It was surely, Gwyneth thought as she gazed from the window of her bedchamber, every bride’s dream of a perfect wedding day.
And the snow had been kind enough to come at just the right time. During the past few days guests had been traveling. Some of the Wares who lived a considerable distance from Ravenswood Hallhad come to stay there. Her uncle and aunt and cousins had come from Wales to stay here, as well as Idris’s Eluned with her parents and brother. Owen Ware had come home from Oxford yesterday, his first term at an end.
And Major Nicholas Ware had arrived at Ravenswood almost on his brother’s heels. He was home on a month’s leave.
The four brothers had come to Cartref last evening. It was not Devlin, however, who had swept Gwyneth off her feet and swung her in a full circle before setting her back down and grinning at her, his arms still about her.
“Gwyn!” Nicholas had said. “Just look at you. You are as lovely as ever. But no, that is not right. You arelovelier! But you are a faithless wench nonetheless. You could not wait any longer for me, could you, but had to go and betroth yourself to my ownbrother? You have shattered my heart.”
And just look at him! He was broad chested and solid with muscle about the arms and thighs. His hair was shorter and blonder than it had used to be, his face more weathered. There was a hardness to his jaw and a military set to his shoulders. He looked fit and dangerous—and had entered the room with a slight limp. He was ten times more gorgeous than he had been as a boy, if that was possible. Gwyneth suspected he had even grown an inch or two.
“It was like this, Nick,” she had said, patting the sides of his arms in an invitation to let her go. “I was twenty-four years old and a veritable spinster. When Devlin offered for me, I thought it might be my last chance, and I took it.”
She had met Devlin’s eyes beyond Nick’s shoulder and known they were both remembering that actuallyshewas the one who had askedhim.
“Shall I challenge him to pistols at dawn?” Nicholas had asked her, still grinning—still with all the old charm. The attention ofeveryone in the room was riveted upon him. What, heaven help them all, must he look like in his scarlet regimentals?
“Better not,” she had said, patting his arms a little more briskly. “I need him intact and in church at eleven tomorrow.”
“And I need my two younger brothers intact and in the pew behind me on either side of our mother,” Devlin had said. “Ben will be beside me, making sure I do not lose Gwyneth’s ring. Or drop it.”
“He does not trust us to do it, Nick,” Owen had said.
Gwyneth had proceeded to introduce Nicholas and Owen to the Welsh contingent, and both had shaken hands and made conversation with all the famed Ware charm. Ben had smiled at everyone—he had already met them all—and Devlin had taken Gwyneth’s hand in his, raised it to his lips, and looked at her with that smile no one else would see because it was in his eyes but not on the rest of his face.
Now it was their wedding day—at last! How could Idris and Eluned bear to wait until the spring? Their wedding was planned for March 1—St. David’s Day—in Wales. “Drowning in daffodils, Gwyn,” Idris had explained when she had asked why that particular date. “And reaffirming my Welsh identity. I was born there, remember. And once a Welshman, always a Welshman, as Dad is fond of saying.”
It was her wedding day and there was snow coming down and it was Christmas. Almost Christmas, anyway. There would be a wedding breakfast at Ravenswood after the nuptials, and the children’s party tomorrow afternoon, at which she would perform her first official duty as Countess of Stratton, helping organize games and hand out gifts. She would host the event with Devlin. Christmas Day would be celebrated with both families here at Cartref. And on Boxing Day there would be a grand Christmas ball at Ravenswood, the first in six years, at which she would perform hersecond official duty and stand with her husband in the receiving line to greet their guests.
Her husband!
Sometimes she still felt that she needed to pinch herself to be sure all this was real. But what if it was not? Would she want to know? She had not pinched herself yet.
This was a moment of quiet reflection. A short while ago her dressing room had been crowded as her maid dressed her hair and everyone else handed the maid needed items or commented upon how gorgeous Gwyneth looked and how clever it was of her to have aimed for simplicity when most brides wanted to look as fussy as it was possible to look.
“It is because Gwyneth is perfectly beautiful as she is and does not need adornment,” her Welsh aunt had said, beaming at her.
“Do you think I will weep when Ifor brings her into the church?” Gwyneth’s mother had asked.
“Yes!” everyone had chorused, except the maid, who had merely smiled.
“Well, I will not, then,” her mother had said. “Just to spite you all. Come to see Gwyn, have you, Eluned? And your mam too? Yes, yes, we can make room for two more.”
But they had not stayed after exclaiming over how lovely Gwyneth looked and kissing her cheek without touching any of her curls. It was time for them to leave for the church, and Eluned’s father had told them they must be down within one minute or else.
“Mind you, Gwyneth,” Eluned had said, laughing. “I have never yet discovered what exactly Dad means when he saysor else.It is all meaningless bluster, I daresay.”
It had been time for Gwyneth’s aunt to go to church too. And time for the two bridesmaids to go and get ready themselves,especially as the third bridesmaid had just arrived. Gwyneth’s maid had gone with them to help with their hair. Her mother had gone to make sure Sir Ifor was still in possession of his sanity, and an extra linen handkerchief in the event that she would need it herself.
And Gwyneth had been left alone for a few minutes to watch the snow fall and to savor the realization that this was her wedding day. Her and Devlin’s. And she was ready.
Both her mother and Mrs. Proctor had been dubious about her choice of a wedding gown. But she had persisted, and Mrs. Proctor had outdone herself. It was of fine white wool, long sleeved, high to the neck, and falling almost straight from under her bosom. It appeared unadorned, but it shimmered with a smattering of sequins, which were otherwise almost invisible. Just yesterday the Countess of Stratton, who later today would be thedowagercountess, had presented her with an heirloom brooch in the form of a spray of flowers, the largest of which had always reminded her of the star of Bethlehem, she had told Gwyneth. It was pinned to the dress now, just below the shoulder, the one splash of color on the dress itself.
Spread across her bed was the cloak she would wear, for it was winter and a dress, even with long sleeves, would not be warm enough. The cloak was a bright scarlet velvet and bordered up the sides and around the wide hood with a thick white lamb’s wool.
She was not alone for long.
“Everyone who should have left for church has done so,” her mother said, coming into Gwyneth’s bedchamber after tapping on the door. “Dad is downstairs pacing like a caged dragon.”
