Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
When the archbishop pronounced them married, Gabriel bent and kissed her. It was proper enough for the room. Barely. Beneath the restraint, Poppy felt the promise of later, and from the slight deepening of his breath, she knew he meant her to feel it.
Champagne followed, because of course Mama had insisted upon champagne.
The dining room loosened into laughter and talk.
Near the windows, Lady Stone, one of Mama’s only friends who had been permitted to attend, lifted her champagne glass toward the bride and groom and gave them a slow, unmistakable wink.
Near the banquet table, Lady Viva proposed a winter ball at Alderbury Court before her first glass was finished.
“Or a masquerade,” she added. “Possibly both, if the cellars are adequate.”
Gabriel looked at Poppy. “Does she intend to inspect the cellars herself?”
“Yes.”
“I feared so.”
Lady Viva lifted her glass. “I wish to make a toast.”
Everyone turned.
Poppy braced herself.
“To choosing love,” Lady Viva said, her voice lively but not careless, “before one knows how the rest will be managed. To trusting that roofs may be repaired, cellars stocked, guest rooms negotiated, and dogs forgiven. And to my darling Poppy, who has been brave for far too long and may now be happy with equal determination.”
Poppy’s eyes filled with tears again.
Then Mama added, “Also to dukes with adequate houses.”
Lady Stone lifted her glass. “And adequate quantities of champagne.”
Nicholas coughed.
Jason raised his glass. “An equally important category.”
Gabriel laughed quietly.
Near the mantel, Nicholas joined him while Jason followed with two glasses.
“Do not let the word ‘duke’ seduce you into thinking the title itself is the achievement,” Nicholas said.
Jason groaned. “He has begun already.”
Nicholas ignored him. “A peerage is neither prize nor proof of merit. It is a tool. Used well, it creates shelter, choice, and a voice for people Society would rather ignore.”
Gabriel looked toward Poppy, who stood with her mother and Bea, laughing as Freddie attempted to lick champagne from the edge of a fallen napkin.
“I know,” he said.
“Good.”
Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “And if you forget, your duchess will remind you.”
“She will not need assistance.”
“No,” Nicholas said dryly. “But she will have it.”
Gabriel watched the room, where every polished surface had begun to reflect untidy, beloved life.
No amount of rank would make him worthy of this unless he used it well.
The title would magnify whatever he brought to it.
He meant to bring steadiness. Honesty. Shelter.
Not control, and never consequence for its own sake, but freedom—first for Poppy, and then for every person within reach of Alderbury who had been made smaller by law, custom, or situation.
Across the room, Bea took Poppy’s hand and drew her toward the windows. Georgie joined them there, her smile warm and a little misted.
Gabriel remained where he was, giving them the space instinct told him they needed.
The three wallflowers stood together in the noon light of Alderbury House, framed by tall windows overlooking Grosvenor Square.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Georgie said, “Do you remember the night we made the pact?”
Poppy laughed softly. “I remember thinking we had very little chance of success.”
“We had one another,” Bea said.
“And determination,” Georgie added.
“And an alarming willingness to interfere,” Poppy said.
Bea’s mouth curved. “A necessary quality.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, changed and still entirely themselves. Georgie had refused the future chosen for her. Bea had fought for a life defined by more than duty. And Poppy—Poppy had learned she did not have to apologize for wanting love as well as safety.
She looked back at Gabriel.
He smiled at her.
It was no longer the polite smile of the solicitor who had first arrived to sort out Montfort chaos, nor the bewildered smile of the man who had discovered that love did not make life orderly, only worth the trouble.
It was her husband’s smile.
Poppy smiled back, and the distance between them seemed to vanish.
“I did not expect any of this,” she said.
Georgie slipped an arm around her waist. “We did.”
“You absolutely did not,” Poppy retorted.
“We hoped aggressively,” Bea said. “While keeping every possible path open.”
“That is not the same thing,” Poppy pointed out.
“It is when done by women of conviction,” Georgie said, raising her champagne flute.
Poppy laughed.
Then Bea took her hand and squeezed it, eyes shining. “We told you, Poppy,” she said. “You were always going to take all.”
Thank you for reading The Wallflower Takes All.