by Mara
She tried to persuade Genova to share the ceremony, but her friend had shaken her head. “Oh, no, this will be your glorious day. I’ve no mind to be cast into the shade.”
After six weeks of the winter season, Damaris and Genova were fast friends. One of the many joys ahead would be sharing their married lives, for Ash had agreed to sell Damaris and Fitz an unentailed house on the edge of the Cheynings estate. He was glad of hard cash and welcome neighbors, and Coldmoore House suited their needs perfectly—with a name change, they all agreed.
As with everything at Cheynings, the place was in need of repair, but it was a mellow, golden stone house with just enough land to suit them. Neither Damaris nor Fitz was interested in farming. Fitz intended to add a seat in Parliament to his royal duties, so they would purchase a town house as well—a neat, modern one that was easily kept warm—and divide their time between the two.
In the end they settled on a name from the story in Fitz’s ancestry about the king’s champion who had won an heiress as his bride. Coldmoore House became simply Carrisford.
Both houses would provide enough space for Fitz’s sisters to live with them, even when there were children. Once the dowager marchioness had set off for France, Ashart and Fitz had moved to Ashart’s London house, and Ashart had welcomed Fitz’s sisters there, too. Of course, Genova and Damaris spent a great deal of time there, so Damaris was coming to know Libby and Sally.
Sally was nervous of new things, but easily pleased. Damaris had insisted on providing money for three servants to care for Sally so that Libby could enjoy society. Libby was wary as yet, as if unable to trust the turn of fortune, but sometimes she laughed in a way that hinted at the delightful child she’d once been. With God’s grace, she would heal.
Both Sally and Libby were in Damaris’s bedchamber on her wedding morning, ready to be her attendants.
Sally was dancing around in her fine yellow gown. Libby was shy in the company of the Malloren women. Lady Thalia and Lady Arradale were present, along with Lord Bryght Malloren’s wife, Portia, and the Countess of Walgrave, who had been Lady Elfled Malloren.
Damaris’s new family had made her wonderfully welcome, especially by treating Fitz almost as a family member, too.
Fitz.
They had talked so much over the past weeks, and though Damaris had been impatient at times to be wed, she’d appreciated the time to learn about each other more deeply. They’d even visited Cleeve Court, where Fitz had taken her around, recalling his past.
It was a solid house, though neglected, and they’d set in hand the plan to make it into an asylum for the insane. The kindly Dr. Erasmus had agreed to supervise it.
Hugh Fitzroger would never be happy in confinement, but there was no choice, for he continued to rave and threaten violence to all he saw as offending him. Lady Leyden seemed to find some sort of comfort in caring for him despite his ingratitude. Damaris could only pray for God’s blessings on them both.
They hadn’t visited Worksop yet, but they would, to sell the house and retrieve the few things Damaris wanted to bring into her new life. And to exorcise ghosts, she thought, for that life did seem like another one, a former one.
Here and now, all was laughter and teasing as her ladies assisted her to put on her gown, made for this occasion of Autumn Sunset silk and embroidered with a linked-ring design in tiny golden beads.
For contrast with her famous rubies and emeralds, she wore pearls that she had purchased for herself. Today she would wear nothing that came directly from her parents except, in a way, her wedding ring. She had given Fitz her mother’s ring and asked him to have it remade, but with exactly the same words engraved inside: yours until death. The words had also been engraved inside the cameo ring she’d given him. Together they would wipe away the past.
At the moment she wore only the betrothal ring he’d given her. It had caused considerable amusement. As she had enough precious stones, he’d commissioned a ring similar to the cameo she’d given him, but with a sailing ship carved upon it in exquisite detail—a ship flying the pirates’ symbol, the skull and cross-bones. It was perfect.
Fitz.
She suppressed a smile as people fussed with her hair, pinning pale gold roses into the complex weave of plaits. She could hardly wait to see him again—to pledge to be his and he hers forever. To seize her prize.
To let down her hair...
“You’re smirking,” Genova whispered.
Damaris laughed aloud and broke free of fussing hands to twirl around with Sally. “I’m going to float away soon. Isn’t it time yet?”
Everyone laughed, but Diana slipped away to make sure all was in readiness in the grand ballroom of Malloren House. Damaris stood there jiggling simply because she couldn’t stay still.
Then Diana returned. “All’s ready. Their Majesties are here.” She came over and kissed Damaris’s cheek. “I can only wish you as much happiness as I have.”
Lady Thalia fluttered over to hug Damaris. “So beautiful, my dear! And he’s almost as good a man as my Richard. I shall cry during the ceremony, because I will be very happy and just a little sad, but you’re not to mind me.”
They all went out to where Damaris’s brother, Mark, waited to escort her downstairs. She’d pondered this, for Rothgar could have performed the duty as suitably, but she wanted to break down all the barriers. Over the past weeks she and Mark had come to know each other quite well.
They might never be close, for they had little in common. His likeness to their father was all on the outside, whereas hers was more internal. He had been born and raised by a silly, indolent woman, whereas she had been shaped by sterner steel. She truly admired his amiability and lack of greed, but found him somewhat weak, too.
