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*
Wulfric kisses her for a long time, out there in the pleasant spring sunlight, the garden sprouting about them with pleasure, before Christine begins to laugh once more.
His mouth turns against hers. “I would take offense at your laughter, Christine. But I do love the sound of it.”
The smile that fills her face is irrepressible. She twines her fingers into his and leans her forehead to his, inhaling the smoke-pine scent of him. He smells of Lindsey Hall, of the land surrounding; he smells of home. He will be her home.
“Will you share what amuses you so?” he asks, his eyes that warm silver-grey that only she sees.
She tilts her head and kisses his cheek, his hooked nose, those smiling thin lips. “I am so glad you came,” she says, letting all the warmth and love that she has for him infuse her words. “I worried for days that you would change your mind.”
“An impossible notion,” he says, his voice a low growl that touches her deeply.
“I did have something of a bargaining chip, however,” she says with a laugh, stroking her fingers over his.
He raises an eyebrow in that imperious fashion that she has constantly found so damnably attractive. “Did you?”
“Honestly, it had slipped my mind,” she confesses, keeping his steady stare. “However, I happen to have one of your quizzing glasses, still.”
Blinking, that small, beautiful smile of his curves his lips. “Yes. I suppose you do.”
“I cannot believe you didn’t notice, given how willing you were to climb a tree to rescue one,” she teases.
Kissing the laugh right out of her mouth, he raises his hands from her lap to cup her face, to brush his fingers through her curls. “I have thought only of you for weeks on end,” he says, voice a low cool reverberation against her lips.
Flushing, she wraps her arms around his neck with abandon. Her mother and sisters will ensure their privacy, and she cannot bring herself to care about anything else but the man kneeling before her. The Duke of Bewcastle, on his knees before her! A sight she will treasure, and never share. His vulnerabilities are hers, and hers are his.
“I assumed if you would not come for me, you would at least come for it,” she says once he parts his mouth from hers, breathless and aching for his touch all over her body.
He regards her carefully, smoothing the pad of his thumb over her hot cheek. “I will always come for you,” he says quietly.
And just like that, she melts and slides for him once more. The whole man is who she loves; the cool collected aristocrat, and the man loyal to his family to a fault, the one who will let little girls hold school sessions in his beloved sanctuary of a library, and who will kneel for a schoolteacher’s daughter in her mother’s garden.
“You may have to start a quarrel with me soon, Wulfric. Else I may not know you,” she teases at last, her voice catching.
“I have no doubt of thoroughly exasperating you at least once or twice between now and our wedding,” he says evenly as his hands slide over her shoulders and down the line of her back.
Smiling, she stands up and grasps his hands. “Wulfric, please,” she murmurs, tugging on his hands.
He rises with ease, his hands tightening to clasp around hers. “I suppose it would be proper to go back in and share the news,” he says.
Looking at him, she tilts her head and lets a wicked smile fill her eyes, curve her lips. “I suppose it would. But have you seen the furthest portion of the garden yet, Your Grace?”
Wulfric looks at her, eyes heavy-lidded, the sun glinting off of his dark hair. She is reminded of his look in the dovecote – how she longs to be back there with him, at Lindsey Hall, alone with him and nothing and no one between them.
His fingers twine into hers. “Lead the way, my love,” he says, voice low and sleek.
Christine laughs then, and takes them deeper into the garden, away from the eyes of the house. She feels as light as a girl once again, but with the solid surety of Wulfric’s love, his hand in hers.
“This may be the most peace we have until we are married, you know,” she tells him as he presses her back against a wooden arbor, his lips kissing along the bare curve of her throat. Her hands dig into his shoulders and hold on, keeping him close to her.
He raises his gaze, grey turning molten silver in the dappled spring sunlight. “I imagine we will make opportunities,” he murmurs.
When the Duke of Bewcastle speaks, people listen. She takes it as a fact, and brings his mouth back to hers.
