Epilogue
Richard grinned down at his new bride, then swept her up into a kiss that had the congregation fidgeting.
Caroline did not fidget, however. She kissed him back with all the fervor he’d hoped for.
Enough so, in fact, that it wasn’t until the priest cleared his throat and tapped Richard on the shoulder that he remembered they were in church, before half of London and all of his relations.
Grin undimmed, he turned her to the congregation, raising their clasped hands high before escorting her from the church.
Outside, bright winter sunlight and loud cheers, emanating from the half of London not afforded room inside, washed over them.
Above, the bells rang, adding to the clamor.
Men in the Earl of Matlock’s livery moved through the throng, handing out coins to any who appeared as if they needed them.
Peers enjoyed being generous when they celebrated a wedding.
Sighting their waiting carriage, cheerfully afforded space on the curb at the base of the church steps, Richard escorted Caroline down and handed her in.
As soon as they were ensconced in their conveyance, his father’s second best, and rolling off to Matlock House for their wedding breakfast, Caroline’s demure blush transformed into a wide smile. “That was perfect. Now no one will question why you married me.”
“Would they have?” Richard asked, amused.
“Or rather, why I married you,” she amended.
“I will still be looked down upon by the uppermost echelons, but in a tolerant, indulgent way. More the way they view a lady’s spoiled pug and less in the cutting, bitter way they eye a young lady intent on social climbing.
” She squeezed Richard’s hand where it rested on her knee.
“And you, well, everyone will assume you are smitten to the core and simply could not be made to care about my lack of connections. You will be an indulged, fortunate second son, who can wed where his heart takes him, freed of harsher expectations by a hale older brother who already has a wife and two sons.”
“Is that not what I am?”
“It does not matter what you are, my love. It matters how they see you, and that kiss will have them viewing both of us with tolerance rather than contempt, and will permit us to begin the work of seeing you in parliament.”
Richard smoothed a perfect, glossy curl back from her face. “I love your conniving mind.”
“I do hope so, as I have no intention of stifling my ambitions and becoming some sort of docile mother figure now that we are wed.”
“Perish the thought.” He could not help but consider how one went about begetting the offspring that would make Caroline a mother, however. With smooth strength, he scooped her into his lap, eliciting a startled yelp.
Her surprise short-lived, Caroline twined her arms about his neck. “Whatever are you about, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
His grin widened. She had a fine figure, his wife, and eyes that sparkled with expectation. “I do not want you to worry that kiss was only for show.”
“I certainly hope it was not,” Caroline said and kissed him.
This time it was a knock on the carriage door that halted them, and Richard raised his head with considerable reluctance. The knock sounded again, but he imagined his father’s footmen knew better than to actually open the door.
Caroline reached up to smooth his hair. “I do love you, Richard.”
“Certainly you do. I am very lovable.”
“And so modest.”
“That as well.”
Her arms still about his neck, she met his gaze squarely, waiting.
Richard kissed her again, softer. “I love you too, Caroline.” He cupped her face.
“My life would be far less full without you.” He thought of the endless missions for Padgett.
How important and yet unfulfilling they’d become.
Of years away from England and his family, fighting for King and Country, and years more secretly in England, but hidden from them.
With a sudden lack of levity he said, “I do not know where life would be taking me now if I had not convinced Bingley to bring you in on our ruse.”
“I do not know either, but in a far less entertaining direction, undoubtedly.” She shifted from his lap and began checking her gown. “How is my hair?”
“Stunning.”
With a laugh, she raised her gaze heavenward. “I should have brought a mirror.”
A third knock sounded.
“And I should have brought a pistol,” Richard muttered, then flung open the door.
The footman jumped back, quickly covering his surprise with a bow. “Colonel.”
Richard climbed out, then offered Caroline his hand. Once he had her on his arm, he turned to the footman. “Peter, is it not?”
The man bowed again. “Yes, sir.”
“You are doing a fine job.”
“Thank you, sir,” Peter said, clearly nervous that Richard knew his name.
Little did Peter know, Richard made certain to know the name of every member of the staff of any house in which he resided. Their names. Where they came from. If they were reasonably trustworthy.
While in Netherfield Park he’d learned that, despite her airs, Caroline did the same. Just one of the many wonders of her mind and her way of viewing the world, that made her the perfect wife for him.
