their wives had rather s
nappily informed them that everyone knew what they were doing, and they didn’t need to bother their heads. Not that that stopped them wondering, but they knew better than to ask again.
The door abruptly opened. Celia, resplendent in her signature turquoise, with gold, diamonds, and aquamarines, stood in the doorway. “Good—start timing from now. Wait exactly ten minutes, and then go into the front hall, and the girls will be coming down the stairs.”
Celia glanced down to see her granddaughter Juliet, one of the three flower girls, peeking around her skirts. “Horatia, Catriona, and I are taking the children with us and going on to the church.”
Martin frowned and glanced toward the street. “Is our carriage here?”
“It’s waiting in the mews. Are you watching the time?”
“Yes.” Rupert had his fob watch in his hand. “Nine more minutes.”
“Come along, Juliet. We have to catch up with the others—but don’t run!” Celia whisked off, following a bounding Juliet.
Rupert, Alasdair, and Martin exchanged worried looks.
Alasdair shook his head. “I can’t recall it being anything like this bad when we got married.”
“It wasn’t.” Martin sat up and set aside his empty glass. “But that was different. They’re girls—brides—and for them, the world stops.”
His sons snorted, but rose as he did. They settled their waistcoats, checked their cravats, then adjusted the sleeves of their dove-gray morning coats.
At precisely the right time, Martin led them out and into the front hall.
They heard footsteps and rustling on the stairs. All three turned and looked.
And their world stopped.
After a moment of staring, Alasdair murmured, “And we’re their blood kin. How in all hell do they expect Breckenridge, Carling, and Glencrae to find their tongues enough to say ‘I do’?”
Rupert shook his head, whispered back, “It’ll be interesting to see if they manage it.”
Martin was silent, watching his daughters, all smiling radiantly, descend the stairs—first Heather, then Eliza, then his baby, Angelica.
Their gowns were all white, but each was very different. Heather’s had wide, sweeping skirts of the finest silk, the fitting bodice heavily embroidered with pearls, while Eliza’s was more sheathlike, delicate lace over white satin, and Angelica looked like a fairy-tale princess in clouds of white tulle over which delicately embroidered gold leaves had been scattered. Pearls were the jewels of choice, but again each was unique. Heather wore an ornate collar fashioned of pearls, echoing the embroidery on her bodice, while Eliza had a long loop wound twice about her neck, then dangling almost to her waist, and Angelica wore only a simple pearl pendant about her throat, but had pearled combs scattered through her shining hair.
They were stunning.
Martin managed a smile, although it wobbled. “I have no words.”
Heather smiled. “We don’t have time for speeches, anyway, not here.” She took Martin’s arm and steered him to the door. “We need to get going.”
Swallowing his resistance, Martin accepted that they, at least, were eager to leave his house. Rupert gave Eliza his arm, and Alasdair escorted Angelica. The three couples formed up before the doors, then Abercrombie, beaming delightedly, swung the front door open, and Martin led his daughters to their wedding.
The crowd inside the church knew when the brides arrived. The noise outside rose to a pitch just short of a roar.
Standing before the altar, the three grooms exchanged glances. There were no groomsmen as the three had elected to stand for each other. Besides, as more than a few remarked, even given the wide width of the nave, having three couples lined up before the altar was going to be cramped enough as it was, and groomsmen, of all those in a wedding party, were quite the most dispensable.
The big doors at the end of the nave had been closed, so no one knew of the last-minute preparations in the foyer. But the organist had a boy running from the foyer to the great organ loft. Just as the expectant fidgeting in the church reached fever pitch, the organ wheezed, then launched into a rousing march. Everyone turned to look at the doors. Everyone held their breath. Then as the first repeat of the chorus commenced, the double doors opened, pushed back by Henrietta and Mary in their role as attendants, then they stood back and let pass a procession of three flower girls and three page boys—Gavin and Prudence Cynster in the lead, followed by Bryce and Juliet, with the twins, Lucilla and Marcus, bringing up the rear. Each boy held a gold bucket filled with rose petals into which his partnered girl dipped her hands and flung the petals wide with a joyous abandon that had people smiling and laughing—effortlessly setting the tone for what was to follow.
