Epilogue
Lucy felt as if she were floating on air. It was the happiest day of her—
“Well, he should be here!”
The hiss was low and urgent and frustrated. It had been hissed by her Aunt Edie, who was usually one of the calmest women Lucy knew.
Still, it was the happiest day of her—
“When a man says he’s going to be somewhere, that is where he should be!” muttered her Uncle Frederick, Aunt Edie’s husband.
Lucy sighed, even as she lifted her fork for a bite of the delicious wedding cake that had been served but moments ago. The happiest day of her—
“It’s an outrage!”
It was a distraction, that was what it was, and her curiosity was so piqued now that she leaned forward and called out, “What’s an outrage, Aunt Edie?”
Her aunt, the Viscountess Pernrith, golden hair faded to silver and brilliant-blue eyes sparkling, flushed. “Nothing, dear!”
Lucy rolled her eyes. It was precisely the sort of ‘nothing’ her aunts and uncles had been giving her for years, ever since she had been a small child. But she wasn’t a child any longer, and to be quite honest, it sounded like a wonderful piece of gossip.
“It’s not nothing; it’s clearly bothering you,” she said warmly as her chestnut-curled cousin Lilianna played peek-a-boo with her baby on the lawn of Stanphrey Lacey, and Lucy’s own sister, Evelyn, taller than her and with a shawl around her shoulders, argued happily with her husband about whether the flowers in the bride’s bouquet were crimson or peony.
Reeny was getting involved too, her fine, red mouth open in rapid conversation.
“And speaking of things bothering one, why is it that Michael is the only Chance cousin not here?”
The invitations had gone out to each of them by name, she knew that. She and Bertram had written them together at her father’s desk, and she was almost certain she hadn’t missed one out. They had become slightly distracted by kissing, naturally, but that was only to be expected.
All the other Pernrith Chances were here. Why not Michael?
The Viscount and Viscountess Pernrith exchanged glances. “He’s… He’s not here.”
“‘Not here’?” Lucy repeated, hardly able to understand what they were saying. “B-But it’s a family wedding. We always attend family weddings!”
“And they are getting very regular, aren’t they?” muttered her cousin Teddy with an arched honey-brown eyebrow that punctuated her sentence brilliantly. Lucy would have to remember to ask her how to do that.
Michael, not here? Something had to have happened to him, for he was not the sort of man to just ignore something like that.
“Perhaps we made a mistake,” her uncle was saying, his worry as clear as day on his brow. His large hands clasped together in clear worry. “Perhaps we—”
“We made the best choice we could,” came his wife’s reply as the viscountess tried to smile. “We have to let him make his choice now.”
“‘Choice’?” Lucy repeated eagerly.
Well, to be sure, it was her wedding day, but there was always some sort of drama or other going on in the Chance family. It would be delightful to hear what Michael had gotten up to.
He wasn’t the sort to deflower anyone, Lucy mused, and she would have to hope that she’d never have to bail him out of prison…
“The man has gotten it into his head,” burst Viscount Pernrith, “to immigrate!”
“Frederick!” whispered his wife.
“I know we said we weren’t going to talk about it,” continued Lucy’s uncle, looking half-mad with worry, “but the boy can’t do that—America? All the way over there, he’ll starve!”
“He will not starve,” the viscountess said quietly, casting an apologetic look over at the bride.
Lucy’s eyes widened. Michael, immigrate? Leave the Chance family, leave England and never return?
Surely not.
Why hadn’t Percy or Benjamin mentioned this? She’d thought the trio as thick as thieves.
“He won’t starve,” Aunt Edie said. “He’s got an independent income of his own—”
“All that does is make it financially possible for him to go!” wailed the viscount.
All of this sounded fascinating, and Lucy was in half a mind to rise from the sofa that Stanphrey Lacey’s butler, Bradbury, had had put out onto the lawn and ask precisely what they meant by that, when her aunt put a hand on her husband’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet.
“Croquet for you, dear,” she said fondly, leading the muttering man away from the gaggle.
“Immigrate—what is the man thinking of?!” The viscount’s voice grew quieter and quieter as he moved away. “Why would he want to leave? What have we done…?”
A hand closed around hers.
“Lucy,” murmured Bertram.
And Lucy melted.
Not because of the heat, though it was one of the hottest days she could remember. She had been worried the service would be unbearable, but as it was, the little church in Stanhampton had been wonderfully cool, and the marriage service had continued without a hitch.
