by Mary Balogh
And then they were inside the church, and Bridget was waiting there to straighten Rachel’s hem and make sure her hair and bonnet had suffered no catastrophe during the journey from house to church.
“You are ready, my love,” she said, standing back and smiling, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Go and be happy.”
Someone must have given a signal to the organist. Music filled the church, and Rachel moved into the nave, her hand on her uncle’s sleeve. The pews were all filled, and everyone turned a head to see her come. But though she was aware of them, she did not really see them. She was aware only of Alleyne, standing at the front, Rannulf beside him.
He was not smiling. But his eyes were dark and intent upon hers, and in them she read pure worship. He was all in black and ivory and white and looked quite astonishingly handsome.
And then she was close to him, and then she was beside him.
And he smiled.
She blinked back sudden tears and smiled back.
“Dearly beloved,” Mr. Crowell said.
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN NOTHING SHORT OF A MIRACLE IF the Bedwyns had not slipped out of the church while the register was being signed and prepared a suitable welcome for the bride and groom.
Alleyne laughed when he saw them all as he came out of the church with Rachel on his arm. The open carriage had been decorated much as Morgan and Rosthorn’s had been last month, though it looked very much as if a couple of old kettles had been tied to the back of this one. And they were lined up on either side of the path armed with flower petals and colored leaves—Aidan and Eve, Davy and Becky, Freyja and Joshua, Judith, Morgan and Gervase, and Rannulf just dashing into place.
“I am afraid, my love,” Alleyne said, “we are going to have to run the gauntlet of the Bedwyns’ idea of fun.”
“I suppose,” she said, “you did this for their weddings?”
“Except Morgan’s,” he admitted, “and Aidan’s. He married by special license and did not let any of us know until later.”
“How unsporting of him.” She laughed and looked so startlingly lovely that he felt the breath catch in his throat. “I love the Bedwyns’ idea of fun.”
And she took his arm, lifted her chin, and sauntered down the path with him, laughing into the faces of all of them as they passed until her delicate wedding outfit was dotted with every color of the rainbow.
“You see?” Alleyne called out. “I have married a woman worthy of the Bedwyn name. She does not simply put her head down and run for it.”
He helped her into the carriage and followed her in, standing for a moment while she arranged her skirts about her, not making any attempt to brush away petals and leaves, and he threw handfuls of coins to the village children, who ran shrieking and squealing to retrieve them.
And then he sat down beside Rachel and took her hand in his, lacing his fingers with hers as the carriage rocked on its springs and moved away in the direction of Chesbury. He ignored the cheering and the catcalls behind them, though he was suddenly aware of the joyful pealing of the church bells—and of the metallic clatter of two kettles being hauled along in their wake.
“Well, my love,” he said.
“Well, my love.”
They laughed together and he squeezed her hand.
“Whoever would have thought,” he said to her, “that I would ever come to be eternally thankful for that musket ball I took in my thigh and that fall from my horse and that loss of memory? Whoever would have thought that such seeming disaster would turn into the best thing that had ever happened to me?”
“And whoever would have thought,” she said, “that I would ever be thankful for dreary employment as a lady’s companion and the disaster of a betrothal to a rogue and the theft of all the money I owned and all the money my friends owned? Whoever would have thought that my foray into the forest in order to find riches with which to pursue the thief would lead me to you?”
“I’ll never ever say that I do not believe in fate,” he said, “or in a definite path that our lives take in order to lead us to fulfillment if only we will take it without wavering.”
She lifted her face and he kissed her lightly on the lips.
“And listen to me,” he said, “spouting philosophy when fate has given us these few moments to be alone together before the onslaught of the wedding breakfast. Tonight seems eons away, but there are these moments.”
He released her hand in order to set his arm about her shoulders and draw her closer.
“I have told you before,” she said, “that you sometimes talk too much.”
“Insubordination,” he said, rubbing his nose against hers. “You are my wife now, Rache. You are Lady Alleyne Bedwyn and have to be polite to me and obey me.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her eyes laughed into his.
“Kiss me, then,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.”
She laughed aloud. But then she obeyed him, turning on the seat and wrapping both arms about him in order to do so more thoroughly.
His golden angel.
His wife.
His love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Best-selling, multi-award-winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of sea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over four million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. She is also the author of the Regency-era romantic novels No Man’s Mistress, More Than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, and Slightly Tempted, all available in paperback from Dell. Slightly Dangerous, the final book in the Bedwyn series, will be available in hardcover in June 2004. Visit her web site at www.marybalogh.com.