All this was as it might be with a full brother, however, so they would make do. She smiled as she took his arm and headed downstairs.
At last.
She paused at the door to the ballroom, which had been made into an arch of golden blossoms. A thousand candles lit the room, shooting fire from jewels and gold. She couldn’t help grinning at the sight of Fitz, a shimmering figure in the cream-and-gold suit Ashart had worn for Christmas Day at Rothgar Abbey. They’d bought it off him, diamond buttons and all. Neither of them cared if anyone recognized it, for it was completely perfect for Fitz, especially with his blond hair unpowdered.
She walked toward him, needing to use all her willpower to do so slowly and steadily. She made herself turn her head a little to acknowledge the smiles of those nearby. So many people had become acquaintances and even friends during the winter season. She paused to curtsy deeply to the king and queen.
Then she had eyes only for Fitz. “My golden Galahad,” she said softly as he took her hand, her heart pounding with pure bliss.
He raised her hand and kissed it. “I’d call you my ruby except that you’re masquerading as a sunset. Say, rather, sunrise. You are my sun, Damaris. The light of my life. My new and everlasting day.”
Tears prickled, but they were a sign of a happiness almost past bearing. “As you are mine, my love. My all, my everything. Oh, my, what need have we of vows after this?”
“We’d better make them all the same. Their Majesties await.”
Startled by the reminder, Damaris cast an apologetic look at the king and queen, but both were smiling. Everyone was.
They plighted their troth in the traditional way and accepted the applause of their guests. Then music struck up, and they danced the minuet à deux, alone on the floor. Every touch, every look, spoke of love and desire, and Damaris grew weak with desire. How long must they perform this way before they were alone?
Not long after the dance the king and queen left. Then friends and family rescued them, bustling them away to their wedding-night chamber.
And there, at last, in urgency and in leisure, they plighted their troth and worshiped with their bodies, caressing with words and loving hands.
And later, much later, lying limp in Fitz’s arms, ki
ssing his beautiful clever hand and the ring she’d given him, Damaris said, “I’m glad you’re a man of your word.”
“What?” he asked, eyes heavy-lidded but smiling.
“You promised once to stand by me, and to make sure everything turned out as I wished.” She wriggled up to kiss him. “I assure you, you have exceeded every expectation, my love, my champion, my perfect, handsome hero.”
* * *
Dear Reader,
I hope you have enjoyed another book set in the Malloren world of the eighteenth century.
Readers often ask what the difference is between the Georgian and Regency periods. It’s a very good question! Technically, the Georgian period is made up of the reigns of Kings George I, George II, George III, and George IV. However, for practical purposes it usually means the eighteenth century—1700 to 1799.
The “Regency” refers to the period from 1811 to 1820 during which the Prince of Wales was regent for his father, George III, who had gone mad. (This was almost certainly a disease called porphyria, but no one knew that then. ) As the regent eventually became George IV, the Regency is part of the Georgian period, but it’s treated as a distinct period, and generally thought of as 1800 to 1830 or so.
There are differences. Regency fashion put women in high-waisted, slender-skirted dresses, whereas Georgian dresses were shaped to the natural waist but with wide, hoop-supported skirts. Georgian gentlemen were peacocks in brilliant silks and flowing lace, which is one reason I love them. Regency gentlemen wore simpler clothing in more sober colors. Evening wear was almost universally black.
The Malloren world is the world of the early years of the reign of George III, and the time of true Georgian magnificence. It is also the world of great change and exploration in all areas. It was the Enlightenment, when all ideas were looked at afresh. This led to its being the time of the Agricultural and Industrial Revolutions. Change was seen as a good thing, and many members of the aristocracy were involved.
This didn’t mean they were sober citizens. They saw no contradiction in someone being a glittering courtier, avid gambler, rakish wencher, scientist, agricultural innovator, and parliamentary orator. In fact, they’d think that a well-rounded gentleman.
I hope you found the idea about Prince Henry Stuart intriguing. It’s all my own invention, of course, but I have long thought it sad that he died when he did. And, of course, the what-ifs of his not dying are fascinating.
If this is your first Malloren-world book, you may wish to read the others: My Lady Notorious, Tempting Fortune, Something Wicked, Secrets of the Night, Devilish, and Winter Fire. I also write novels set in the Regency and the Middle Ages.
For a complete listing of my books, please visit my Web site at www.jobev.com.While there, you can subscribe to my monthly e-mail list and be kept up-to-date about my new and reissued work. I think you’ll find the background information to my books interesting, too.
If you prefer to write in the old-fashioned way, please do so, care of Margaret Ruley, The Rotrosen Agency, 318 East 51st Street, New York, NY 10022.
All best wishes,
Jo
* * *
JO BEVERLEY is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today. She is a five-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She has also twice received the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Born in England, she has two grown sons and lives with her husband in Victoria, British Columbia, just a ferry ride away from Seattle. You can visit her Web site at www.jobev.com.