*
After his departure from Hyacinth House, Wulfric and Christine exchange letters. They are certainly not effusive love letters, concerning mostly details of their upcoming nuptials, their marriage portions, where they will honeymoon. It is nearly two months between their engagement and their wedding day of mid-June, and Christine thinks time couldn’t be moving any slower. As content as she has been in Hyacinth House, the schoolroom and such, she longs to begin life anew once more, with a man whose faults and flaws are complements to her own. She misses Wulfric with every day that passes, and letters just aren’t enough.
So, in mid-May, a month before the nuptials, when Freyja and Morgan write for Christine to come to London and stay at the Hallmere’s townhouse for the purchase of her trousseau, she accepts with alacrity. Even if she cannot be with Wulfric, she can at least be with his family, who will soon be her own. That is well enough for her.
She is an engaged woman already married previously, so she travels alone to London by hired coach. When she arrives in front of the Hallmere’s majestic townhouse, the front door opens and Morgan is there, glowing and lovely and waving with the exuberance of the child she must have been. In the sunlight, she is utterly lovely, her dark hair gleaming. Christine takes the hand of the footman as she descends and smiles up at her almost-sister-in-law.
“You’re here! Lord, I feel it’s been an age,” Morgan says as Christine climbs the steps and takes her outstretched hands in greeting.
“You really shouldn’t have waited,” Christine says with a smile, kissing the younger woman’s cheeks.
Morgan grins. In her smile, Christine can see something of the devilish child she must have been. Wulfric may have been the one true parental figure she ever knew, and yet she grew up so loved, so intelligent. There is the true sign of a man, she thinks.
“Gervase in at Parliament and I’m bored out of my skull at home. Freyja said you would be here today, and I couldn’t wait,” Morgan says blithely as she leads Christine inside. Hallmere’s townhouse in London is quite ostentatious – though nothing on Bedwyn House, Christine is certain. The décor is lovely, inviting; there is a touch of Freyja in every room, as Morgan gives her the grand tour.
“And here is Josh’s study – though what he studies, I cannot fathom. He just seems too good-looking to be so smart, and yet here we are,” Morgan says with a wicked laugh.
A maid comes then, requesting Morgan’s help upstairs; Daniel, Emily, Jacques, and Jules refuse to lay down for their naps, and the nurse is beside herself.
"I can assist," Christine says, smiling warmly at the thought of the Bedwyn children. She grew rather fond of all of them during her time at Lindsey Hall, and knows just how much affection Wulfric has for his nieces and nephews. She can't wait to call them hers as well.
"I wouldn't subject you to it," Morgan says, shaking her head. "They are beastly when they don't want to do something. Too much Bedwyn in them."
"Or just enough," Christine laughs.
With a knowing grin, Morgan kisses Christine’s cheek and pats her elbow. “Just go on into the private parlor, right down the hall. Freyja should be home soon!” she calls as she hurries away towards the main stairs.
Christine wets her lips and continues onwards. When she opens the door to the parlor, she stops, as if frozen.
“Oh,” she says, her eyes meeting Wulfric’s. He sits on the settee near the half-drawn drapes, a book in his long strong hands. Has it truly been a month since she’s last seen him, touched him, spoken to him? He looks quite the same, handsome and neat in his grey and cream afternoon wear. She touches the skirt of her blue-sprigged muslin dress, keeping his gaze. “Wulf – “
He rises with ease, tossing the book to the settee with the practiced grace of an aristocrat. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely,” he says, tone cool.
She walks inside the parlor fully and shuts the door behind her. A smile plays at her lips. She will not look away. "You are an unexpected presence, Your Grace,” she says, trying not to laugh quite yet. When she looks at him, her heart fills with joy. It is no wonder she cannot stop laughing.
Tilting his head, he watches her carefully. “Unwelcome?”
“Never,” she says, and means every syllable of it.
When he crosses the room in a few long strides, she is ready for his mouth on hers, for the strong band of his arms around her waist. His kiss is a hungry thing, a need that words cannot effectively translate on paper. Through the correspondence back and forth, through the quiet moments in the dark of night when she would think, why on earth am I doing this?, this is what she would think of – of his affection and grave sense of responsibility, and the clean beauty of his touch. He holds her to him as if he is starved, his mouth voracious as his tongue licks into her mouth. She shudders and combs her fingers through his hair, heart beating as hard as a drum in her chest.
