Pippa’s Emily wanted to show him her loose tooth.
The Cunningham twins gazed up at him, giggled when he winked, and dashed away, hand in hand. He was introduced to Winifred’s grandmother and her husband, the Marquess of Dorchester; to her Aunt Abby and her husband, Gil Bennington; and to her Uncle Harry Westcott and Lydia, his wife. He had a previous acquaintance, though slight in some cases, with other relatives of his wife—the Duke and Duchess of Netherby and the dowager duchess; Lord and Lady Molenor, Mrs. Cunningham’s aunt; Viscount Dirkson and his wife, the former Matilda Westcott, also Mrs. Cunningham’s aunt; Alexander and Wren Westcott, the Earl and Countess of Riverdale; Lady Hodges, the earl’s sister, and her husband. He had met the Reverend Michael Kingsley and his wife yesterday when he had called on them at the house on the Royal Crescent where he and Winifred would spend tonight. There were numerous children too. He committed to memory as many names and connections as he could. All these people, after all, were now his relatives too.
Winifred had an easier time of it since she had met his family at Ravenswood during the summer. She was engulfed in hugs whenever he glanced her way. Once she had two little ones in her arms, Ben’s Belinda and Devlin’s Awen. Gwyneth, Nicholas could see, was now noticeably increasing.
It was all a bit overwhelming. They eventually took their seatsat long tables for the wedding breakfast, the two families mixed together according to the placements Winifred and her mother had planned. The children sat at a table of their own, the older ones interspersed with the younger. There was a great deal of animated conversation and laughter, and Nicholas was glad he had insisted upon a full wedding when Winifred had tempted him with the idea of acquiring a special license. Weddings were indeed for families, to bind them together, to remind them of the value of belonging—so absent from his wife’s first nine years—and unconditional love.
They sat through speeches and toasts, and the cutting and distribution of the wedding cake, and three songs sung by the choir of children who had come with their teacher and conductor from the orphanage, where once upon a time Winifred, in a basket, had been set on the doorstep. The Duke and Duchess of Netherby, patrons of the orphanage—the duchess had grown up there and taught at the school there for a few years before the discovery of her real identity—had arranged for a grand banquet for all the children later, which they would attend, taking another wedding cake with them.
And finally, it was time to leave. Nicholas had dismissed his carriage when they arrived here and sent it back to the hotel where he had stayed last night. He would not need it again until early tomorrow afternoon. The Royal Crescent was just a short walk away, and some air and exercise would feel good. Winifred had agreed with him when he asked her before sending the carriage away.
He got to his feet, gave his hand to Winifred to draw her to hers, and acknowledged the near hush that had fallen all about them.
“Thank you,” he said. “For coming here today and for makingthis what will surely remain one of the most memorable days of our life together. We are going to leave you now, but I am sure you will all be welcome to remain here as long as you wish. We will see you all tomorrow.”
He willed them—Owen especially—to withhold any ribald or risqué comments and to refrain from following them outside. Apart from a chorus of goodbyes and good wishes and both mothers coming to the door to hug them—and shed a few tears over them—before they left, he got his wish.
And so at last, he thought as they stepped outside into the brisk sunshine of a December afternoon, they were alone, just the two of them. Husband and wife beginning their married life together.
“Win,” he said as he raised the loose hood of her cloak over her head and drew her hand through his arm. “Ah, Win.”
“Nicholas.” She laughed softly. “And sometimes that is all that needs to be said.”
“Home,” he said. “For what I predict will be a very early wedding night.”
It was unclear whether it was the cold air or his words that whipped the rosy color into her cheeks and even the end of her nose. But there would be no false modesty with Winifred. She smiled boldly at him. “Oh, yes, please,” she said.
And so it was. In the light of early dusk illuminating the window of the south-facing bedroom in the house on the Crescent, they made slow love in the large feather bed, warmed by the fire that crackled and flickered in the fireplace and, eventually, after passion had spent itself for a while at least, by the heavy down covers they had pushed aside earlier so they could see each other and move more freely in the intricate dance of intimacy.
“Win,” he murmured. “My love.”
“Mmm,” she said, smiling, her eyes closed. “Can’t hear you. I am asleep.”
“That good, am I?” he said.
“Mmm,” she said. “And me too.”
No argument there, he thought as he drifted off.
Epilogue
Almost everyone stayed for Christmas. The house up on the hill above Bath was crowded and noisy and festive with Yule log and greenery and bows and bells and filled with the rich smells that only Christmas could offer. There was the church service on the night of Christmas Eve and bright stars to light their way down into Bath and back again. There was the exchange of gifts among individual families on Christmas morning, the distribution of gifts to the servants for whom this was the busiest time of year, carol singing, dancing in the drawing room to the accompaniment of the pianoforte, games both organized and disorganized with the many children, relaxation time before a merrily blazing fire for those who could find that rare commodity, a quiet corner. And bright, endless conversation.
But after Christmas it was time to return home, and most of them were glad. Family gatherings and festivities were wonderful things and provided memories that lasted a long while, sometimes a whole lifetime. But they were high peaks in lives that were livedmostly on the plains, where there was likely to be greater peace and stability and contentment.
One could not live one’s life on the peaks, after all. They would become tedious and confining after a while.
Winifred and Nicholas were among the first to leave, early in the morning of the day after Christmas. They had a long way to go to London, though there had been no rain or snow over the holiday to slow them down, and none seemed to be in the offing.
It took a while for Winifred to turn her thoughts ahead. Leaving home had been far more heart-wrenching than she had anticipated. For of course she was not the only one involved. Mama and Papa had put a brave face on it and had smiled and hugged her. The children had been more long faced. Alice had cried, and the twins had followed suit. Jacob had looked glum and kicked the carpet, and Andrew had looked bewildered. Robbie had glowered and Nelson had nudged his hand and whined softly. Sam had told Nicholas he hated him because he had made Alice and the twins cry, and then wouldnotsay sorry even when urged to do so by his mother. Sarah’s smile had wobbled at the edges.
Home would always be home, Mama and Papa had assured Winifred. But it never would be. Not really. Nothing would ever be the same again. Everything had changed, as everything always did. It was the nature of life.
Nicholas, beside her in the carriage, took her hand and laced their fingers, and gave her time to grieve before she turned her thoughts toward the new life that was ahead of her.
And oh, it was what she wanted more than anything else. For she both loved him and wasinlove with him, and never let anyone try to tell her there was no difference between the two. She was head over heels in love with him. Three nights of passion with himhad exhausted her and filled her with energy and the yearning for more and more of his lovemaking. It was notallmarriage was made of, of course. There was far, far more. But it was quite acceptable to crave it almost more than all else during these early days, the honeymoon phase of their life together.
She marveled over the wonder of knowing she gave him every bit as much pleasure and satisfaction as he gave her.Her, plain, ordinary Winifred Cunningham. No, correct that. WinifredWare.
