Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Dinner had been an unpleasant affair. Upon informing Lady Charlotte of their plan to wed the following day, she had remarked, rather frostily, that they'd planned to wed before and nothing had come of it.
She would simply wait and see. Then she'd excused herself and left them to contemplate her ill-humored response.
Now, having tucked Gemma into bed, Lydia had escaped to her room to tidy herself somewhat before making her way to the garden folly as instructed.
She arrived before Oliver, and what she saw was as beautiful as it was surprising.
There were several lanterns positioned about, and a carpet had been laid over the cool stone with an assortment of pillows.
There was wine and fruit. It was a scene set not simply for seduction—which was entirely unnecessary as she was already thoroughly seduced—but for romance.
"Just because our wedding has been more than twelve years in the making, doesn't mean courtship should end entirely."
Lydia turned at the sound of Oliver's voice. "When did you find time to do all of this? And what must the servants think!"
"Only Stedmore is aware, and I believe his thoughts fall somewhere between 'finally' and 'it's about time,'" Oliver answered. "And he'd be right. It is." Rather than offer further explanation, he simply took her hand and tugged her down with him as he sat amongst the pillows.
The folly was built like a Grecian temple.
Two rows of columns ringed a center seating area of stone benches placed in a circle.
While there was a roof which stretched between the rows of columns, the center section was open to the sky above.
Even with the lanterns, dim as they were, the brightness of the moon and stars above outshone them.
"It's so beautiful here," Lydia mused. "When I'd come to Hartwell in the past, this was one of my favorite places... where I'd imagined nights just like this one. You are, quite literally, making all of my dreams come true."
He kissed her, a brief brushing of his lips over hers. "Our dreams... that was very much a shared fantasy, but one I dared not speak of to you at the time."
"For the sake of propriety or because you were afraid my innocent, virginal mind would be too scandalized at the notion?" Lydia demanded to know. In all likelihood, knowing Oliver, the answer was a combination of both.
"Could you have met me here like this all those years ago? And if you had, if we'd consummated our relationship then, as we did last night, in a precursory fashion to our marriage, would that have changed anything, altered your decision to leave?"
It wasn't something she'd allowed herself to think about. "I don't know. Obviously, our actions last night could have... consequences. And at that point in time those consequences would have terrified me so much I cannot say what my actions would have been."
Oliver lay back and tugged her down with him, this time so her head was resting on his chest. "Is it wrong to hope for those consequences now?
I don't want to trap you and make you feel as though I am so entitled as to think I had the right to make every decision related to us...
but if we had conceived a child, I would be relieved because that gives you yet one more reason to stay. "
Lydia began tugging at the knot of his cravat, working it loose. She craved the comfort of feeling his skin against her own. The buttons of his waistcoat were next, and then she was tugging at his shirt impatiently.
"I do not need another reason to stay. You are the only reason I need and you will always be enough," she told him.
"But I would be glad of it as well... I had thought the opportunity to have your child one that was long past for me.
I've been given a second chance to claim my happiness entirely due to your stubborn nature, and I have never been more glad of it. "
Oliver levered himself up just enough to discard his shirt, then he began working on the closure of her gown until he could strip it from her entirely.
Once more, she was wearing only her very serviceable underpinnings.
For a moment, thoughts of the trousseau that had once been ordered for her, of night rails of silk and satin and lace that she'd blushed so fiercely about, came back to her.
"You have gone very far away all of a sudden," he remarked.
Lydia glanced down at the white cotton and lawn which covered her.
"I was only thinking that once upon a time, I would have worn silk for an occasion such as this.
Some confection possibly of satin and lace which only existed for the purpose of making you desire me.
I don't often miss those trappings—gowns and kid gloves and dancing slippers to match every frock—because I know now they were all but stolen.
Purchased on credit with no hope of repayment, which is little better than thievery.
But there was a pang of regret for those nightgowns with their sheer robes which hid nothing at all.
I suppose because I now fully understand their purpose. "
"You could be draped head to toe in sackcloth and ash and still be the most desirable woman in the world to me.
You have no need of silks and satins to lure me, but if you want them, then we shall get them for you...
You'll need a new wardrobe at any rate. You cannot continue walking about in drab gray and brown, trying to blend into the wall coverings or the floors...
well, in every room except the Blue Room. "
"Which is still chartreuse," she pointed out with a grin. "Why were no changes made to Hartwell? I know the money became an issue—or the lack of it."
"If I'd wanted the changes, I could have made them," he said. "But I had long ago determined that no changes would be made to Hartwell Hall until you were the one to make them... Because even when you weren't here, in my heart, it was still very much your home."
If there could have been one perfect thing for him to say, it was that. For the first time in more than twelve years, she truly had a home. Not an assigned room nor a borrowed space in a rented house.
"Are we going to be wicked tonight? I do believe you promised me wickedness."
Lydia let out a startled laugh as he rolled over, pinning her to the rug beneath them.
