“But why would you have—oh! Spenser mentions Arthur and Merlin, doesn’t he? How funny I’ve never made that connection before.”
He smiled down at her, more in love with her than she could imagine. Only she would understand without him having to explain. She leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment before walking to the centerpiece of his entire collection—the tapestries of Arthur and Guinevere, each serving as the lady’s and lord’s portrait. She bent to read the wood carvings beneath.
“‘Gwenhwyfar / Guanhumara.’ I’m afraid I don’t know what either of those words means,” she confessed.
“Guinevere. The first is in Welsh because the legend of Arthur originated in Wales. The second is in Latin from Monmouth’s manuscript accounting for the history of King Arthur and the other kings of Britain.”
He joined her, returning his hand to her back, his new favorite spot to touch, his hand nestling comfortably against the arch of her waist. He traced her spine with a finger until he touched the nape of her neck. Goosebumps rose to meet his fingertips as he brushed his hand against her bare skin, trailing up to her ears and around her jaw.
She was perfection itself. She could bring happiness to his life, help him keep his demons at bay. A panic deep in the pit of his stomach surged. She would leave in a countable number of days. All should have been settled well before now. He couldn’t lose her, yet he was deathly afraid of what it would take to keep her. He wasn’t sure he was strong enough.
“Wasn’t Guinevere adulterous?”
He shook the direction of his thoughts as he tried to focus on what she had just said. She stared at him, awaiting an answer.
He stammered, “I don’t follow.”
“You have a tapestry of Guinevere. I realize she was his queen, but didn’t she have an affair with Lancelot?”
Sebastian laughed. “I see your confusion. Yes, but no. Monmouth made no allusions to infidelity. Guinevere was all that was good in this world, Arthur’s perfect match. The French, as only they can do, gave her a lover when they rewrote the original tale. I can hardly forgive them for besmirching her name. Chretien de Troyes is the poet who invented Lancelot and the affair with the queen. Other writers followed suit. I will never believe the real Guinevere would have done such a thing, and neither did our Arthurian historian Geoffrey of Monmouth. Therein lies the difference between the writing of histories and fiction. I think of the queen in much the same way as Odysseus’ wife Penelope, faithful to her love despite years of absence and rumor of death. They were perfect queens, perfect mates, counterparts to their husband’s soul. Loyal, faithful, loving, supportive, leaders, equals. Some might argue they were stronger than their husbands, ruling in the king’s absence. I could go on, but I don’t want you to think I’m swooning over other women.”
Lizbeth chortled, then turned back to study the tapestry. Not being able to resist touching her more, he leaned over and buried his face against her neck, nuzzling her. She still smelled like meadow flowers. The perfect mate. His perfect queen. The only one who could stand by him in the darkness of night, who could love him despite flaws. King Arthur would have never hesitated to pursue Guinevere. He felt every bit the coward for his own hesitancy.
He wrapped his hand around her waist and held her for an eternity, afraid to let go, afraid to speak, standing motionless, irresolutely, breathing her in and wondering what he ought to do. He felt a frustrating absence of initiative, as he did every time he came this close to settling things. If he waited any longer, he would lose his nerve. The silence was expectant, closing oppressively the longer he held his pose against her, ever the coward.
“Sebastian,” said the voice of an angel, the word but a whisper, imploring, questioning, tender and loving.
The feel of her hand against his face as she turned her body to face him infused him with the strength he needed.
He spoke laboriously in a hoarse, unsteady voice. “‘Yea, said King Arthur, I love Guinevere. And this damsel is the most valiant and fairest lady that I knew living, or yet that ever I could find.’” He stroked her cheek with his fingertips.
In the lingering silence, he blurted, “Marry me?”
Her expression churned with surprise, happiness, indecision, and affection. He held his breath, not sure what he would do if she rejected him. He hadn’t gone about this properly, hadn’t courted her officially. What if she wouldn’t have him without a proper courtship? What if she wouldn’t have him at all? He made a fool of himself with his question. He ruined the greatest friendship he had ever known.
Still silent, she rubbed the back of her hand against his face then wove her fingers into his hair. Pulling his head towards her, she kissed him deeply, grasping his upper arm with her free hand to hold him to her.
Without breaking her embrace, her lips still touching his, she said, “I thought you’d never ask. With all my heart, yes.”
He tightened his hold, one arm snaking around her back and the other her waist. He rubbed his nose against hers and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead, and her hair before returning to a more passionate kiss, pushing his tongue between her lips in deep exploration, hungry exploration. She leaned against the wall, pulling him against her to feel the curves of her body.
Everything about her body screamed warmth, softness, and invitation. He nestled himself into the curves as much as their clothing would allow. His lips moved from her mouth down to her neck. She gasped against his ear and rubbed a slender leg against the outside of his thigh, opening her stance to receive his hardness as he pressed against her core through layers of clothes. He would go mad if they let this go any further.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth once more, simulating the deed he so desperately wanted to do, even as she trapped his tongue with her lips and made love to it in her own seductive way. With a forceful final kiss, he pulled away, not wanting to leave her embrace.