“Your sisters – “ she gasps out as he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the settee.
“Are quite aware of my presence here,” he says, voice dipping into that low growl she loves so much, that sends shivers down her spine. He sits on the settee and she shifts the skirts of her muslin dress so that she may perch more effectively on his lap. He is all hard hot male muscle beneath her and around her; she thinks of their afternoon in the dovecote, how she came astride him so naturally, how his eyes glimmered with the pleasure of it.
“How progressive,” she says, framing his face with her hands.
“I allowed them a certain freedom in their engagements. I imagine they are happy to return the favor.”
“I’m so – I’m so happy to see you,” she says with a laugh.
“Again, you laugh, as if you are surprised,” he murmurs, his hands smoothing along her waist.
“You are a surprise, Wulfric. I had no idea you were in town,” she says pointedly, the letters exchanged between them hovering in the memories between them.
“Perhaps I wanted to be… spontaneous,” he says, regarding her with those warm grey eyes. “Are you displeased?”
“No!” she exclaims on a laugh, leaning into kiss the thin line of his mouth. “To be perfectly frank – “
“Ah, just as I enjoy you.”
“ – I have been half-hoping you would show up at Hyacinth Cottage and just marry me on the spot,” she says, delighted at his dry humor. There are layers upon layers to the mantles he wears; she cannot wait to discover them all.
“You insisted on the wedding at St. George’s,” he reminds her, his amusement clear even with his mild tone.
“And I stand by it.” She knows a man of his standing must keep to a certain public persona, and she will not cower in the face of Society, however discomfited they may make her. “But – “ she hesitates, stroking her fingertips along his jawline, that strongly prominent nose. “Well, I have missed you.”
A smile touches his mouth, simple and small and hers. She remembers seeing it from across his crowded ballroom all those weeks ago, and thinking if only it could be hers permanently. And soon, in a month’s time, it will.
“I have missed you as well,” he says quietly, his hands cupping her waist. “I have missed you every day, Christine.”
Beaming, she leans in and kisses him, slow and warm and dangerous. Her hands slip from his jaw to his neckcloth, searching out bare warm skin. “This seems highly improper for the Duke of Bewcastle,” she teases, feeling the thrum of his pulse under her fingertips.
His own hands slide over her thighs, searching for the hem of her gown. She licks into his mouth as he pushes at her skirts, his hands skimming under her shift and over her stockings. “In private, he makes his own rules,” he murmurs against her mouth.
She shuts her eyes and laughs into his kiss, feeling as light as a cloud.
When they finally slink out of the parlor, clothes straightened and hair mussed, they find Freyja and Morgan taking tea in the front room, facing the busy London street outside. Freyja, lovely in a dark blue muslin afternoon dress, glances them both up and down as Wulfric strides with ease to the window. Christine, flushed and smiling, walks over to kiss Freyja in greeting.
“How utterly delightful,” Freyja drawls, her eyes bright with amusement. “Wulfric, I had no idea you were here.”
Christine smothers a laugh as she sits next to Morgan and pours herself a cup of tea.
“I make my entrances carefully, “ is all Wulfric says, the cool bored tone of the aristocrat returning.
Christine meets his gaze as he brings one of his quizzing glasses to his eye, and remembers the rough growl of his voice against her throat. She sips her tea, and smiles brightly.
“A predator stalking his prey,” Freyja teases, all warmth and light in the privacy of her own home.
“I have never been one much for hunting,” he says evenly.
“An intellectual puzzle, then,” Morgan rejoins, all but clapping in delight. “How did you happen to arrive so quickly? And so secretly?”
“The same way I will depart, I imagine.”
Christine can’t help but laugh, and Morgan and Freyja with her. When Wulfric looks at her once again, she sees the echoes of her amusement within his own, deep in those grey eyes. Her doubts, as small as they were, fly away, and she can listen to her future sisters-in-law in contentment.
