Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
O n the day of the wedding, Lucius was wide awake before the first cockerel greeted the dawn.
He was not nervous, exactly. What was there to be nervous about? Isobel had but one desire for this day: No fuss . And that was something Lucius was certainly able to accommodate.
No fuss. No frills. No special licence, no new carriage, no great banquet. Isobel wanted to throw herself into life as they would live it from this point onwards. All her sisters’ protests about lace and flowers and new gowns were cheerfully ignored.
So the banns were read in two churches: the one at Loxton, closest to her brother’s country estate, and the one in the town of Appleby where the Whitby family made their weekly devotions. They were to have a small, simple wedding and depart immediately for London, where Isobel’s income had secured them a modest house. He would begin his career working under the renowned landscape architect Mr John Nash. And if that fortuitous opportunity had come about thanks to a generous investment by certain dukes into Mr Nash’s work on St James’s Park, well… Isobel had made it extremely clear that Lucius was not to ask awkward questions.
It was the stuff of daydreams. Fantasies. His wildest imaginings come to life. By the end of the week, Isobel would be his wife, and he’d be a respectable working man. Able to support her – able to support himself – able at last to prove that he was worthy of the undying faith and trust she’d put in him.
Could this really be the life Isobel wanted? Could he truly be the man she loved? It made him dizzy to think even so far ahead as the end of the day. As though it were all truly a dream, and he might wake from it at any moment.
The one difficulty – the pinch in the arm which told him he was not dreaming, that Isobel was really his – was his father’s rage.
Lucius had not spoken to Horace Whitby since that painful dinner the night Isobel revealed she was not to inherit a fortune.
If you’re fool enough to marry her, you can forget about setting foot in this house again , his father had said that night. Lucius had but one duty as far as Horace was concerned, and he had failed to discharge it. The family fortune was not restored; the stately London home had been given over to tenants; the Manor would soon follow. Evie had burned Lord Henry’s letters – or, if she could not bear to actually destroy them, had hidden them away so well that Horace had not discovered them. And Lucius was not marrying well enough to pay off fifty thousand pounds worth of debt. Not only that, but Loxwell’s lawyers had done their business well. The money Isobel brought to the marriage would remain her own, far out of the grasp of Lucius’s profligate father.
So Lucius would be the only Whitby at church that day. It was not the way he’d imagined marrying. No tears from his mother, no winks from his sisters, no proud paternal slap on the back. His brother Sebastian would have defied their father’s orders, but he was away at sea. Lucius was entering his new life alone.
Well, not quite alone. Isobel, the undimmable beacon of hope that she was, had insisted on marrying him in his own church. Just in case, she said. Just in case his father should have a change of heart.
So the little cottage about which Lucius was restlessly pacing was a dilapidated old building owned by his neighbour Lord Kendrick, a seldom-used hideaway on the edge of Kendrick’s holdings in Appleby town. And when the rising sun brought with it a raucous hammering on the door, Lucius’s thoughts leapt –
To Isobel, naturally, but of course it could not be –
To his family, secondly, vain though the hope was –
But he opened the door to reveal, of course, Kendrick, with a broad grin and a wicker basket under one arm.
“Hullo, Whitby,” he said, thrusting the basket into Lucius’s hands and striding past him into the cottage. “I’ve brought breakfast. And the Duke of Loxwell’s valet wanted to tag along, for some reason.” He gave Lucius a broad wink as Clarkson trotted in after him. “Those pastries are hot from the bakery. I’d recommend getting one inside you as quickly as possible.”
“Absolutely not!” Clarkson squawked, snatching the basket from Lucius. “Not without a napkin, sir, I beseech you!”
He set the basket out of Lucius’s reach and produced a crisp, white handkerchief which had somehow survived a journey in Clarkson’s pocket without gathering a single crease or crinkle. Kendrick made no effort to defend Lucius from the valet’s attentions. He took out a plump Bath bun and settled into one of the elderly armchairs, which let out a groan and a shower of dust.
Lucius mustered a grin and spread his arms wide, submitting for the last time to Clarkson’s inspection. “Come on, then. Let me have it. Are my lapels misaligned? My shirt the wrong shade of white? My hair not quite untidy enough to be fashionable?”
Clarkson paused, napkin in hand, and made an unnervingly slow study of Lucius’s apparel. He opened his mouth, closed it again, raised a finger, and made a slow circuit to study him from every angle.
“My word,” he muttered. “Oh, my.”