Her eyes glazed with passion as they looked up at his. He stepped back, clearing his throat and trying to control animal instinct. Strands of her hair had fallen from her chignon, her face flushed. He imagined he didn’t look much different.
“I still must write to your father,” he said thickly.
She nodded, her chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.
“I could obtain a special license so we could marry before your aunt leaves,” he suggested.
She nodded again, reaching up to inspect the state of her hair.
“Wednesday is a new moon. The weather would be perfection itself with the highest and lowest tides of the month around the castle. You would see it at its best.”
“We would wed here?” She asked as she regained composure.
“If you like. Wherever would please you. I could return with you to Trevena if you’d prefer to wed there. Your father could be present for the ceremony if we chose that.”
“Oh, heavens, that wouldn’t be necessary. That would delay things too much. During the new moon, then?” Her smile made his heart sing. He didn’t think he could ever be melancholy again.
“As you wish, Lizbeth, my queen, my enchantress.” He couldn’t help himself, he leaned in and kissed her again, but maintained space between them before he lost himself to her completely.
After he helped tidy the loose strands about her head, and she did the same for him in return, they descended the stairs, hand-in-hand, to announce the news to a patiently waiting Hazel.
Chapter 23
“Oh, Lizzie, you look beautiful!” exclaimed Charlotte.
The lady’s maid tied under Lizbeth’s chin the yellow bows of a lace-trimmed bonnet. The wedding gown of silver muslin with embroidered blue flowers hugged Lizbeth’s bosom, flowing straight to her ankles. Around the high waist wrapped a blue girdle, an early wedding gift from Sebastian.
“But are you sure? Really, truly sure?” Charlotte asked for the millionth time th
at day.
“Yes, I’m sure, Charlotte. I wouldn’t have it any other way, not for the world,” answered Liz as Bettye wrapped her in a silk shawl with blue and yellow embossed flowers.
Charlotte was dismayed when Lizbeth broke the news to her, questioning her sanity for wanting to marry that man. Lizbeth tried to explain why she wanted to marry Sebastian and why on such short notice, but how does one explain love to someone who has never felt it and not associated it with marriage?
From Lizbeth’s estimation, Hazel was the only person genuinely pleased. Drake smugly said he knew all along it would happen. Lady Mary offered felicitations, but otherwise didn’t seem to care. The dowager duchess stood thin-lipped through the entirety of their announcement. Charlotte assumed Liz married to move close to her.
Her father, at least, echoed Hazel’s pleasure in his letter, giving his loving approval along with a kind word that he looked forward to seeing them both when Parliament returned to session. He would send Lizbeth’s belongings post haste. Cousin Walter had not yet received Aunt Hazel’s correspondence as far as they were aware, but she expected he, too, would be pleased for her and send his well wishes.
The days between the proposal and the wedding had dragged. More than a little tension tied Lizbeth’s stomach in knots. Although Sebastian had ridden to London without delay to obtain the special license, Liz couldn’t stop worrying he would change his mind during the course of the trip. She put her fretting to rest when he returned the day before the wedding, license in hand.
Bettye slipped Lizbeth’s shoes over stockinged feet. Earlier that morning, she had written her wedding date inside her shoes, the souvenir of her wedding day she would cherish always and never wear a second time.
Charlotte and Lizbeth walked from one of the guest rooms in Dunstanburgh Castle to meet the family gathered in the conservatory on this most propitious day, a Wednesday, a new moon.
She locked eyes with Sebastian first, instantly igniting a fire within and thumping her heart. Her betrothed, her bridegroom.
This was not a headstrong decision. He was not to be her husband until death did them part because she wanted to delay her departure home. She realized with full awareness that with this decision, she dashed asunder her plans for independence and solitude, her plans to remain her father’s companion until he passed. She walked towards her husband, her choice above all others in the living world, because she had fallen in love with him somewhere between his poetical recitations and the first sight of his home.
The decision wasn’t without apprehension, as too many unresolved conflicts still lie behind his eyes and trust had not been fully claimed, but she resolved they would do everything together, building trust side-by-side, solving life’s mysteries and unveiling secrets one day at a time. Once united, he would open to her, communicate his fears and dreams. She knew it.
Sebastian traded his wildness for elegance today. His long hair tidily swept into a green ribbon, his silk-satin suit embroidered with yellow and blue to match her dress with the addition of green threads. They would wear today’s ensemble for many days to come once London’s Season resumed, when she would be announced at the first soiree as The Right Honorable The Countess of Roddam.
He held out his hands to her with a glowing smile. Even his eyes smiled, dark brown irises of open admiration, orbs of hope. Clasping his proffered hands, she had eyes only for him, oblivious to all others around them.
“You’re stunning,” he whispered before kissing her lightly on the cheek.
The walk across the headland was more pleasant than the week prior, the sun hidden behind white clouds, occasionally peeking through to spy on the wedding. Arm-in-arm they walked outside where the clergyman and parish clerk scurried to take their place in the gazebo on the edge of the cliff.
