He drew back his head and gazed into Lydia’s eyes. “I love you,” he said.
She laughed and cupped a hand about her ear.“What?”
There was obviously no point in trying to hold any sort of conversation. Harry kissed his bride again. And if they were not both stone-deaf by the time they reached the house, it would be some sort of miracle.
Snowball welcomed Lydia back to her cottage in the middle of the afternoon with ecstatic yips and barks and bounced about Harry with only slightly less enthusiasm.
There had been a grand wedding breakfast at Hinsford, despite Harry’s plea yesterday that there be no such thing because his staff would be quite busy enough with preparations for the ball this evening. He might as well have saved his breath and accepted the fact that his authority had counted for precisely nothing since the arrival of his family one week ago. He was assured, though, that this evening’s banquet, planned to take place early, before outside guests began arriving for the ball, had been merely moved forward, with a few modifications, and they would all just peck at the leftovers before the evening’s celebrations.
Harry could not imagine the Westcottspeckingat any meal, but he would not be there to witness what exactly that would mean. After a sumptuous feast, followed by wedding cake—yes, his intrepid cook had doubtless remained up all night to produce one, as Harry remembered she had for Abby and Gil’s wedding—and champagne, toasts, and speeches, everyone needed to prepare for the ball, even if preparing consisted only of resting for an hour or so. Harry could only imagine the frenzy of activity going on below-stairs.
He and Lydia had headed for her cottage—on foot. His valet was going to come there later with his evening clothes—including one of his new London shirts—and all the rest of the paraphernalia necessary to make him presentable for the ball.
“But not for at least three hours yet,” he said, turning to Lydia after the dog had returned from a leisurely frolic in the garden and was noisily lapping water in the kitchen. “That is a wicked smile, Lydia.”
“And is that aleerI see on your face?” she asked him.
“It is,” he said.
They were in each other’s arms then, laughing and kissing—until they were doing neither, but were simply gazing into each other’s eyes, their foreheads touching.
“Mrs. Westcott,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“I like the sound of it,” he said.
“Because you now own me?” she asked.
“I positively refuse to quarrel on my wedding day,” he said. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
They both laughed.
“Lydia.” He rubbed his nose against hers. “I did not rush you too much?”
“Rush?”she said. “Harry. This has been the longest week of my life. Someone must have stopped all the clocks. I thought today would never come.”
“I wish someone would stop the clocks for the next three hours,” he said. “But since no one is going to,whyare we standing here? Could we not find something better to do?”
“I will leave you to answer that,” she said. “I might blush.”
He drew back his head a little. “You are already doing it,” he said, smiling slowly at her.
She proved his point.
“Lydia.”
But he could find no words to express the feelings that were welling up inside him. He scooped her up in his arms instead and carried her through to her bedchamber—theirbedchamber for now and tonight and perhaps the next few nights until their house guests had returned to their own homes. He had no idea what would happen to the cottage then. They had not had a chance to discuss it. But that discussion could wait. They had a lifetime in which to decide.
For now—for this moment and the next three hours— there was only one thing that mattered.
“Home,” he said, setting her down on her feet beside the bed. “Here. Hinsford. You. Me. Do you wonder I can never remember a whole speech?”
She laughed softly. “And very thankful I am for it at the moment,” she said. “Make love with me, Harry.”
He did that for the next three hours. Or, rather, they did.
With me, she had said.
