“Try harder.”
“Christ, you’re a little minx,” he growled.
“Are you certain you wish to marry me, my lord?”
He’d never been more certain of anything. His desire for her was like alchemy: it defied logic and yet even learned men could not resist its lure.
“I’m certain,” he said. “By the by, you may call me Hawk. Or Thomas, if you prefer.”
“Hawk.” She blushed, looking sensual and innocent at once. “Then I am Fiona.”
“My dear Fiona.” Saying her name expanded his chest with proprietary pride. “Shall I speak to your father?”
Her face was radiant with promise. “Yes, please.”
Ten
“It’s almost time.” Smoothing her white satin skirts, Fi checked the looking glass in a guest suite of the Hartefords’ town house. “How do I look?”
Her maids of honor were Livy, Glory, and Pippa, the fourth Angel who’d just returned from a country sojourn with her husband Timothy Cullen. The trio smiled in unison, looking fetching in gowns of peach-colored silk, matching blossoms in their hair.
“Like a thousand hearts breaking,” Glory declared. “Hawksmoor will be the envy of men.”
The last week had passed in a blink. After Fi and Hawk’s discussion in the garden, Hawk had spoken to her papa. The men had spent a long time locked in the study, ratcheting up Fi’s anxiety.
After the earl’s departure, Papa had asked her,“Are you certain Hawksmoor is the husband you want, Fiona?”
It was a bittersweet irony that her father was finally trusting her to make her own decisions.
She’d affirmed her choice.
With a grave nod, Papa had clasped her shoulder.“Then I believe you have made a good choice, my dear. Hawksmoor strikes me as a steady and honorable fellow. Moreover, his prospects are excellent and not merely because of his title. The fellow understands the value of diversifying one’s portfolio.”
From her father, this was lavish praise indeed. Mama and Max, who both tended to like everyone, took a special liking to Hawk. From Lady Helena, Mama learned Hawk’s teatime favorites and had them prepared for his visits. Hawk and Max hit it off, talking about their favorite museums, and Hawk even promised to show Max his computation machine.
Hawk’s family had welcomed Fiona with equal warmth. Lady Helena was as kind-hearted as Fi’s own mama, and the Marquess of Harteford’s austerity reminded Fi of Hawk. Hawk’s younger brothers, George and Henry, were a merry duo whose antics made Fi laugh. Hawk’s twin Jeremiah was charming as always, and Fi had enjoyed a cozy chat with his pretty blonde wife Effie.
Effie had admired Fi’s gown, bemoaning the fact that, after her second child, she felt like a sausage being squeezed into the latest styles. Fi shared her philosophy that fashion should flatter the wearer and not the other way around. She was certain that Mrs. Quinton—Mrs. Q to intimates—could show Effie’s lovely curves to advantage, and Effie had been over the moon when Fi offered to secure her an appointment with the exclusive modiste.
While their families had questioned their decision to marry by special license, Fi and Hawk had held firm to their plan. Relenting, the families had put the full force of their social power behind the marriage. The Hartefords had offered their house for the intimate ceremony. Fi’s mama and Lady Helena had worked together to cover the haste of the wedding with the gloss of romantic impetuosity.
The mamas’ plan appeared to be working. Gossip raged about the unexpected love match, with several wags claiming they had predicted it after Fi and Hawk’s passionate waltz. The engagement was being compared to a faerie tale. The small and exclusive wedding, to which only family and close friends had been invited, was hailed as the event of the Season. Indeed, footmen had to shoo away curious onlookers hoping to get a glimpse of the bride and groom.
Everything is going according to plan,Fi thought with satisfaction.
“Your dress is breathtaking.” Pippa, a sunny blonde, bent to straighten the train. “I cannot believe Mrs. Q created it in less than a week.”
Gazing at her reflection, Fi had to agree. While she’d wanted a quick wedding, her vanity had demanded that she look her best. Fortunately, her bruise had healed, and her bridal gown was a testament to Mrs. Quinton’s genius.
Constructed of ivory satin, the off-the-shoulder dress had a fitted, elongated bodice and a deep flounce of priceless Belgian lace on the frothy skirts. The same lace trimmed the short train and bodice. Fi’s hair had been dressed in a coronet studded with diamond pins and garnished with fresh orange blossoms.
She’d kept her jewelry simple. The engagement ring Hawk had given her—a large oval sapphire framed by diamonds—sparkled on her finger. In keeping with tradition, she also wore a pearl bracelet borrowed from her mama and a sapphire brooch gifted by Lady Harteford.
“Since Mrs. Q has created weapon-proof corsets for us,” Livy said with a grin, “I’m certain designing a wedding dress poses little challenge. Unless the dress has special features that we are not aware of?”
“According to Mrs. Q, this dress has the most special feature of all,” Fi said impishly.
“Is it waterproof? Fireproof?” Glory guessed.