“Shall we go charm my father’s peers?” he asked, gesturing to the formidable front steps of the Earl of Matlock’s London house.
Caroline had re-donned her besotted, blushing expression. “Whatever you like, my husband.”
Marshaling his own features to hide his amusement, Richard escorted Caroline in.
Having made a detour to London on their way from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire, where Elizabeth would see her new home for the first time, she and Fitzwilliam strode arm in arm into what was certain to be the wedding breakfast of the Season, trailed by Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley.
Matlock House, one of the larger homes in London, was impressive enough in architecture and décor alone, but decorated for a wedding, the halls and parlors appeared fairytale-lovely.
Having been to Jane’s wedding breakfast months ago, Elizabeth readily saw the former Miss Bingley’s expert touch in the vines, crystals, ribbons, and flowers that wrapped columns, turned doorways into archways of blooms, and graced every tabletop.
The occasional awed face, as well, spoke of the success of the decorations.
“This is breathtaking,” Elizabeth said quietly. “It is as if we have entered the fey realm.”
“Are you regretting our simple affair?” Fitzwilliam asked with a note of worry.
Elizabeth smiled up at him. “Never. Our small wedding and breakfast were perfection. For whom would we have put on such a show? Fortunately, we do not need to impress a room full of nobles.”
“Darcy,” a voice snapped.
Elizabeth turned to see Lady Catherine de Bourgh, trailed by two other women, one young and one older.
“I am desperate for a cup of drinking chocolate,” Georgiana declared and fled with Mrs. Annesley.
Elizabeth did not blame her. Lady Catherine barreled in their direction, practically shouldering people out of the way, her face already an unhealthy shade of red. With a sigh, Elizabeth plastered on a smile and squared her shoulders.
Lady Catherine didn’t halt until her face was uncomfortably near Fitzwilliam’s.
Elizabeth’s new husband did not give an inch. “Aunt Catherine. Anne. Mrs. Jenkinson. May I present my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy? Elizabeth, I believe you have met my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. This is my cousin, Anne de Bourgh, and her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson.”
Hoping she hid the relief she felt at the excuse to release Fitzwilliam’s arm, so she could move away from Lady Catherine, Elizabeth curtsied.
“Lady Catherine. How fine to see you again, and Miss de Bourgh, I am so happy to finally meet you. It was with sorrow that we read of your inability to attend our wedding due to being ill. I hope you are feeling well now.”
“Anne is always well.” Lady Catherine stared down her nose at Elizabeth. “I use her health as an excuse when I am tendered invitations that are beneath me.” She returned her attention to Fitzwilliam. “Darcy, a word.”
“Very well,” he said, resignation etched into his features and suffusing his voice. “Would you care to have our row in public or in private?”
Her ladyship drew her shoulders back. “I do not have rows.”
“We are beginning, then?”
Rather than answer, Lady Catherine cocked her chin in the air and marched away, moving to a pair of chairs set under an arch crafted of pink and white blossoms.
Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth. “I do not believe this will take long.” Despite being in public, he dropped a light kiss to her lips, his own tipping up at the corners as his gaze lingered on her. Then, drawing in a fortifying breath he added, “Anne. Mrs. Jenkinson,” and strode after his aunt.
Elizabeth turned to the woman who must have thought she would marry Fitzwilliam, battling the tension that longed to fill her frame.
“Miss de Bourgh, we truly did miss you at our wedding.” Elizabeth had hoped inviting Lady Catherine and her daughter would prove an olive branch of sorts.
Especially when they had invited so few people, despite Mrs. Bennet’s urgings.
“I very much wanted to attend.” Miss de Bourgh radiated sincerity. “I have longed to meet you. Georgiana, Richard, and Fitzwilliam have all mentioned you in their letters.”
Elizabeth hadn’t realized her husband corresponded with Miss de Bourgh.
A glance showed Fitzwilliam and Lady Catherine standing before the two chairs under the flower-arch, the latter clearly railing at Elizabeth’s husband.
“And I have longed to meet you as well. It is my deepest hope that we can put aside any awkwardness and be friends.”
“Awkwardness?” Miss de Bourgh frowned, lines creasing a narrow brow. Behind her, Mrs. Jenkinson echoed the look. Then Miss de Bourgh’s exceedingly light blue eyes flew wide. “Oh. The betrothal.”