As Henrietta and Mary fell in behind the three pairs, the organist switched seamlessly to a full-bodied wedding march, and Lord Martin Cynster led in his eldest daughter. The oohs and aahs, and the excited, whispered comments only grew as Eliza, and then Angelica, were also led in. The twittering didn’t fade until long after all three brides had been led to the altar and given into the care of the gentlemen waiting there to take their hands and face the minister.
When the minister raised his hands, the crowd quieted.
In a sonorous voice, he opened the service, then led the couples through their vows. Each, one after the other, plighted their troth in clear, resonant voices that carried to the back of the now silent galleries and the boxed pews. Then the minister called on God and the congregation to bear witness, before leading the assembled through the hymns and the short lesson, after which the minister led the three couples into the vestry to sign the register. While the congregation traded whispers and complimentary remarks, the organist filled the church with a soaring display, and then the couples were back, and the minister commanded the assembly’s attention once more.
Minutes later, he pronounced the benediction and the congregation rose as the couples turned, hand in hand, to face them.
And it was as if the congregation wasn’t there; each pair had eyes only for each other. Those among the assembled close enough to see their faces sighed. Ladies groped blindly for their handkerchiefs.
Then all six looked ahead. Twining their arms, each couple walked ceremonially back up the nave in the reverse order to that of their arrival—Angelica and her handsome highland earl, then Eliza and her fascinating scholar, and at the last, Heather and her rakish viscount.
As they emerged onto the church’s colonnaded porch, the crowd literally roared. Hats were flung, rice flew, and suddenly laughing, ducking and hurrying, the three couples ran to the carriages drawn up at the porch’s side.
And then they were away.
A similar reception awaited them outside St. Ives House, but once inside, once they reached the room upstairs set aside for their use while waiting for the guests for the wedding breakfast to arrive, they all looked at each other, then collapsed on the three sofas.
Smiling, Heather blew out a breath. “That was . . .”
“Simply glorious.” Eliza reached for Jeremy’s hand. “You all did very well.”
Dominic met Breckenridge’s eyes and quirked his brows. “As if we would have dared fail in even the smallest way today.”
Angelica patted his thigh. “Oh, we would have forgiven you, eventually. Sometime.”
Smiling, Dominic caught her hand and kissed it.
Sligo appeared with two bottles of champagne and a footman bearing crystal glasses. “Best of luck to you all from all the staffs.”
They popped the corks, poured, then sat back, sipped, put their feet up, and relaxed.
Eventually Celia appeared to summon them. She looked almost as ecstatic as her daughters. “Well, my dears.” Her motherly gaze included the three males as well as her daughters. “I fear it’s time. Just remember, three more hours, and then you can slip away.”
There were groans all around, but
on the girls’ parts at least the complaint was all for show. Leaving the door open, Celia left. Heather, Eliza, and Angelica rose, shook out their gowns, then, under the fascinated gazes of their husbands, who had also risen and were settling their coats, all three ladies, heads tipping together, headed for the door.
“How are we going to do this?” Angelica asked.
“I suspect we should consider the size of the ballroom,” Heather said. “We need to split up, one couple down each side, and one going down the middle. If we don’t, even in three hours, we’ll never speak with everyone.”
“Hmm, but will that satisfy?” Eliza asked. “Did either of you think to get Mama’s seating plan?”
The three ladies walked out—leaving their husbands behind.
Dominic was the first to break—to shake his head and start laughing.
Just a look, a shared glance, and Breckenridge and Jeremy were laughing, too.
“You do realize,” Dominic said, valiantly stifling his mirth, “that this is how it’s going to be for all three of us from this day forth.”
Jeremy caught his breath, nodded. “They lead—we follow. Apparently it’s the Cynster way.”
“Ah, well,” Breckenridge said, “what can we poor souls do?”
So saying, with smiles of deep appreciation on their faces, the three stepped out, striding swiftly to catch up with their futures.
To follow at the heels of the Viscountess Breckenridge, Mrs. Jeremy Carling, and the Countess of Glencrae.
Keep reading for
THE WEDDING PLANNER
by
Stephanie Laurens
from the Royal Weddings e-book anthology
brought to you by
Avon Impulse
April 1820
London
“We never expected it to be a royal wedding!”
Lady Margaret Dawlish sat uncompromisingly upright on an uncomfortable chair in the drawing room of the Vicomte de Rocher’s town house and, ignoring the vicomte, striding agitatedly back and forth before the hearth, fixed a baleful glare on the two ladies responsible for dragging her there.