“Please feel free to have the run of the house, Christine,” Freyja says to her after an amusing dinner, with Josh and Gervase and Wulfric filling the table as the children take supper in the nursery. “I have appointments all week, except for our shopping expeditions and fittings.”
“I wouldn’t have any clue as to who is in town, currently. Truly, I am here at your leisure,” Christine says as they walk the second floor to her guest bedroom.
Lips twitching, Freyja pats her hand, her dark brows arched in her lovely, glowing face. “Well. Perhaps if Wulfric is at his leisure, that can occupy your spare time,” she says wryly.
“Perhaps,” Christine says with an easy smile. She takes no offense; she remembers Freyja’s embrace by the stream all those weeks ago, and keeps those words to her heart. “I imagine he has much business to attend to.”
Freyja blinks and smiles, a true friendly expression. Her fair hair gleams in the candlelight. “I do believe the only one he wishes to attend to is you. And I am glad for it,” she says warmly.
In the dark of her bedroom, Christine shuts her eyes and smiles.
*
During the week she is in London for her wedding trousseau and gown fittings, Wulfric visits her at Josh and Freyja’s home every day. They sit in the private parlor in the rear of the house and talk, and sit in comfortable silence. She likes being close to him, enjoys the sensation of his hand clasped in hers, his mouth on her bare throat. They do not debauch the parlor fully; but her want for his touch hardly abates.
On her last day in London, they sit on the settee, a chess board laid out in front of them. Wufric likes chess, which surprises her little. That she can keep up with him, in her limited experience, is something else altogether.
“You are truly full of surprises,” he says, eyeing the board through his quizzing glass.
“You know, I still have one of those,” she says with a smile. There’s something so deliciously wonderful about spending all this time alone, unchaperoned, as if they are young ones flirting their way through their first Season.
“I did realize, yes,” he murmurs, glancing at her. “Should I expect to get it back?”
She hums and moves her bishop, cornering his rook. Grey spring light creeps in through the windows, signaling a familiar London rain. “I suppose once we are married, everything I possess becomes yours.”
“You are your own woman, Christine. I could never possess you,” he says, abruptly serious.
“I know,” she says, reaching out to touch the back of his hand. “I know you, Wulfric.”
He does not smile, but she sees his eyes warm, the silver melting the longer he looks at her.
“Who taught you to play?” he asks quietly.
“My father, briefly. I am not particularly adept at remaining still. I like to move, to go,” she says with a laugh.
“I love that about you,” he says, and her heart skips a beat.
Smile widening, she leans over the chessboard to kiss him lightly. She is unafraid to express herself with him, especially in the physical. It could be that he needs it, someone to bring light and laughter into his life every day, someone who will not cower in the stern gaze of the Duke of Bewcastle. She can be to him what he is now to her; a source of life.
“Three more weeks,” she says cheerfully.
“I hardly know how to occupy myself,” he murmurs, eyes glinting.
“When you look at me so, it is highly vexing,” she teases.
“Come over here, Christine,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. Her skin rises in goosebumps. She sighs and hesitates just a moment before carefully shifting the chessboard away and off the settee to the floor below.
He reaches out and pulls her to him, until they are pressed together hip to thigh to knee. She tilts her head back as he cups her face in his hands, his eyes softening, hot silver in the rainy afternoon light. His fingers twine through her curls in that way he seems so fond of. Shivering, she lifts her hands to his chest, slipping them between his waistcoat to press against the linen of his shirt, to feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric.
“I hope that there is time for us to be in the dovecote,” she murmurs, looking up at him. “Just the two of us, for a little while.”
Blinking, he cups her jaw, rubbing his thumb over her chin. “You would prefer not to honeymoon abroad?”
Her fingers flex against his chest, making creases in the fine linen. “We need not go to such trouble,” she says softly. “I would be perfectly content to be at Lindsey Hall, with you. I only want to be with you.”
Gaze fierce and hot, he leans in and kisses her, his mouth warm and open over hers. She closes her eyes and opens herself up to his kiss, her pulse throbbing against her wrists, her throat. They kiss until they cannot breathe, and further still; she shivers with want, her body aching for the press of his skin to hers.