The month’s highest tide covered the rocky beaches and brought the waves crashing higher against the cliff, yet the winds were subtler, softer than before, teasing the hems of dresses and cooling the men in their layers of coats and shirts.
The guests included only Hazel, Charlotte and Drake, the dowager duchess, Lady Mary, and a few on-looking servants, including Liz’s lady’s maid Bettye and Sebastian’s valet.
Everyone gathered around the couple as they approached the clergyman. They faced each other, hands clasped, and esteemed each other through the man’s speech about the marital duties of each party as dictated by God.
Sebastian, his hands trembling, slipped a gold band on Liz’s finger and spoke the vows, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
As she had dreamt so many times since first meeting this strange and wonderful man, he pulled her to him and kissed her on the cliffside, chastely, but full of tender affection. His kiss claimed her for all of time.
The wedding festivities resumed in the dining room with a grand meal, including a sweet mincemeat cake; the first meal, Sebastian told her, that had ever been served for anyone other than himself. While the newlyweds didn’t plan to stay with the celebratory group for long, a full evening of dining and socializing was planned for the guests.
The guests, to Lizbeth’s delight, acted duly impressed by the castle and grounds, which she knew would please Sebastian. Drake, in all his laced finery and gold-ringed fingers, critiqued the décor and the view, offering more compliments than criticisms.
“But it’s so windy here,” protested Charlotte. “I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think, and I would have to hold my bonnet every time I walked outside.” She turned to Liz apologetically. “Then, you always did like walking to the seaside, didn’t you?”
Before the meal began, Liz escaped to the drawing room to gather the stowed gifts for each of her guests, including a sewn shirt for Sebastian. As she collected the gifts, all small but personal, the dowager duchess stepped into the room and thumped her way to Lizbeth.
The bride inwardly cringed at her approach. Please, no insults today, she begged silently.
“I offer my congratulations on your nuptials,” said Catherine, her mouth set in a perpetually dour line, no indication of pleasure in her expression.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I do not retract my disapproval of your low station, and I disapprove of my nephew’s method of courtship, pursuing you carelessly like a lovelorn swain, but I believe you love him, and I hope you can change him.” Catherine glanced at the gifts with a sneer.
“But I don’t wish to change him, Your Grace. I love him as he is. And I don’t appreciate your insinuation. What would you know of who he is?” She spat, taking the woman’s words as a slight to her husband. One day she might learn to curb her tongue. Today was not that day.
“You mistake my meaning and my intention,” said the duchess, her lips still sneering.
Lizbeth stood still, narrowing her eyes.
“I approve your marriage, even if you are of low birth. I approve because you bring light to his life. For too long I have watched my nephew lurk in the shadow of his father. You must understand, gel, my brother blamed himself for his wife’s death and retreated so far into darkness, he knew not how to raise his son. Do not make my brother the villain, as he faced hardships of his own. Our father was not a doting man, nor our grandfather. In protest of our upbringing, I tried to love my own children, but I had for too long hardened myself to affection; so, I spoiled them to replace the affection I could not give. My brother chose to follow the footsteps of our father to cope with his grief. Love my nephew, Lady Roddam. Love him as no one has, and help him to love himself, or else his soul will be as lost as his father’s and yours with it.”
Catherine struck the floor with her cane to mark the end of the conversation and turned back to the dining room, disappearing into the sounds of laughter and happiness.
Lizbeth waited to retu
rn to the dining room, mulling over the duchess’ words. She knew so little about the family, especially Sebastian’s side. What did the duchess mean? These were not the thoughts she wanted on her wedding day, not of the man from whom she never wanted to part. The intention of the words seemed of good will, as much as they could be from such a woman, but the timing was poor and the meaning cryptic.
“Anything amiss?” Sebastian asked from the doorway, startling her.
With a nervous laugh, she replied, “I merely underestimated the number of parcels and would be grateful for a helping hand.” She collected a few of the gifts into her arms.
Her husband, the Earl of Roddam, chuckled at her stubborn determination to carry the gifts herself before he took them all in his own arms and commented, “You know, you could have had a servant bring them or even had a servant set them on the buffet before we returned from the ceremony. I’m not such a recluse not to have staff on hand, and that staff, may I point out, is now yours to command, my winsome wife.”
“Where’s the challenge in that? I’d much rather have you come to my rescue so you feel like a heroic and chivalrous knight.” She ribbed, following him back to the gathering, his arms full of packages.
“Nothing makes a man feel more heroic than carrying wrapped bundles tied with twine and ribbons.”
They returned to the table and dispersed the gifts to the appropriate receiver. Before Liz could see them open their handmade treats, Sebastian tucked his arm around her waist and bowed to the group.
“We must bid you adieu. My home is yours to celebrate my good fortune. Please stay even through tomorrow, as my staff has planned a delectable breakfast in your honor, as well as a few other surprises. I make no promises to see you all before you leave, but I do wish you to enjoy all Dunstanburgh has to offer in our absence.” His words were met with cheers, raised glasses, and a few catcalls from Drake.
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