Also by Mary Balogh
SLIGHTLY TEMPTED
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
SLIGHTLY WICKED
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
NO MAN’S MISTRESS
MORE THAN A MISTRESS
ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE
Step into a world of scandal and surprise, of stately homes and breathtaking seduction. . . .
Step into the world of master storyteller Mary Balogh. In novels of wit and intrigue, the best-selling, award-winning author draws you into a vibrant, sensual new world . . . and into the lives of one extraordinary family: the Bedwyns—six brothers and sisters—heirs to a legacy of power, passion, and seduction.
Their adventures will dazzle and delight you.
Their stories will leave you breathless. . . .
AIDAN
—the brooding man of honor
RANNULF
—the irresistible rebel
FREYJA
—the fiery beauty
MORGAN
—the ravishing innocent
ALLEYNE
—the passionate nobleman
This is his story. . . .
Praise for the Novels of MARY BALOGH
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
“Balogh is the queen of spicy Regency-era romance.”
—Booklist
“Exceptionally entertaining . . . With its impeccable plotting and memorable characters, Balogh’s book raises the bar for Regency romances.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Zingy dialogue, witty humor, and marvelously appealing characters breathe new life into a classic plot . . . This delightful and exceptionally well-done title nicely demonstrates [Balogh’s] matchless style.”
—Library Journal
SLIGHTLY WICKED
“Sympathetic characters and scalding sexual tension make the second installment in [the ‘Slightly’ series] a truly engrossing read . . . Balogh’s surefooted story possesses an abundance of character and class.”
—Publishers Weekly
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
“Well-written and nicely paced . . . Refr
eshing.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“Readers will be delighted.” —Booklist
“[A Perfect Ten] . . . SLIGHTLY MARRIED is a masterpiece! Mary Balogh has an unparalleled gift for creating complex, compelling characters who come alive on the pages.”
—Romance Reviews Today
A SUMMER TO REMEMBER
“Balogh outdoes herself with this romantic romp, crafting a truly seamless plot and peopling it with well-rounded, winning characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A tale to relish and remember . . . [A SUMMER TO REMEMBER] may be the most sensuous romance of the year.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“This one will rise to the top.”
—Library Journal
“This is a powerful book, filled with emotions, and the reader will feel every one of them. Save it for evenings at home and keep the tissues nearby—you’ll need them.”
—The Oakland Press
Follow the passionate and spirited adventures of
the Bedwyn family in Mary Balogh’s dazzling novels . . .
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
Aidan’s story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY WICKED
Rannulf’s story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY SCANDALOUS
Freyja’s story
Now On Sale
SLIGHTLY TEMPTED
Morgan’s story
Now On Sale
Plus, read on for a preview of the glorious
hardcover series finale . . .
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
Wulfric’s story
On Sale June 2004
SLIGHTLY DANGEROUS
On sale June 2004
MOST OF THE GUESTS WERE WEARY FROM traveling and used the time between tea and dinner to rest quietly in their rooms. Wulfric took the opportunity to slip outdoors for some fresh air and exercise. He did not know his way about the park, of course, but he instinctively sought out cover so that he would not be seen from the house and thus invite company. He made his way diagonally across a tree-dotted lawn and took a path through denser trees until he came to the bank of a man-made lake, which had clearly been created for maximum visual effect.
He should have gone home to Lindsey Hall.
But he had not, and so there was no point in wishing now that he had made a different decision.
He was still standing there, content for the moment to be idle, when he heard the distinct rustle of footsteps on the path behind him—the path by which he had come. He was annoyed with himself then that he had not moved off sooner. The last thing he wanted was company. But it was too late now. Whichever of the side paths he took, he would be unable to move out of sight before whoever it was emerged onto the bank and saw him.
He turned with barely concealed annoyance.
She was marching along with quite unladylike strides, minus either bonnet or gloves, and her head was turned back over her shoulder as if to see who was coming along behind her. Before Wulfric could either move out of the way or alert her to impending disaster, she had collided with him full-on. He grasped her upper arms too late, and found himself with a noseful of soft curls before she jerked back her head with a squeak of alarm and her nose collided with his.
It seemed somehow almost inevitable, he thought with pained resignation—and with the pain of a smarting nose and watering eyes. Some evil angel must have sent her to this house party just to torment him—or to remind him never again to make an impulsive decision.
Her hand flew to her nose—presumably to discover if it was broken or gushing blood or both. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Mrs. Derrick,” he said with faint hauteur—though it was too late to discourage her from approaching him.
“Oh, dear,” she said, lowering her hand and blinking her eyes, “I am so sorry. How clumsy of me! I was not looking where I was going.”
“You might, then,” he said, “have walked right into the lake if I had not been standing here.”
