"We're wedded now. Propriety is optional."
"Propriety was always optional with you."
"True, but now it's legally optional."
The carriage started moving, taking them back to Ashbourne for the wedding breakfast, and Gabriel buried his face in Clara's neck. “It is settled, then; you have indeed made me your own.”
"Was there doubt?"
"There's always doubt when happiness is involved. I keep waiting for something catastrophic to happen."
"The catastrophe already happened. I fell in love with you."
He kissed her again, deep and thorough, and was just starting to consider whether they could skip their own wedding breakfast when the carriage pulled up to Ashbourne.
The staff had outdone themselves. The usually somber entrance hall was decorated with garlands and ribbons, and the dining room had been transformed into something magical with candles and flowers and what looked like every piece of good china the house possessed.
"Did you do all this?" Gabriel asked Mrs. Potter, who was trying to pretend she hadn't been crying.
"The staff wanted to do something special," she said gruffly. "It's not every day our duke weds for love instead of duty."
"It's not every day our duke weds at all," Cook added, appearing with a tray of champagne
The wedding breakfast was conducted entirely without incident as the guests sat together enjoying the festive atmosphere.
Mrs. Potter stood suddenly raising her glass. "I've known these two since they were children, and I've never seen two people more meant for each other or more determined to make it complicated. To Clara and Gabriel…may your matrimonial life together be as wild as your courtship but with fewer witnesses to the louder moments."
The staff all laughed, having been those witnesses, while Clara turned crimson.
Penelope Ashworth, who'd somehow talked her way into the breakfast, stood next. "I don't know you both well, but I know what I witnessed, two people brave enough to choose love over convenience, passion over propriety, and scandal over safety. In a world of arranged matrimonies and dynastic alliances, you've chosen each other. That's either madness or wisdom."
"Both," Gabriel and Clara said in unison, then laughed at their synchronicity.
As the afternoon wore on, guests began departing, leaving only the household staff and close friends. Gabriel found himself watching Clara as she talked with Mary and Cook, her face animated, her gestures expansive, his ring catching the light on her finger.
"You're staring," Edmund observed, appearing at his elbow.
"I'm allowed to stare. She's my wife."
"Still seems surreal, doesn't it?"
“In truth, Clara's entire presence is quite beyond my comprehension; I confess she seems entirely too perfectly formed for reality.”
As evening approached, the staff began the delicate process of suggesting the newlyweds might want to retire.
Gabriel pulled Clara toward the stairs before she could die of mortification entirely. "Thank you all for everything. The breakfast, the ceremony, the complete lack of discretion that's made our courtship so memorable."
"Our pleasure, Your Grace," Peter said with a perfectly straight face. "Though perhaps tonight you could aim for slightly less volume? Some of us have to work in the morning."
“I cannot make any promises,” Gabriel said, sweeping Clara up into his arms and heading for the stairs while she laughed and protested.
"I am perfectly capable of walking!"
He carried her to their room, not his room where she'd been a guest, but theirs and kicked the door shut behind them. Someone, probably Mary, had prepared the room with fresh flowers, turned down the bed, and left a handsome wine-cooler was positioned close to the grate, holding the chilled champagne.
"It's perfect," Clara said softly as Gabriel set her on her feet.
"You're perfect."