“I am fervently wishing I had chosen the smaller wedding in this moment,” she murmurs to him as his hands slide over the curve of her back, cupping her waist.
She feels his smile against her lips. “If propriety deemed it appropriate, I would carry you back to Bedwyn House this moment,” he say, voice like gravel. She shivers.
“Alas,” she sighs, voice lilting into a laugh. “Clandestine kisses in your sister’s married home must be enough.”
“You drive me to do reckless things, Christine,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands over her belly, the soft muslin of her green dress giving under his touch.
“I cannot take all the credit for that,” she laughs, touching his furrowed brow. “You have a capacity for mischief I have yet to fully uncover.”
“I must strive to keep some mysteries alive and well for you, my love,” he says, voice cool.
She kisses him once more, constantly delighted by him. Once inside his inner mantle, she finds herself falling more and more in love with him. It is a pleasure she is eternally grateful for.
“Three weeks,” he says, grey eyes gleaming.
“Yes. Three weeks, and then your beloved quizzing glass will return,” she teases.
“I love you,” he says.
Smiling, she leans up and kisses him again. The afternoon slips away with his lips on hers, his fingertips on her skin. She doesn’t mind in the least. It makes the parting less sad, to know he will be hers in the eyes of God and country so very soon.
*
The carriage pulls up to Bedwyn House, where they will have their wedding breakfast. Blessedly, Christine and Wulfric arrive first. She barely discards her wedding bonnet, pelisse, and gloves, before Wulfric has her wrapped in his arms and shuffled into the library for a moment of privacy, as the servants and staff bustle around in final preparation.
“I don’t believe we’ve that much time, Wulfric,” she says breathlessly.
“No, indeed,” he says. His face is smooth, but the glow in his eyes is unmistakable. “But there is time enough for this.”
As he goes to his desk, resplendent in his brown and cream and gold ensemble, she takes a moment to peer around the library – his inner sanctum, she would imagine. It is a very Bewcastle place, with everything in its proper space and order. She feels comfortable here, though; she knows he brings her here as a sign, another acceptance of her into his life.
The quizzing glass is heavy in her pelisse pocket.
“I do like this room,” she says as he shuts a drawer in his desk and comes back to her.
“I’m glad to hear so, my dear,” he says, placing a small black box in her gloved hands. “A gift.”
“I have something for you as well,” she says with a smile, lifting the lid of the package. What she sees takes her breath away.
A small ring sits there, a sapphire at its center, encircled by small clear diamonds. The gold band is slim and becoming. She cannot say a word for the longest of moments; it is the first piece of jewelry she can remember receiving that looked so utterly perfect and meant for her.
“Wulfric,” she says softly, looking up into his intent gaze.
“I could not find a ring I liked for weeks,” he says, his voice low and rumbling in his throat. “Until I went through some of the heirlooms, at Lindsey Hall. And this blue – I saw it, and thought of your eyes. It is simple, yes, but – “
“It is perfect,” she says, voice thick with emotion. Her heart feels as it is will leap from its chest. Her wedding band is one thing – this is even more special. “Thank you.”
He takes the box from her hands and slips the ring on. It makes a lovely clinking sound against her wedding band. Tipping her head back, she leans up to kiss him, twining her fingers into his.
“Thank you,” she says again, voice soft.
He cups her cheek in his palm, love shining from every moment he looks upon her. “A fortuitous beginning.”
Laughing, she reaches into her pocket with her free hand. “I regret that mine is not quite so personal,” she says, lifting out the quizzing glass and handing it to him. A fresh ribbon loops through it, a blue to hearken to the color of her eyes. She thought he might like it.
Fingering the ribbon, he smiles that small grin of his, and kisses her softly. “Everything and everyone is exactly where they belong, at last,” he says quietly.
Christine wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, sighs at the feel of his strong arms around her, the quizzing glass pressed at her back. “Indeed,” she says, and kisses him until it is impolite to keep their guests waiting any longer.
Finally, they are all in their rightful place.
*