Lady Gardner nodded, eyes gleeful.
Lottie nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.
She looked back up at Alex.
“What did ye say, lass?” He reached for her hand, as if the need to touch her was utterly involuntary. “I fear I need a wee bit of a confirmation myself.”
Lottie smiled.
This she could do.
It was as easy as breathing.
She squeezed his hand. “Dr. Alexander Whitaker, I, Lady Charlotte Whitaker—your distant cousin, sometime nursemaid, tutor in chess, fellow scholar, and most significantly, lover of your soul—” She pressed a hand to his chest. “—will happily accept the offer of marriage you extended to me not fifteen minutes past.”
Alex laughed. “Are ye sure, lass? Ye dinnae want tae sleep on it? It seems that certain facts have come to light over these intervening fifteen minutes that might have some bearing?”
“They do. But only to show me how deeply I trust you. How deeply I l-love you.” Lottie’s voice broke at the end.
“Ah, lass.”
“Marry me?”
“I dinnae mind if I do.”
And without waiting for anyone’s permission, Lottie threw herself into Alex’s arms and kissed him most scandalously.
27
Frome Abbey, Wiltshire
July 20, 1821
Three months later
What will ye do today, Lady Lockheade?”
Lottie smiled at her husband’s question.
Herhusband.
Lord Lockheade.
“Mmmm, must I do anything?” she replied with a laugh. “I’m rather enjoying having a long lie in with you.”
“Mmmm.” Alex cuddled her closer.
Lottie obliged, resting her head on that marvelous curve between his upper shoulder and neck, her nose pressed into his throat. He smelled of leather and wood smoke with an undercurrent of camphor.
They were snuggled together in the large bed where Alex had spent weeks recuperating. But now . . . it had become theirs—the bed they shared as husband and wife.
Lottie sometimes could not quite comprehend how thoroughly her life had changed from that January afternoon when she had watched Alex climb the front stairs to Frome Abbey.
She now wore his wedding band on her left ring finger. They had married three weeks ago in front of a large congregation of friends and family at St. George’s in Hanover Square. Lottie had choked back tears as she recited her vows, and Alex’s own voice had been suspiciously hoarse.
Bells pealed as they dashed through a shower of rice from the church to their waiting carriage. Passers-by had stopped to cheer and scramble for the copper coins Alex tossed from the open-top barouche.
After all, it wasn’t every day that Lord Lockheade married.
