Epilogue
This is the happiest day of my life. Even better than playing head-to-head with Miss Pearson at Wimbledon Commons.
My God, I should hope so.
~Added by the Marquis of Aylesbury five minutes later
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The chapel at Dinton Grange
Aylesbury, England
June 1895
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“Are you ready for this, Blossom?”
Fiona hardly spared Francis a sidelong glance as he guided her up the aisle to meet her future husband.
Harry waited for her at the altar, looking extraordinarily handsome.
It had nothing to do with the way his charcoal grey morning suit hugged his muscular frame or the charisma that fairly radiated from him.
It had everything to do with the way he watched her as she neared.
The organ was deafening, bellowing as wretchedly as a drunken sailor, but Fiona didn’t care.
All she could hear was the pounding of her heart as Harry smiled down at her with that same devastating smile that had captured her body and soul so long ago.
Beneath his dark brows, his beautiful blue eyes lit with humor, life and joy.
They were always like that now, but something new had been added as well: a fiery light of love and desire that warmed Fiona to her toes each time he looked at her.
Which was often. Fiona knew already that their life might not be the impeccable paradise she had long dreamed of, but it would be the perfect life for them to share.
In what was fast becoming the new MacKintosh tradition, they were marrying by special license just two weeks after Fiona thought she had indeed lost Harry forever.
Two weeks—which was two weeks longer than most of her brothers had managed—to allow Harry to heal from his injuries.
Though she would have wed him with his head still lying in her lap that day, Harry had jested that he would need all his strength to cope with her night and day.
Fiona tolerated the wait only because she was sure he would.
“Yes, Francis,” she said through a broad smile. “I’m very ready.”
In short order, her brother handed her over to the man who would soon be hers forever. Harry’s warm hand closed over hers and squeezed.
“You are absolutely radiant,” he murmured as they completed their short walk together. “I like your dress.”
The wedding gown Fiona had chosen of ivory silk moiré was not as lavish as some women might wear when marrying a marquis.
With simple lines and only modest leg-o-mutton sleeves, it was only sparingly detailed with pearl and braid trim and inset chiffon at the low-cut neckline.
The subtle detail was in the shining contrast of the ivory satin that was inset in the large open pleats around the skirt and at the belt around her waist.
Much more time and effort had been put into choosing everything else she wore.
“Just wait until you see what I’ve got on under it,” Fiona whispered with a wicked smile that sent the flame in his eyes leaping.
Aylesbury grinned down at his soon-to-be wife.
She was undeniably luminous, exuding all the life, love, and mischief he loved about her.
She would undoubtedly keep him on his toes in the years to come.
There was even less doubt that theirs would be the tranquil, contented marriage he had once hoped for, but he and Fiona both had agreed that anything as subdued as contentment was not for them.
They would fight passionately but love just the same...with their whole hearts and their entire selves. For all the years that God blessed them with, they would live.
“I can’t wait,” he whispered, a simple phrase that meant many things.
“I hear you have some surprises for me as well,” Fiona said. “Something about a honeymoon?”
Aylesbury raised a brow. “Do you want me to tell you where we’re going?”
“No,” Fiona said as they reached the clergyman and waited for the music to end. “I trust you.”
And she did.
* * *
Even from a distance, the organ music emanating from the little chapel had sounded worse than a highland banshee during mating season. Connor sprinted toward it anyway, trying to tie his cravat as he ran. He was late! He couldn’t believe it. Fiona was going to kill him.
And he was going to kick his own arse as well since he had no desire to miss the ceremony. Who would have thought it would take so long to tie a few dozen shoes and cans to the back of Aylesbury’s carriage?
The music stopped abruptly, the blessed silence buzzing in his ears as he bounded up the steps to the chapel, ready to fling open the doors and bolt inside before anyone noticed he was missing.
His hand wrapped around the handle just as a slim, black-gloved hand did the same.
Connor looked up in surprise at the young woman he hadn’t noticed standing there.
He then wondered how he could have missed her. Even draped in the deepest black of mourning, she possessed an undeniable splendor. Beneath her dainty black hat, her hair was just as dark, shining like a mirror in the morning sun. Her startled eyes, as brilliantly blue as the skies above, met his.
“H–” Connor cleared his throat gruffly. “Hullo.”
“Hullo,” she whispered, almost as if she was having the same difficulty as he in finding his voice.
The seconds ticked away as they stared at each other.
“Are you going in?” he asked finally.
“I...” Twisting the fringed black reticule she carried nervously between her hands, she looked wistfully at the door but shook her head. “No. You go ahead.”
Connor cracked the door, then let it fall shut once more. “Are you sure? I’m sure the ceremony has barely begun.”
Still wringing the dear life out of the purse, the woman pressed her full, rosy lips into a tight line and shook her head again. “Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” she asked. She had a marvelous voice, relatively low and husky but cultured.
“The bride is my sister. Pardon me, I’m Connor MacKintosh.” He held out his hand to the curiously odd woman, but while she shook it with surprising firmness, she didn’t offer her name.
Shifting from foot to foot, Connor waited impatiently. As lovely as she was and as much as he would like the opportunity to talk...hell, do all sorts of things with her, he couldn’t miss his sister’s wedding.
“I’ve got to go. Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
She shook her head again, her short veil swinging from side to side. Turning away, she walked down the steps toward a small pony cart sitting among all the more elegant carriages surrounding the chapel.
Connor watched her go, fighting the urge within him to follow. Black-haired, tall, willowy mysteries wrapped in black gauze apparently had that effect on him. With a sigh, he turned back to the chapel.
“Mr. MacKintosh,” she called for his attention, and he turned, waiting for her to say something more. She worried that poor reticule between her hands again.
“Does he...does he love her?” she asked, almost choking on the words as if they pained her to say them, and he nearly swore he could see tears glinting in her eyes.
“Aye, he does,” he answered, afraid that he might be breaking her heart in the process.
She bit her lip and swiped at her eyes. “And she...”
“Loves him very much.”
The young woman nodded jerkily and turned, climbing into the small cart. Connor watched as she gathered up the reins and slapped the pony into motion.
He watched her still as she drove away. There was something about her that compelled him to chase after her.
“Connor!”
He turned to see Dorian hanging out the chapel door. “Och, get in here, mon. Yer missing the whole buggered thing!”
With a nod, Connor followed his brother into the chapel. Fiona was at the altar staring up at Aylesbury as if he’d hung the moon. He’d never imagined he would see her looking so happy ever again.
He’d be damned if he’d be the one to ruin it by mentioning the woman he’d met. Clearly, there was something between her and Aylesbury, but the past was past, and Connor cared only for his sister’s future happiness.
It wasn’t like he knew the woman’s name or where to find her, anyway.