Lucius took the opportunity to grab the napkin as Clarkson’s circling brought it within his reach. “This is your final chance to kick up a fuss about my appearance, Clarkson, so you’d better make the most of it.”
His former valet withdrew another of his endless supply of freshly pressed handkerchiefs and dabbed it at the corner of his eye. “I have not a single criticism to offer you, Mr Whitby. Your appearance is impeccable in every regard.”
Lucius paused with one hand hovering over a steaming pastry. He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
Clarkson’s handkerchief obscured his mouth. If he was smiling, there was no way to tell. By the time it was folded and replaced in pristine order in his top pocket, the little man’s expression had returned to its usual pure professionalism. “Really, sir. I assure you. When your dear lady sees you in the church, she will think you absolutely perfect.”
“That’s not quite the same as meeting your standards, Clarkson, but I’ll take it.” Lucius tucked in his napkin and took a bite of the pastry. Suddenly, despite being certain only moments earlier that he would not be able to manage a bite, he was ravenous. “I’ve no one but Isobel to impress, after all.”
Kendrick leaned closer and frowned, his fingers drumming restlessly against the moth-eaten velvet fuzz of his armchair. “You really mean to go ahead with it, then? Not the marriage – the…”
“The gardening?” Lucius offered him a teasing grin.
“The business ,” said Kendrick delicately. “The trade. Or, more importantly, the rift it has caused with your father.”
The pastry suddenly lost all its flavour. “Kendrick, I only wish I could explain it all to you. Believe me, I have not cast off my father lightly.” It was not, of course, the choice of trade that had enraged Horace beyond hope of reconciliation, but the choice of bride. Though Lucius would not reveal the truth to Kendrick while his father’s impending ruin was still concealed.
Kendrick kept his eyes on Lucius for a long, thoughtful moment while his fingers continued their restless drumming. “I’ve never told you this, Whitby. It’s not the sort of thing one usually speaks of. But, given the situation, I hope you’ll allow me to be sentimental. My own father and I did not always see eye-to-eye, as you know. And yet, if I had the chance, there are several things I should dearly love to say to him. Important things. Ones I shall always regret keeping to myself while he lived.”
Lucius recalled one or two particularly fiery interludes in the Kendrick household. He raised an eyebrow. “Good things, Kendrick? Or…”
Kendrick pushed himself to his feet and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what –”
The world went dark. Clarkson had darted up behind Lucius and pulled a hood of some rough material – it felt like sackcloth – over his head.
“What the devil’s gotten into you?” demanded Lucius, struggling to lift it. Two pairs of strong hands restrained him. “Let me go! Get this thing off me!”
“You’ll want to keep that on,” came a voice, smooth and calm, from behind him.
Isobel.
Lucius wrested his arm out of Kendrick’s grasp and whirled around, hands reaching out for her blindly. “Isobel? What are you doing here? You can’t be here, it’s –”
“Bad luck,” she said softly, and a small, gentle hand settled in his, and his wild heartbeat steadied. A small thrill ran through him at her touch – even there, with Kendrick and Clarkson snickering beside him. A memory of a moonlit night in the orangery. The anticipation of future moonlit nights to come.
“It’s bad luck for you to see me before the ceremony,” Isobel continued. “So these gentlemen were kind enough to make sure that you would not. And now, they will be kind enough to step outside.”
“Wait! Isobel, we are not married yet. I’ve pushed my luck far enough with your brother – not to mention the rest of your terrifying family –”
“Hush.” He could hear the smile in her voice. He could practically feel the mischievous glow of it warming his face. “As far as my brother is concerned, I’m having a very long, lazy breakfast in my room at the inn. And my sisters have made it clear that no gentlemen are to even think of entering the chamber until the bride is ready.” She relinquished his hand, and the pressure of her fingers settled on his shoulder instead, pulling him closer. Her breathing quickened. He caught the scent of her through the rough sackcloth, vivid and bright in the darkness. Lavender and orange blossom and her own indescribable sweetness.
“Don’t worry, Whitby,” called Kendrick from somewhere in the region of the doorway. “You can rely on our discretion. Unless we should happen to want something from you in the future, of course…”
“Get out, Kendrick.”
He kept his eyes closed. It ached to do it, but he managed. While Isobel lifted the hood just an inch – just enough – and those soft, sweet, perfect lips met his.
He would never have another restless night in his life. Her kiss could soothe a man on his way to the gallows. If all the kings on earth could be kissed like this but once, there’d never be another war.