But her laughter faded quickly, amusement replaced by something much sharper.
The weight of him, the hard press of his body against hers, along with the memory of all that had transpired between them the night before, made her acutely conscious of what their current position signified.
And she was beyond ready for that, eager for the feel of his hands on her body and his hardness moving within her.
When he kissed her then, it was no longer just affection.
Now that kiss was a prelude to something more, something undeniable.
Layers of clothing vanished, stripped away in the coolness of the night air.
Flesh to flesh, there was no chill. Everywhere he touched her created heat that spread, diffusing throughout her until she felt as though she were burning up with it.
And when their bodies were finally joined fully, straining together under the light of the full moon above and the soft golden glow of the lanterns surrounding them, she could do no more than give herself up to the sweet release.
The following morning, as a light rain misted over the fields of lavender not yet harvested, the carriage had set out from Hartwell, just a small distance beyond Yardley Hastings, toward Northampton with two sleepy but well-sated passengers inside it.
Lydia's head rested on his shoulder, one of his arms draped about her and the other covering her hand which rested on his chest. For the nearly two-hour journey, that was how they remained as they both tried to reclaim the sleep which had been forfeit the night before.
As they entered Northampton, the dirt road gradually transitioned to stone and the noise of the busy market town invaded the carriage, audible even above the clomping of hooves and rattle of wheels.
It was that which awakened him. Instantly he was aware of their proximity to the church, to the fate that had been delayed for far too long.
Oliver looked down at Lydia, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed.
She was more beautiful at thirty than she had been at eighteen.
More complete. Life, as hard as it had been, had not made her brittle.
It had made her strong, and that shone through, even at rest. Loath to do so, but knowing it was necessary, he awakened her gently.
"We're nearly there," he told her.
Lydia sat up, stretching as she did so. "We slept the entire way?"
"Very nearly," he said with a smile. "We earned our rest."
She blushed. "I suppose we did. Will Gemma be upset that she is not going to see our wedding?"
"We'll bribe her with a puppy and she will be fine. The cleric will undoubtedly be able to provide witnesses. There are many who linger near churches in the early morning hours just for that purpose... Acting as witness to hurried nuptials can bear a fairly generous return for limited effort."
As they neared the church, the carriage slowed perceptibly. When it came to a halt, Oliver disembarked first, then helped Lydia down. The coachman then left, heading to the nearest inn to await them.
Weaving their way through the throng of people gathered outside the church's portico, from street vendors to day laborers, they passed through the heavy mahogany doors and found a young man, well dressed and bespectacled, seated at a small writing table in the vestry.
"May I help you?" he asked in a surprisingly imperious fashion for such a non-assuming appearance.
"I am Lord Hartwell," Oliver said, happy to have a title to throw around for a change. "We have come to obtain a common license and be married. This morning."
The clerk glanced at the clock. "My lord, it is nearly ten a.m."
"I'm prepared to make a sizable donation to the church to atone for any inconvenience our haste may require," Oliver answered.
That got the clerk's attention very quickly. "Indeed, my lord. I am certain we will be able to accommodate you and your bride. Please take a seat in the nearest pew and I will see if the curate is available."
They moved deeper into the church, surrounded by heavily carved wood that had darkened with age. Moments later, the clerk returned.
"Please do come with me."
Following on his heels, they were shown into the curate's office. Oaths were undertaken, avowals of eligibility were made. Coins were slid across the wooden surface of the desk, and then Oliver was given the freshly signed license.
At that point, the parish clerk whispered in the curate's ear and the man's bushy brows shot up.
"Now? You wish to be married now?"
"Yes, sir. We do. Again, we are willing to make a sizable donation to the church in light of the inconvenience."
The curate's astonishment gave way to a slightly more mercenary pragmatism quite quickly, and he ushered them out into the church's chancel while the clerk hurriedly dashed outside to obtain another witness for them.
When both witnesses, the clerk and a strange man wearing well-made but very disheveled clothing, were in place, the ceremony began.
The curate wisely bypassed portions of it that, given their lack of guests, were unnecessary.
He had them repeat their vows. When it was all done, and he'd been given permission to do so, Oliver removed a ring from his pocket and placed it on her hand.
Then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
"I've been holding onto that for a dozen years... it's finally right where it belongs."
The remainder of the ceremony was completed in a very perfunctory manner, and then Lydia was escorted to the register.
She took the pen from the curate and, for the last time in her life, signed the name Lydia Eleanor Whitby.
When the register was closed and the curate declared them husband and wife, she was Whitby no longer.
She had become, instead, Lady Lydia Eleanor Hartwell, Viscountess Hartwell.
Watching the ink dry upon the final signature she would ever place beneath her maiden name filled Oliver with a deep sense of peace.
Of wholeness. Twelve years after he had first asked her to be his wife, she finally was.
Additional coins were exchanged, a few to the curate, a few to the clerk, and the additional witness. Then they departed, husband and wife at long last.