If she thought this would shock her family, she had been wrong.
“Of course you are,” Dara said. “Mr. Steele is the only one for you.” She turned to him. Opening her hands in welcome, she said, “It will be nice to know where you are from now on, Mr. Steele. Or are you going to expect my sister to live above that tavern by the docks with you?”
“Please call me Beckett,” he answered, before tucking a wild curl of Gwendolyn’s wind-tousled hair behind her ear. “And no, I have a home in mind that I believe will please us both. There will be no tavern involved.”
“Good,” Dara said. “Please, sit and join us.”
“Should I be asking brotherly questions right now?” Michael queried.
Winderton nodded. “I wondered the same thing. However, I know my wife.”
“As I know mine,” Michael agreed. “Steele, prepare for the questions. Winderton and I will enjoy watching.”
Elise waved them off, dismissing them as “The two of you,” before turning her attention to Beckett, who was now seated by Gwendolyn at the table. Herald offered them both plates with fresh bread, butter, and a bit of sirloin. It smelled delicious because they were both famished. “I have only one question,” Elise continued. “Do you care for her?”
“I love her,” Beckett replied without hesitation.
Gwendolyn smiled up at him, her love bringing tears to her eyes.
Elise turned to their sister. “I think, Dara, they managed that kiss we prevented in Dublin.”
“Oh, by the looks of them, they managed more than a kiss,” Tweedie assured them, and everyone laughed, especially when Gwendolyn confirmed their suspicions by blushing. Even Beckett had a bit of red in his cheeks.
“See what I tolerate?” she told Beckett.
“A family,” he acknowledged, and then he smiled. “It is not a bad bargain.”
News began arriving from Colemore. The most important piece of information was that the Marquess of Middlebury had died. They said he’d collapsed, just as his brother had years ago.
Gwendolyn saw the notice in the paper about his death. Ellisfield would soon be even more eligible than before. Beckett had liked him. She had thought him a decent man and hoped he was truly not like his parents.
There were other rumors. Three days after Gwendolyn’s return, Dara came home from a meeting of the ladies’ church guild to report, “It is said you eloped to Scotland, Gwendolyn.”
“That can’t be true. I’m right here.” She stood on a stool while Elise, the best hemmer in the family, sewed a flounced hem to the pale yellow muslin gown Gwendolyn would wear for her wedding. Beckett had acquired a special license, and they would be sharing their vows on the coming Tuesday.
“Which was exactly what I told them,” Dara replied. “I know how rumors start. And I know how to put an end to them.”
“With the truth?” Gwendolyn suggested, and Dara smiled her agreement.
“Although,” Elise said, taking the straight pins from her mouth, “the idea of a Lanscarr doing something so scandalous might delight some people.”
“Not if they knew who she was truly marrying,” Dara responded.
For a moment, Gwendolyn’s heart gave a start. Could Dara have learned about Beckett being the true marquess?
Then Dara declared gleefully, “The mysterious Mr. Steele.” She sounded delighted that such a dubious figure would soon be in the family.
“Then you approve of him?” Gwendolyn asked.
Dara’s expression softened. “I can be overly protective,” she admitted. “I just want what is best for you. However, he has come up to scratch, and the more I know of him, the more I’m convinced he will make a very fine husband.”
That evening at dinner, Michael mentioned that Beckett had asked him to stand with him for the vows.
“He also asked Winderton,” Elise said.
Gwendolyn looked to the duke, who had just put a spoonful of soup in his mouth. He shrugged and nodded.
“Who will stand with you?” Dara said, giving Gwendolyn a pointed look and holding out her hands to say she was willing.
