Epilogue
Stephen led his wife out of the chapel amid the cheers of the guests.
Portia had never looked more beautiful, her glossy, dark locks in contrast to the bone-white gown trimmed with lace.
In her arms, she carried their daughter, wearing a christening gown of matching silk.
As they reached the carriage, bedecked with white roses courtesy of the children from the Forthridge estate, Angela approached, Mrs. Stowe at her side, and held out her arms.
Portia handed the baby over.
“Take care of her for me, Angela.”
“Of course,” Angela said. “She’s my favorite niece.”
“She’s your only niece,” Stephen said.
“Perhaps not for long,” Angela replied, a smile dancing in her eyes. “I want at least six nieces and nephews.”
Stephen steered his wife toward the carriage, but she paused and turned to Angela.
“She likes her toy cat,” she said. “Make sure she has him with her at night.”
Angela nodded. “Yes, Portia—you told me everything she likes. I’ll not let you down.”
“And—”
“My love,” Stephen said, “our daughter’s in good hands with so many to care for her and love her. Angela will be here during our vacation, and you have Nerissa and young Tilly. She’ll not want for care—or love.”
“But I hate to leave her.”
“I know, my love, but it’s not for long. And are you not looking forward to visiting the Lakes?”
She curled her fingers around his, and for a moment he caught a flare of sorrow in her eyes—the memory of her last visit to Cumberland, perhaps.
Then she smiled.
“Of course,” she said. “The hills thereabouts are very beautiful, and I’m looking forward to exploring them with you.”
“And taking a picnic or two,” he said, tempering the desire swelling in his groin. “I took care to ask your maid to pack the picnic blanket.”
A delicate bloom colored her cheeks. “Stephen!”
He leaned toward her, brushed his mouth against her neck, then nipped her earlobe.
“Oh yes, my love,” he said, “I look forward to hearing your name on my lips—many, many times.”
Foxton approached and offered his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw Mrs. Stowe retreat and join the rest of the party—Lord and Lady Staines, Earl and Countess Thorpe, and Whitcombe and his duchess.
Of Whitcombe’s sister Olivia, there was no sign, despite her having been invited as Angela’s particular friend, but the dark scowl on Whitcombe’s face prevented Stephen from asking.
He took the proffered hand, recognizing the warning in his brother-in-law’s eyes and the firmness of his grip, as if he’d spoken the words aloud.
Remember your oath to love and cherish her, Reid.
Then Foxton released him, and Stephen helped Portia into the carriage before climbing in after her.
Amid cheers, the carriage set off and rolled down the drive. Portia leaned out of the window, her gaze fixed on the chapel building until the carriage turned a corner and it was out of sight. Then she sat back in her seat and smiled.
“Well, Mrs. Reid,” Stephen said, “a very successful day so far, I think. I have gained a wife, and our daughter has been christened—and now, I have the prospect of your delicious company for three weeks. I think I shall advocate for hasty marriages.”
Her smile slipped. “Not all hasty marriages are to be celebrated,” she said. “Did you not notice Olivia’s absence?”
“Whitcombe’s sister is married?”
She nodded. “Eleanor’s most distressed. Of course, being Eleanor, she insisted on coming today to celebrate our union. I have promised we’ll call on her as soon as we’re able. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” he said. “What my wife wishes is also what I wish.”
“And what do you wish at this moment?”
“That we can find something to occupy ourselves to pass the time. It’s a long ride to the inn.”
He shifted closer, his thigh touching hers, and she suppressed a gasp at the small surge of pleasure. How could she be so eager for him, even though they’d indulged in a little illicit premarital bedsport only last night?
“Perhaps,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder, “we might count the number of carriages we pass.”
“That seems like a sensible suggestion,” she said. He leaned close, his breath hot and urgent against her neck, and her skin tightened with want as he shifted his hand lower, to caress her throat.
“Or mayhap we could count the number of inns we pass before we reach our destination for the night?”
“I must congratulate you, sir, on your propensity for excellent ideas. I—Oh!” she caught her breath as his hand slipped below her neckline and cupped a breast. Her nipple beaded against his palm, and a fizz of need sparkled in her center as he flicked the little bud with his thumb.
“And I must congratulate your modiste, madam,” he said, his voice thick and low. “An excellent gown—though I have been in agony of want in my desire to remove it from your person.”
He dipped his head and placed a kiss on the top of her breast, and she squeezed her thighs together at the wicked heat between them that surged as he flicked his tongue over her skin. He gave a soft chuckle as she arched her back, offering her breast.
“Ah,” he said. “I have it!”
“Stephen?”
“Exactly,” he said, his lips curving in a smile against her breast. “How about we count the number of times you scream my name while I’m buried inside you?”
Oh my…
The ripple of desire throbbed in her center, and she drew in a deep breath, willing her body to calm, lest she come to pleasure too soon.
“I think my wife approves of my suggestion,” he whispered.
“Oh yes,” she said, before his lips claimed hers. “She most certainly does.”