“But I did not,” she said reasonably. “I had a sudden feeling that I was not alone and looked behind me instead of ahead. And of all people, it had to be you.”
“I beg your pardon.” He bowed stiffly to her. He might have returned the compliment but did not.
More than ever she looked countrified and without any of the elegance and sophistication he expected of ladies with whom he was obliged to socialize for two weeks. The breeze was ruffling her short curls. The sunlight was making her complexion look more bronzed even than it had appeared in the drawing room. Her teeth looked very white in contrast. Her eyes were as blue as the sky. She was, he conceded grudgingly, really quite startlingly pretty—despite a nose that was reddening by the moment.
“My words were ill-mannered,” she said with a smile. “I did not mean them quite the way they sounded. But first I spilled lemonade over you, then I engaged you in a staring match only because I objected to your eyebrow, and now I have run into you and cracked your nose with my own. I do hope I have used up a whole two weeks’ worth of clumsiness all within a few hours and can be quite decorous and graceful and really rather boring for the rest of my stay here.”
There was not much to be said in response to such a frank speech. But during it she had revealed a great deal about herself, none of which was in any way appealing.
“My choice of path appears to have been serendipitous,” he said, turning slightly away from her. “The lake was unexpected, but it is pleasantly situated.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she agreed. “It has always been one of my favorite parts of the park.”
“Doubtless,” he said, planning his escape, “you came out here to be alone. I have disturbed you.”
“Not at all,” she said brightly. “Besides, I came out here to walk. There is a path that winds its way all about the lake. It has been carefully planned to give a variety of sensual pleasures.”
Her eyes caught and held his and she grimaced and blushed.
“Sometimes,” she added, “I do not choose my words with care.”
Sensual pleasures. That was the phrase that must have embarrassed her.
But instead of striking off immediately onto her chosen path, she hesitated a moment, and he realized that he stood in her way. But before he could move, she spoke again.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you would care to accompany me?”
He absolutely would not care for any such thing. He could think of no less desirable a way of spending the free hour or so before he must change for dinner.
“Or perhaps,” she said with that laughter in her eyes that he had noticed earlier across the drawing room after he had raised his eyebrow and so offended her, “you would not.”
It was spoken like a challenge. And really, he thought, there was something mildly fascinating about the woman. She was so very different from any other woman he had ever encountered. And at least there was nothing remotely flirtatious in her manner.
“I would,” he said, and stepped aside for her to precede him onto the path that led back in among the trees though it ran parallel to the bank of the lake. He fell into step beside her, since the person who had designed this walk had had the forethought to make it wide enough for two persons to walk comfortably abreast.
They did not talk for a while. Although as a gentleman he was adept at making polite conversation, he had never been a proponent of making noise simply for the sake of keeping the silence at bay. If she was content to stroll quietly, then so was he.
“I believe I have you to thank for my invitation to Schofield,” she said at last, smiling sidelong at him.
“Indeed?” He looked back at her with raised eyebrows.
“After you had been invited,” she said, “Melanie suddenly panicked at the realization that she was to have one more gentleman than lady on her guest list. She dashed off a letter to Hyacinth Cottage to invite me, and, after I had refused, came in person to beg.”
She had just confirmed what he had been beginning to suspect.
“After I had been invited,” he repeated. “By Viscount Mowbury. I daresay the invitation did not come from Lady Renable after all, then.”
“I would not worry about it if I were you,” she said. “Once I had rescued her from impending disaster by agreeing to come after all, she admitted that even if having the Duke of Bewcastle as a guest was not quite such a coup as having the Prince Regent might have been, it was in fact far preferable. She claims—probably quite rightly—that she will be the envy of every other hostess in England.”
He continued to look at her. Then an evil angel really had been at work. She was here only because he was—and he was here only because he had acted quite out of character.
“You did not wish to accept your invitation?” he asked her.
“I did not.” She had been swinging her arms in quite unladylike fashion, but now she clasped them behind her back.
“Because you were offended at being omitted from the original guest list?” She was normally treated as a poor relation and largely ignored, then, was she?
“Because, strange as it may seem, I did not want to come,” she told him.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you feel out of your depth in superior company, Mrs. Derrick.”
“I would question your definition of superior,” she said. “But in essence you are quite right.”
“And yet,” he said, “you were married to a brother of Viscount Elrick.”
“And so I was,” she said cheerfully.
But she did not pursue that line of conversation. They had emerged from among the trees and were at the foot of a grassy hill dotted with daisies and buttercups.
“Is this not a lovely hill?” she asked him, probably rhetorically. “You see? It takes us above the treetops and gives us a clear view of the village and the farms for miles around. The countryside is like a checkered blanket. Who would ever choose town life over this?”