Now his breath was quickening, too, and his hands didn’t need sight to guide them to the curve of her waist, the nape of her neck – the intimate, exquisite places he’d need hours to fully explore.
Isobel broke the kiss and let the hood fall again. A groan of protest escaped Lucius’s lips, and he felt her sigh for him, too, which did nothing to bolster his self-restraint.
“I’m supposed to lift your veil today,” he said, letting his fingers brush their way from her waist up to her cheek. He didn’t need to find the way by feel – the shape of her was already imprinted indelibly on his memory – but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity while it was there. “Not the other way round.”
“You had better not kiss me like that in the church,” she said. “Aunt Ursula would faint.”
“Must we think of your aunt at a time like this?”
She rapped her knuckles lightly against his chest. “No. We must think of your father.”
Lucius let out an entirely different sort of groan. “So that’s why Kendrick was begging my forgiveness.”
“Don’t blame him, Lucius. It was my idea.”
“Isobel, please don’t. Don’t force me to disappoint you. Not today. I know you’d hoped I might patch things up with him, but it’s simply not possible. And I won’t start the happiest day of my life by confronting a man whom I do not respect.”
She did not reply for a long moment, holding herself quite still in his arms, and he was not foolish enough to believe he had convinced her.
“Lucius,” she said slowly, “it occurs to me that there are some things I must make clear to you before we are married. In fact, it is a very good thing that I have the opportunity to say this now, so that we are sure to begin our life together with no misunderstandings.
“You know already that I am not interested in the sort of marriage that my sisters have. Oh, they are all well settled, and deliriously happy, but I am not them and they are not me. I never wanted a great lord, or enormous wealth, or any of the other things I was supposed to hope for. My idea of marriage is that both husband and wife share equal responsibility to provide for one another. I’m not merely talking of money. I am quite certain that before the year is out your income will have far surpassed mine.
“No, I consider it my primary duty as your wife to provide for your happiness . And Lucius, you are the sweetest and most loving man I have ever met. You would sacrifice anything for your family. Do you really expect me to believe you can ever be truly happy if you are estranged from your father? More to the point, do you really expect me to sit by and watch it happen, without doing all I can to help?
“I’m afraid that if that is the sort of wife you were hoping for, it is much too late to find one. You have me . But I am giving you fair warning of how things will be between us. I shoulder equal part of the burden. I take equal responsibility for our happiness. And yes, if you take it into your own head to cast off your father, I will take it into mine to fix it for you.”
He knew exactly how she would look as she spoke. The defiant upward tilt of her chin, the flames burning in her eyes. A passion that surpassed music, surpassed wealth, surpassed class and status and all that other people prized…
He’d never deserve that passion. Not if he worked for a thousand years. But it was his all the same, and all he could do was accept the gift of it in amazement.
“What did you do?” he asked. “How did you manage it? The things Father wrote in his last letter – no, I won’t repeat them. But his mind was made up. And… Well, I thought mine was too. He won’t give us his blessing, Isobel. As far as I’m concerned, that’s unforgiveable.”
To his astonishment, she laughed. “I went to the manor and begged his pardon for stealing you away, of course. Then I explained to him that he had two choices. He could lose you forever, based on the dream of an heiress who never existed, or he could keep a son and gain a daughter. He’s lost his fortune either way, so I see little good in tossing you along after it. Oh, and I suggested that he should thank you for your good judgement regarding the financial situation. The poor dear man is completely out of his depth. You must have inherited your common sense from –”
“Not my mother,” Lucius winced. “Unfortunately, she has never managed to do anything more than encourage him.”
“Perhaps you had a particularly sensible grandparent? Anyway, that is beside the point. Your father’s carriage is waiting outside. Your wedding present to me is to get into that carriage, accept his apology, and let him bring you to the church.”
He felt her rise on tiptoes, and he bent his head so that she could press a kiss to his forehead through the sackcloth.
“You’re angry,” she said softly, “and you’re hurt, but you are too good a man to let that pain rule you.”
Lucius caught her head in his hands, held her face there, tantalisingly close to his, and the silly sackcloth hood suddenly seemed as insubstantial as cobwebs. He let his forehead settle against hers. Felt his heart steady, his breath calm.
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I’m not angry. I’m not anything right now but in love with you.”
“You’ll speak to him?”
“I will.”
She let him go. Too soon. But, by the end of the morning, there would be no more letting go. No more goodbyes between them.
He’d have all the time in the world to show her what she meant to him, and he’d start from the moment he took her hand at the altar.
“Wait ten seconds,” she instructed him, her voice a low murmur. “Then take it off.”
