“Iamhappy,” she said. “You asked, Avery. The answer is yes.”
“I can see it in your eyes, my heart,” he said softly.
Viola had deliberately stayed close to the ballroom doors so the butler could give her the nod from beyond them when Harry arrived with Lydia.
“I want to be the first to see them and hug them,” she had told Marcel, who had waited with her. “I missed Abby’s wedding. I do not want to miss one moment of Harry’s.”
She did, however, beckon Lydia’s father before she left the room. He was talking with the Hills and Elizabeth and Colin.
“And so all your children are happily settled,” Marcel said, offering his arm to escort her downstairs. “Now you can relax at last.”
“Theywillbe happy,” Viola said, smiling at him. “I liked Lydia the moment I met her. I knew she was right for Harry as soon as I learned she had refused his marriage offer.”
Marcel laughed. “The logic of women,” he said.
“And your two,” she said. “Estelle and Bertrand. Do you worry about them, Marcel?”
She knew he did, of course, for she knew he had never quite let go of his guilt over the way he had neglected them during their growing years, leaving them almost exclusively in the care of their aunt, his first wife’s sister, after his wife’s accidental death when the twins were still babies.
“Not at all,” he said. “They are amazingly strong people. I am prouder of them than I deserve to be. They will each find their happiness when the time is right. You arenotto start worrying about them on my behalf, Viola. Or on theirs.”
“Do I do that all the time?” she asked him.
“It is one thing I love about you,” he said. “You are everything but selfish. I, on the other hand, am unabashedly selfish. I want you all to myself.”
“You do not,” she said. “You may think I am all that matters to you, but you value family as much as I do. Perhaps more, because you came near to losing your own.”
“I love you very much,” he said.
“I know.” She flashed him another smile. “You told me so last night.”
“Ah,” he said, “last night …”
But they were downstairs, and here were Harry and Lydia, both of them flushed and bright-eyed and dressed very smartly indeed, Lydia in vibrant pink, Harry in a combination of silver, gray, and white and looking both old-fashioned in his knee breeches and quite gorgeous enough to make every other man in the ballroom look at him in envy and wish that fashions could be turned back a decade or two. And to make every woman look at him with envy for his bride.
Viola enfolded Lydia in her arms while Marcel shook Harry warmly by the hand and winked at him and Mr. Winterbourne reached the bottom of the stairs.
He opened his arms to Lydia and gathered her to him even as he reached out one hand to shake Harry’s.
“I believe my Lydie is in good hands after all, my boy,” he said. “Sons are a precious gift, but daughters are a treasure beyond price. Look after her.”
Harry’s eyes twinkled. “I will, sir,” he promised. “Though I believe Lydia has plans to look after me.”
Lydia slipped her hand through Harry’s arm as they ascended the stairs to the ballroom. He held it to his side as he clasped her hand and laced their fingers.
“I am afraid,” he said to her, “there is going to be no sneaking inside unnoticed.”
“I do not mind,” she said. “This is our wedding day. I want to savor every moment of it.”
She had savored their wedding, impressing every detail upon her memory. She had done the same with their wedding breakfast. And with the afternoon of lovemaking, which had been wonderful beyond any imagining—and would be repeated tonight, Harry had promised her when it had been imperative that they get up before his valet arrived, bringing unexpectedly with him the marchioness’s personal maid to help with her hair. She was going to savor the ball too, thankful that she had had the village assembly as a sort of rehearsal.
The sweet, heady scent of myriad flowers and perfumes met them as they reached the top of the stairs, as well as the sounds of numerous voices raised in conversation and laughter. Lydia’s father and the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester slipped into the ballroom ahead of them, and Harry’s butler—now her own too, Lydia supposed, a bit startled—indicated with one raised hand that the two of them should wait a moment and stepped into the doorway in order to nod regally in the direction of some unseen person.
A moment later there was a decisive chord from the orchestra, and the sound of conversation almost immediately faded away to silence. A single voice replaced it: the Earl of Riverdale’s.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “welcome to Hinsford and to the ball that is celebrating two events. Harry Westcott has arrived at his thirtieth birthday today. And he and Mrs. Lydia Tavernor were married this morning in the village church. Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Westcott now, if you please, and join me in wishing Harry a happy birthday.”
The orchestra struck another chord while Lydia stepped with Harry into the doorway and through it into the ballroom, to be met with a chorus of birthday greetings and applause.
