"I know." She stepped into his arms, her hand finding its familiar place on his shoulder. "I am glad she sent them. Even if I wanted to end her life when I first learned of her doings."
"And now?"
"Now I want to give her a place of honor at our wedding and possibly name our first daughter after her."
Martin's eyebrows rose. "Bertha Hale? That is quite a name for a duke's daughter."
"Perhaps as a middle name, then."
"I can accept those terms." He swept her into the dance, his lead sure and steady. "Though I should warn you, if we are discussing children, I have certain opinions about names."
"Oh? Such as?"
"Nothing from the letters. You had some rather creative suggestions for what we might name our hypothetical offspring, and I feel compelled to veto 'Astrophel' before you can propose it again."
Vanessa groaned. "I was eighteen. And I had just finished reading Sidney."
"You wanted to name our son after an Elizabethan poetry character."
"It means 'star-lover.' It's romantic!"
"It is absurd. The child would never survive Eton."
"Fine. No Astrophel." She narrowed her eyes. "But I am not naming any child 'Harold' after my father. Or 'Reginald' after yours."
"Agreed. We shall find something neither star-inspired nor ancestrally obligated." He dipped her, his smile softening. "We have time to decide. We have all the time in the world."
All the time in the world. The words settled over her like a blessing.
Across the room, Martin caught her eye. He smiled that private smile, the one that was only for her and mouthed something she could not quite make out.
I cherish you,she mouthed back.
His smile widened. He turned back to Lord Haberton, but she could see the warmth in his posture, the lightness in hismovements. He was happy too. As happy as she was. As ready for this future they were building together.
Six years of waiting. Six years of silence.
And now, finally, the beginning of forever.
Epilogue
Six months later
St. George's, Hanover Square, had never looked more beautiful.
Vanessa stood in the vestibule, her heart hammering against her ribs as she peered through the crack in the doors. The pews were filled to bursting with an array of guests, just as her mother had insisted, their silks and satins creating a sea of color beneath the soaring arches. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden pools across the marble floors and illuminating the masses of white roses that adorned every surface.
Her mother had outdone herself. The flowers alone must have cost a fortune, and that was before accounting for the ribbon-wrapped candelabras, the garlands draped along the pews, and the elaborate altar arrangement that resembled nothing so much as a small garden transported indoors.
"Vanessa." Her father's voice was gentle. "The doors are about to open."
She turned to face him, suddenly breathless. Lord Wayworth looked distinguished in his finest coat, his silver hair carefully combed, his eyes suspiciously bright.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Was she ready? She had been ready for six years. She had been ready since she was sixteen years old and had watched Martin Hale walk into her family's drawing room and felt the entire axis of her world shift.
"Yes," she said. "I am ready."