He counted. His fingers trembled with the effort of not removing the hood. Was she already in her wedding gown? Or had she slipped out before dressing, wrapped in a cloak, her hair still rumpled with the morning daze?
He’d give anything for a preview of her morning sweetness. But she’d told him to wait, so he did.
He reached ten. And then, just in case he’d rushed it, he counted slowly to ten once more.
He removed the hood, blinking in the sunlight, and stepped through the open door and into his father’s carriage.
It was the first wedding breakfast for the latest generation of Whitbys, and the last of Isobel’s batch of Balfours. The celebrations were accordingly lively, raucous, and lasted until late into the evening.
A little too late, in Lucius’s opinion, though he could hardly complain. In the grey dawn light, he’d had his sights firmly set on the long, intimate evening he’d share with Isobel. That sort of rare delight didn’t let a man dare hope for more.
And yet here he was, watching Isobel’s hair shimmer in the soft glow of candlelight, and it turned out there was more indeed. Much more.
His sisters had not stopped laughing since they left the church, and neither had the assembled Balfours. The Appleby inn which Loxwell had commandeered for the celebration shook to the rafters with the endless round of toasts, speeches, and cheers. Georgiana’s stories were enough to turn even Caversham’s cheeks pink. His mother had forgiven Lady Ursula her lack of riches by the halfway point of her second glass of champagne. His father was giving Loxwell the benefit of his advice for a happy marriage at great length and in very fine detail, though the duke did not look as though he wanted it.
A day like this was one to be treasured. Not only for itself, but for the hope it gave Lucius for the future.
So many in that happy room knew of his family’s impending fall from grace. Knew he was taking up a trade. Knew that there was little chance the three Misses Whitby would return to Town the following Season – and everybody would soon hear the reason why. And yet the bonds of family endured – the new bond he and Isobel had forged that very morning just as strong as all the others.
When would he next see Georgiana flirting with a nobleman? When would his mother again enjoy such fine champagne?
And was any of that really important?
“You look thoughtful, Whitby,” said Streatham, approaching him with an unsteady gait and an expression he probably thought was sly. “I hope you’re not dwelling on your father’s advice about the wedding night. I have just heard what he’s saying to poor old Loxwell, and let me tell you –”
“I can hear you, Streatham, you filthy rascal,” said Loxwell, turning in his seat with a glare fit to boil off the liquor in Streatham’s veins.
“Nothing,” Streatham amended smoothly, wagging a finger in Lucius’s direction. “Let me tell you absolutely nothing .”
“That’s better.” Loxwell rose from his seat, bowed to Lucius’s father – who looked as though he were about to nod off into his brandy – and came to join them. “Your sisters are charming girls, Whitby. I am glad to get to know them a little better. I believe my wife is already cooking up a scheme to invite them all to Town this winter.” He lowered his voice. “She has not mentioned it to them. We were not sure…”
“No, they don’t know,” said Lucius, though his eyes lingered curiously on Cassie for a moment, wondering what lay beneath her smile. He was sure she suspected something, even if she did not know the stark facts. “My father will break the news in his own time. It is hard to see them so happy, not knowing what’s to come… Harder still to think of destroying that happiness before we must.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s kind of you, Loxwell. I’m sure they will be delighted to accept your hospitality.”
“You never know,” said Streatham. “They may yet sort things out for themselves. Ladies have a way of arranging these things, don’t they? I shouldn’t waste a moment worrying about them, Whitby.”
Loxwell raised an eyebrow. “Streatham has no sisters,” he said. “And it shows.”
“Lucius!” Evie came across the room, her cheeks flushed with laughter and a wicked twinkle in her eyes as she tugged Isobel along on one arm and Loxwell’s duchess, Daisy, on the other. “We are going to help Isobel dress for the journey. I hope you’re ready! You mustn’t keep her waiting!”
“I must say I am truly glad to see you in such high spirits, Miss Whitby,” said Loxwell.
Evie gave an ironic smile and a curtsey that seemed only half-polite. “Thank you, Your Grace. You may report back to Lord Henry Claremont that I have not withered away from grief. In fact, as you see, I am as happy as ever I was before I knew him.”
Loxwell did not rise to her provocation. Instead, he took her hand and pressed it between his own, looking at her earnestly. “I never gossip about matters such as these. Please accept my good wishes. For your health – for your happiness.” A small smile quirked his lips. “For whatever forgiveness you decide Claremont deserves.”