Marriage service. I am married.
Lucy beamed into the eyes of the man seated beside her. Bertram Moray, Viscount Moray. Not the name she had fallen in love with, certainly, but it was the man.
Bertram. He loved her, adored her, and better than that, he understood her. He knew what it was to serve one’s country. He knew what it was to look around and realize that not only did the world have to change, but that he could be the one to help change it.
And he fought his fears—they had slipped out only last night to go swimming in Stanphrey Lacey’s lake.
Well. She swam. He paddled, coming up to his knees and deciding that that had been enough for today.
But he’d faced that fear with her, because he loved her.
Lucy beamed, affection welling up within her. “Bertram.”
“Are you going to finish that?” He nodded at the plate of almost-consumed wedding cake in her hand.
“You take it. I don’t think I can eat much more sweet.” She groaned, handing it over to him.
It had been her father who had insisted she get married wherever she wanted, and though Lucy had considered Brighton, it held perhaps too many complex emotions for a day of such pure happiness.
No, it was Stanphrey Lacey that was at the core of the family, and it had been decorated beautifully for the occasion.
Lucy had marveled at the hard work that had gone on to ready the church, but it was at the house itself where the staff had truly excelled.
The lawn by the terrace at the back of the house had been transformed with marquees, blankets, cushions, and chairs, a scattered set of sofas and armchairs carried from the house, and little console tables for the family and her guests to place their champagne on when they weren’t playing croquet or watching the children run about happily with strawberries smeared across their faces.
Lucy beamed. And of course there was the large trestle table holding the petition that she had encouraged the Prison Reform Society to put together.
After all, there were near two hundred people attending her wedding, the great and the good, and so what if she wanted to use that opportunity to gain a few hundred more signatures?
The sun beamed down upon Stanphrey Lacey and Lucy sighed as she looked out at all the people she loved, all together in a place that she loved.
She could think of no better way to formally include Bertram within it than to be married from this house.
Although now that she came to think of it, it was hardly his first introduction to the Chance family. He’d lived with her branch of the family for weeks on end, and as for Benjamin…
Her cousin’s dazzling teeth were on display as he played croquet with a bad-tempered Gwen, who never liked losing, and a seemingly happy Samuel, who looked a little worried as he kept glancing over at his wife sitting in the shade.
“I still can’t believe it, sometimes,” Lucy said quietly.
Bertram pressed a kiss to her forehead. “What?”
“Well, that we were connected these last three years, but we never knew it,” she said, inclining her head toward her cousin.
Benjamin waved over at them with his croquet mallet, almost decapitating little curly-haired Thomas, Cousin Thomas’s child, who was squirming in his father’s arms as her cousin walked past. If little Lord Thomas Chance hadn’t been in the duke’s arms and in need of his father’s gentle soothing, Cousin Thomas would have done more than just glare at his reckless cousin over his shoulder, Lucy was certain about that.
Bertram snorted. “We promised we weren’t going to talk about that.”
“I know, I know,” Lucy said quickly, squeezing his hand and rising to her feet. “Come on. I want to talk to you properly.”
Her husband’s eyes glittered. “Oh, goody!”
Lucy whacked him in the stomach. “Not that!”
They had, after all, ravished one another late last night on the shores of the lake, and early that morning before Beachem had come to wake her up. The man could not still be desperate for her, could he?
Lucy glanced at him as they inclined their heads to her family and departed from the gaggle of chairs underneath the largest tent. She swallowed, heat rising to her cheeks.
Oh. As it turned out, he could be desperate for it.
“I just think,” Bertram said in an undertone as they walked sedately arm in arm around the cluster of blankets, “that we are very lucky. And your cousin is very fortunate I didn’t garrote him when he finally told me the truth.”
Lucy snorted. “You’re just upset that you never guessed Obadiah Hovell wasn’t his actual name!”
“I should have guessed it was false right from the start,” said her husband ruefully as they slowly walked around the croquet players.
Gwen had stormed off in a huff after being accused of cheating, as far as Lucy could tell, and her Uncle John may no longer have been the Marquess of Aylesbury, having given up that title to his eldest son, but that had not improved his croquet game. “Obadiah Hovell, honestly!”
Lucy joined him in his laughter as they continued slowly walking, though her stomach lurched and she placed a quick hand upon it before swiftly removing it. After all, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to find out before she told him…