With the final sentence read, Hannah pulled the folded item from the envelope. The deed to Rosewood Manor, located near Kent, was written in the name of Hannah Lambert.
In addition to a lifetime of love and happiness, Lucien had also given Hannah her manor with her friends, a place for them to go and always be themselves. Though something told Hannah that she would never again have to be anyone she wasn’t when it came to her husband.
The women stared at one another in stunned silence at the enormity and consideration of such a gift.
“He has certainly made breaking the pact worthwhile,” Hannah said with a wide grin as her friends rushed forward to embrace her.
A knock sounded at the door, and Mary entered. “My lady, the carriage is ready.”
Hannah stood straight and tall, her heart so full she wondered how it could fit in her chest. “And I am too.”
There was no doubt in Lucien’s mind that Hannah enjoyed her gift. Upon the arrival of her carriage, she and her friends erupted into the sunlit morning and raced toward him with excited squeals and a cacophony of gratitude.
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to see you in your gown before you walked down the aisle.” He grinned and gazed at the stunning woman who was to become his wife.
“The whole point of the country is that we get to make our own rules and be out of the eyes of those who would judge us.” She slowly turned to show off her gown.
But it wasn’t satin and muslin that his eyes feasted upon. It was the narrow waist, the sweep of her red hair off her long, graceful neck and the fullness of her bosom. These months they held off marrying had been worth it to have the marriage of their choice, but other parts had not been so easy.
Stolen kisses in moments of brief privacy, no matter how passionate they might be, only served to whet his ever-growing appetite for his soon-to-be wife. He wanted to grab her by her tiny waist and draw her against the wall of his body, to make her cry out with pleasure as she had done that time at Vauxhall Gardens.
She slipped into his dreams and lingered in his thoughts through the day. Finally, once they had properly celebrated their wedding, she would be his.
As she faced him once more, the glittering of crystals on her gown seemed inconsistent—as random as the stars. He studied them a moment, pointing to three gems placed in an evenly spaced line. “Is that…”
“Orion’s belt.” Hannah beamed at him. “It is. Almost all the constellations are there.”
And they were, the gems winking in a perfect mirror of the night sky.
“Do you like it?” Hannah asked with a smile, knowing full well he would.
“I love it.” He caught her by the waist and spun her about, pausing to kiss her. “And I love you.”
Someone cleared their throat. He glanced over to where Hannah’s maid watched them sternly. “Oh, come now, Mary,” he beseeched.
She lifted her nose in the air. “No more kisses until you marry her, my lord.”
Lucien winked at Hannah. “It seems there’s nothing for it but to make you my wife.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
She accepted. “We shall.”
He led her to the small church and deposited her with Lord Westwich before going inside to wait by the altar for Hannah.
“I thought he wasn’t supposed to see you yet,” Lord Westwich protested as Lucien strode away, followed by Hannah’s beautiful laugh.
The nave was exactly as Hannah had described she wanted it, adorned with summer flowers that had managed to withstand the abnormally chilly summer—pink roses that matched the sweet crown at her head and with daisies, bright violets and creamy yellow buttercups. The heady floral perfume masked the musty old familiar scent Lucien was so aware of in the old church and lent a newness that seemed fitting for their fresh start together as a married couple.
The ceremony was brief, the vicar getting as emotional as Hannah’s friends and mother when he wed the two people he had known since childhood. A sniff behind Lucien had him glimpsing over his shoulder to catch his mother dabbing at her eyes.
Ranford, who had said he wouldn’t dream of missing the event, sat at her side and nodded with encouragement.
“I now pronounce you,” the vicar announced, his chin trembling, “Man and wife.”
Lucien grinned at Hannah and pulled her close, gently capturing her mouth with his. A cheer rose from their audience; the scant number of attendees did not mean the collective cry of celebration was any less deafening.
The wedding breakfast was served in the dining room of Lambert Abbey. Though Lucien’s mother—now the Dowager Countess of Brightstone—had never been one to lavish the house with flowers, the formal dining area was laden with them amid plates of sliced meats and cheese, various soups and fruits and a lovely cake sprinkled with glittering sugar crystals that Hannah confessed had been made by Miss Honeyfield.
“I told Hannah this would be so romantic, right from the very beginning, didn’t I, Mary?” Lady Westwich beamed at Hannah’s maid.
“Yes, my lady,” Mary smiled back as she wiped a tear from her eye. “You did.”
“I knew you would marry a man who loves you as you are, in all your perfection.” Lord Westwich embraced Hannah and then slid a warning look in Lucien’s direction as if to confirm the discussion earlier would be remembered.
And how could Lucien ever forget the list of bodily harm the baron would shamelessly exact upon Lucien’s person should he ever dream of harming Hannah again?
Lucien nodded at Lord Westwich in understanding, then was surprised when the older man hugged him as well. “That look in my daughter’s eye…” Westwich nodded to Hannah, who watched them both with the radiance of sheer joy. “You put that there.” He squeezed Lucien’s shoulder and went on his way.
“It appears she has done the same to my son.” Lucien’s mother looked between them and smiled. The expression was still stiff, as though being newly stretched out after so little use. “Now, let us eat this lovely feast that has been laid before us.”
The invitation bordered on formal, but it was also far warmer than the countess would ordinarily address people. She was not perfect, sometimes sliding back into her judgmental habits, but she was trying. And for that, Lucien was grateful.
Everyone moved to secure a plate, except Lucien, who hung back with Hannah.
“What did my father say to you?” she asked. “I saw that look.”
Lucien took her hand in his. “Nothing we need ever worry about because I would rather die a thousand deaths before I ever hurt you again.”
“And if not, he would do the task for you?” Hannah surmised.
“Something along those lines, yes.” He kissed her hand.
She studied him, gazing into his eyes. “I love you so very much, husband.”
“I love you as well, my beautiful wife.”
“Do not think me appallingly wicked…” She glanced toward the wedding party descending on the table of food. “But how long do you think it will take them all to finally leave?”
“Oh, I do think you appallingly wicked.” He grinned. “And I was wondering precisely the same thing.”
17