Evie was taken aback but left her hand in his for a moment. She gave him a calm nod before she withdrew it, accepting his frankness with grace, and went to join the other ladies.
“ That is a difficult business,” said Daisy, shaking her head. “At least before long she will know –”
Loxwell gave her a warning look, and Daisy clapped her hands over her mouth, wide-eyed.
“Know what?” asked Lucius. He kept his voice low. It was clear that whatever Daisy had been about to say was not public knowledge. “Please, if there’s anything to Evie’s benefit, I must know it.”
Daisy shook her head. “I should not have spoken. And I’m afraid it will be of no material benefit to your dear sister. But it might – yes, I think it will – provide her with an explanation for Lord Henry’s behaviour.”
Loxwell gave Lucius an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Some things cannot be shared before their time – even with family.” He fixed his wife with a glare of mock severity. “As I shall do well to remember in future.”
“Come along, Isobel,” said Daisy, taking her by the arm. “Before Alex tells Lucius what a dreadful mistake it is for a sensible man to take a wife.” She cast a daring look back over her shoulder, and her husband must have partaken of a little of the celebratory champagne after all, for his response was a wink so roguish it made his duchess blush.
Isobel gave Lucius a helpless wave as she was swept out of the room by a sea of sisters – Balfours and Whitbys alike. Georgiana stopped to shout something to the gentlemen which presumably would have been quite impolite, but Cassie caught her in time and strongarmed her out of the door.
Caversham, free at last from Georgiana’s idea of polite conversation, swiped a bottle from the sideboard and came to join the other gentlemen.
“It’s a jolly good thing I didn’t meet Miss Georgiana in my bachelor days,” he said. “She’d have put some dreadful ideas into my head.”
Lucius gave him a punch on the arm that was on the sharp side of friendly. “You did meet her, Caversham. You danced with her at her birthday ball. Twice. I didn’t hear the end of it for weeks.”
“Did I?” Caversham grinned and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where the ladies’ laughter was filtering through from the chambers above. “Selina was there that evening. My apologies to Miss Georgiana. I’m sure a better sort of man would never let her slip his mind.”
“Poor Caversham,” said Streatham, with a grin. “So many past admirers, such a trial to keep them all straight.”
“I hope Anthea provides you a whole houseful of daughters, Streatham,” said Loxwell wryly. “Hundreds of them. And all of them beautiful and disobedient. It’s exactly what you deserve.”
Streatham’s eyes widened. He tried to hide his confusion behind a sip of champagne, but choked on it.
“Something the matter, Streatham?” asked Caversham, pounding him on the back. Streatham shook his head frantically, still coughing.
“Congratulations are in order, I take it?” Lucius raised his glass. Streatham pushed it back down again, spilling champagne and spluttering.
“Not a word! Not a word about it! I was not supposed to mention it for weeks!”
“But this is wonderful!” cried Loxwell.
Streatham clapped a hand to his forehead. “She’s going to kill me.”
Loxwell grinned. “That’s Anthea.”
Caversham flung his arm about Streatham’s shoulders, a wicked glint in his eye. “I thought you were supposed to be good at keeping secrets. An almost professional talent, some say.”
“Shut up.”
Lucius raised his glass again as Caversham held Streatham back. “A very quiet toast, then,” he said, sotto voce . “To Lady Streatham! And the triplet daughters Streatham deserves!”
He clinked glasses with Loxwell while Streatham shook his head in dismay.
Kendrick appeared at Lucius’s side, a second too late to overhear Streatham’s ill-kept secret. The other gentlemen endeavoured to cover up the impression that they had been speaking of anything in confidence. They failed miserably; Kendrick’s sharp eyes narrowed in suspicion. But he decided not to pursue the matter.
“Look who happened to stop by,” he said, beckoning behind him to invite another gentleman into their circle. “I think all you fellows already know Sir Ivor Chamberlain?”
Lucius greeted Sir Ivor with polite surprise and received a watery smile in return.
“I thought I’d drop in to offer my congratulations,” Sir Ivor explained. “A happy day indeed. I do wish you joy. And… if it were warranted, I thought I might mention the whereabouts of a certain mutual friend.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Not Bell?”
Sir Ivor made a modest bow. “You didn’t think I’d put up with that Chamberpot nonsense forever, did you? I may not have the stomach to deal out the necessary blow myself, but I certainly would not be averse to arranging the opportunity for somebody else.”
Lucius considered it. He flexed his fingers, testing their capacity for forming a fist. It was tempting. Bell had threatened Georgiana’s honour – which was one thing when a lady had fabulous wealth, and quite another when she was poor.
