Chapter 20
Happily Ever Afters and Other Things
The wedding was an exuberant one. Despite the Duke of Hawkney’s reservations, even he did not have power enough to curtail his grandmother, who had decided it ought to be held at Hatherley Hall.
She had not held a party since Christmas and was eager to repeat her success.
The preparations had taken over the entire house for days, sending it into chaos upon which the dowager thrived, though her grandson the duke looked to be tearing his hair out.
Hart pitied the fellow, though they had never been friends. Hawkney seemed a dreadfully cold fish, far too aware of his own consequence. His father admired the fellow and often lamented Hart’s inability to emulate him, which said it all, really.
Now, after a blessedly brief church service—for which he really must thank the reverend, who was a splendid old fellow—the wedding breakfast had been devoured, and the dancing was in full swing.
They had intended it to be a small affair, which it was by ton standards, but there were still people enough to fill the ballroom. Well-fed and even better lubricated, the dancing had begun an hour ago and everyone was wonderfully merry.
Hart watched his now-marchioness dancing with the aforementioned icy duke and wished the blessed dance would end soon.
Everyone wanted to meet his beautiful wife, to speak with her and dance with her, and whilst he’d not spoil her fun for the world, he wanted to join in with it, not watch.
If any fellow thought to snatch the next dance from him, or the one after come to that, they’d have a fight on their hands.
“Oh, Hart, I adore your new bride, and what a splendid wedding,” Hetty said with a sigh. “It’s such fun, and everyone has been so kind… well, except for that fellow.”
Hart looked down, finding a surprisingly belligerent expression on his sister’s face. Following her gaze, he discovered with interest Mr Gideon Bramwell returning the scowl. What the devil?
“Has he been rude to you, Hetty?” Hart asked, standing a little straighter.
“Abominably rude,” she replied, folding her arms. She was still glaring at the man.
“What did he do?” Hart began and then remembered to whom he was speaking. “No. Hold a moment. What did you do?”
“Nothing!” Hetty exclaimed, though her cheeks grew very pink.
Hart sighed. He didn’t believe that for a moment. Hetty was a lively girl, ripe for trouble, and only her older sister’s good sense kept her from getting into a shocking amount of it. “Who introduced you to the fellow, anyway?”
“Mr King,” she replied, nonchalantly dropping the name of the man who had once been one of the most feared criminals in London.
Yes, he was supposed to be respectable these days, or close to it, else he’d not be here, for the dowager duchess had overseen all the invitations, just in case the duke took exception and caused a fuss. Yet, all the same.
Hart paled. “Mr King? Dammit, Hetty, who introduced you to Mr King?”
“I forget,” she said with a shrug. “But he introduced me to Mr Bramwell who I thought looked rather interesting, as Mr King said he was an architect, and he suggested the fellow might like to dance with me—for he hasn’t danced once tonight, Hart, which is abominable when we are short of men—and he refused!
He looked me up and down like I was a badly drawn elevation and said, ‘I never dance.’ Can you imagine the effrontery of the fellow? Who does he think he is, anyway?”
Hart’s lips twitched, but he manfully kept his amusement hidden, well aware it would only fan the flames of his sister’s fury.
Hetty was a beauty, had a vast dowry, and was used to her fair share of attention.
Despite this, and being dreadfully spoiled, she was funny and irreverent and rarely took herself too seriously.
However, this refusal would still have come as quite a shock to her.
“Ah,” he said diplomatically. “Well, he is a serious fellow, Hetty. Not your usual fribble.”
Hetty’s eyes flashed. “Even the duke danced,” she said, which was a fair comment.
“Well, never mind, love. Every other unattached male is champing at the bit to dance with you. Just go and enjoy yourself and forget about Mr Bramwell.”
“Oh, I shall,” Hetty said airily, stalking away with her head held high. “I shall never think of him again, I promise you.”
Hart watched her go, wondering if he ought to do something, for that sounded dreadfully ominous, but then the dance ended, and his beautiful wife was before him, returned by the Duke of Hawkney.
“Thank you kindly for the dance, my lady,” the duke said with perfect politesse. “You dance beautifully. Hartwell, you are a lucky man.”
“Oh, I know it,” Hart replied blithely, tucking Angel’s hand firmly into the crook of his arm.
There was a moment’s awkward silence until the duke excused himself.
“Dreadful man, you could have tried to make conversation,” Angel scolded.
“Why? He didn’t,” Hart said with a shrug. “Besides, it’s my wedding day, and I want to dance with my wife. So, stop gadding about with every other fellow here and indulge me.”
“Oh, Leo, you only had to ask,” she said, laughter in her eyes as he drew her out onto the floor.
“Now, that’s more like it,” he said approvingly as the first notes of a waltz filled the air.
Angel’s breath caught as Leo swept her into the waltz. Though she had been waiting for this all night, and had saved every waltz for her husband, it still took her by surprise.
For a man of his size, he was lithe, utterly at ease in his powerful body as he spun her around, moving them about the room with elegance and grace.
Angel gazed up at him, utterly captivated, her heart thudding with wonder as she remembered this man was hers; his ring encircled her finger, a symbol of their promise to one another.
Round and round they whirled, until she was giddy with happiness, with the sheer joy of the moment.
All around them colours twirled, silk and satin and the glitter of jewels.
He glanced down at her then, and his gaze drifted lower, to the huge sapphire that rested snugly just above her cleavage.
A wicked grin curved over his mouth, his eyes alight with mischief, and she knew he was thinking about her breasts.
She laughed then, staring up at the starlight glow of the massive chandeliers overhead. It was a dream, a wonderful dream where she had found pirate treasure and married the handsome prince. Yet it was real, and the wonder of it would never cease to enchant her.
“Wicked girl, whatever are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice low, warm breath tickling her ear.
“I was thinking I am living a dream, one where I have thwarted the villains, recovered the pirate’s loot, and married the handsome prince.”
“Ah,” he said, a little crestfallen. “I thought we were thinking about your breasts.”
She smothered a snort, glancing around in case anyone had heard him, for Leo was never circumspect.
“Well, I was thinking about that too,” she admitted.
“I’ve missed them dreadfully,” he said wistfully.
Angel bit her lip before replying, her voice a trifle unsteady. “They’ve missed you too.”
He grinned then, a smile so utterly devastating that she only felt profoundly grateful that he had married her, for else she would have been utterly ruined.
The next moment he drew her into a turn that made her forget pirate treasure and villains, and even breasts, for dancing with Leo was not like dancing with anyone else.
He danced like he made love, his entire focus upon her, upon the pleasure he gave her, and that they shared between them.
It was delicious and wonderful, but also torturous, and as the dance drew to a close and he held her far closer than he ought, she was only too relieved when he suggested, “Let’s run away together. ”
“Yes,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Let’s.”