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“I will.”

Firm. Steadfast. Clear.

They recited the binding vows in a blur, and then Reverend Goodfellow said, “The ring, please.”

Robyn fished around in his coat pocket for a moment before extracting the thin, gold band—elegant simplicity.

He slid it on Georgine’s finger.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and her pupils contracted to a pinpoint.

Had she thought he would not give her a ring?

Later, when she recovered, if she desired, she could select another, more lavish wedding ring. But somehow, Robyn didn’t think she would. Though she liked pretty things, from what he had observed of her over the years, she preferred understated elegance.

Reverend Goodfellow concluded in a flourish, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone murmured.

Beaming, her eyes bright with youthful excitement, Regina tucked her arm into the curve of Matilda’s elbow. “We are truly sisters now.”

“Indeed, we are.” Matilda gave Robyn a bright smile. “And now you have a brother too.”

A not-so-subtle hint that Regina would have to put aside any romantic notions she may have harbored for Robyn.

The reverend retired to a table, upon which sat the leather-bound parish register. “Mr. and Mrs. Fitzlloyd, Miss Thackerly, Miss Fitzlloyd, I shall need you to sign the register.”

He held up a turkey-feather quill.

Mrs. Fitzlloyd.

That had a wonderful ring to it, despite the circumstances.

Using dark gall ink, Robyn signed the register’s creamy page first, swiftly followed by the women.

Once done, he clasped Georgine’s good elbow.

“Mrs. Fennick has prepared a festive luncheon for us.” He winked. “I have it on good authority that there might be syllabub topped with fresh raspberries.”

“That sounds delicious.” A tiny spark ignited in Georgine’s eyes, and though minuscule, it gave Robyn hope.

Regina had been all too eager to share Georgine’s favorite foods, and her favorite desserts were syllabub and raspberries.

Her favorite flowers—lilies.

Favorite color—white.

Nevertheless, he had much to learn about his new wife.

He extended his arm toward the doorway. “Shall we?”

Never one to turn down a free meal, Reverend Goodfellow made a beeline toward the corridor, followed by Regina and Matilda, still arm in arm.

Robyn turned Georgine to face him and stared into her luminous eyes.

“We shall be happy, Georgine. I promise.”

“Would you care to bet on that, Robyn?”

She raised a winged eyebrow, her mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Or are the odds too risky?”

He leaned near to whisper in her ear, but her subtle perfume—sweet pea, lily, and orange blossom?—hit him with the impact of a freight wagon. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth to rein in his raging desire.

Once he wrangled his passion under control, he grinned and winked.

“I’ll take that bet, Mrs. Fitzlloyd. Name your terms, my spirited bluestocking.”

She leaned away, the merest hint of a smile playing around the edges of her mouth.

How he longed to kiss those sweet, plump lips.

“I shall have to think about it, but be warned, I never place a bet I cannot win.”