But it was his wedding day, and he was feeling charitable. Besides that, he was wearing his sole remaining pair of white kid gloves, and he had it on the very best authority that they were not suitable for dealing out corporal punishment.
Surely Bell no longer posed a threat. The coward had scurried off in terror at the first sniff of retribution. What more harm could he possibly do?
“Thank you, Sir Ivor, but I must decline.” Lucius made him a regretful bow. “If I ever feel the need to correct Bell’s behaviour, I shall know who to ask.”
Sir Ivor tipped his hat and withdrew. Lucius wondered whether the meek little man would ever be moved to take personal action against his bully of a friend.
That was the last thought Lucius spared for such inconsequential matters as blackmail and brigandry and sisters’ marital prospects, for Isobel had come down the stairs in her going away dress, and nothing else in all the world mattered one bit.
The dress itself was simple enough. A light cream muslin, suitable for travelling on a hot summer’s night. The expression on her face was one of the many he’d already memorised: calm, serene happiness.
No, there was something else about her as she set her eyes on him and left her boisterous sisters behind as she came across the room. It took Lucius a moment to put his finger on it, but as soon as her hand touched his, he knew what it was that had left him breathless.
This woman – this miracle – this mischievous, angelic, genius, saucy, innocent woman – she was his . At last. Forever.
As they stepped out into the starlit night, as he took her hand to assist her into the carriage, he had the sensation that a great wind had sprung up around them both, whisking away all the chatter and laughter and shouted scraps of advice from around them. His family’s faces dissolved into a blur. All he saw was Isobel. And she smiled at him with such radiance that he knew she saw only him.
Until a louder shout broke through the happy haze just as Isobel had set foot on the step of the carriage.
“It’s here!” A breathless footman leaned his hands on his knees, gasping, and proffered a somewhat battered envelope towards Loxwell. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you did say –”
“Yes, quite right, Samuel. Take a seat now, man.” Loxwell took the envelope and began patting at his pockets for something to slice it open.
“Oh, Alex, for goodness’ sake!” cried Daisy, snatching it from him and tearing it messily open herself. “Don’t make us wait for it!” She scanned the letter inside and her face broke out into a beaming smile.
Isobel’s hand tightened in Lucius’s. “Daisy! Is it…?”
Daisy pressed the letter to her chest. “Edith has been delivered of a healthy baby girl. Lady Alessandra Adolphine Townsend.”
An ear-splitting cheer went up, Lucius’s sisters joining in as loudly as the Balfours. Only Streatham and Anthea remained silent, exchanging a knowing glance – Streatham’s slightly guilty – and taking each other by the hand.
“A toast!” cried Horace Whitby, quite forgetting that all the champagne was Loxwell’s to dispense, not his own. “Another toast! Fetch out a fresh bottle!”
Lucius looked up at Isobel. “Shall we stay a while longer?”
She answered by pulling him into the carriage after her. “I don’t think Edith and Nathaniel will miss us from all the way out in Florence.”
“Isobel!” cried Lady Ursula, hobbling forwards and blocking the carriage door with her cane. For one uncomfortable moment, Lucius wondered whether she intended to clamber in after them. But all Ursula did was blow him a kiss and offer them both a saucy grin. “Remember the advice I gave you earlier, my dear.”
Isobel leaned across Lucius and pressed a kiss to her aunt’s cheek. “I’m afraid to tell you, Auntie, that I have endeavoured to forget every piece of advice you shared with me this morning. You have your great-nieces to instruct now. I hope they will listen better.”
Ursula’s eyes brightened, a mixture of starlight and tears. “My precious Isobel,” she said. “Nobody could ever hope for a better companion.” She nodded to Lucius. “You will find that out, in time.”
“I know it already,” he said, kissing the old lady’s hand and passing it out to a footman. “I truly do.”
And then there was nothing more to do but close the door, wave from the windows, and listen to the cheers fade away into the distance as their horses trotted off out of Appleby and onto the London road.
They were not going far. Only to an inn in the next town along, to reduce their journey to London the following day. But as Lucius met Isobel’s eyes and his hand touched hers, he would happily have stayed in that carriage to the very ends of the earth.
“I hope today was all what you wanted,” he said. “ No fuss . Or, at least, our best attempt at it.”
Isobel let her head fall onto his shoulder, lacing her fingers with his, and breathed a sigh of long, deep contentment. “Yes,” she said, simply. “Yes. I have everything that I could ever possibly want.”