As she neared, he felt blessed—amazingly, astoundingly blessed.
She was all and everything he wanted and needed; he felt faintly giddy as she covered the last few feet. When she halted a mere foot away, he drew in a much-needed breath. He couldn’t drag his eyes from her face, from the glint of dark eyes he could see through the screen of her delicate veil.
She was a picture; she was a fantasy. His fantasy. And soon to be his forever more.
He held out his hand, and her father transferred her hand from his sleeve to Julian’s clasp. He fought not to clench his fingers around hers and only lightly grasp.
Then he and she, together, side by side, turned to face Reverend Fairweather, who held the living of St. Mary’s Church in Wirksworth and was beyond thrilled to be officiating that day.
The ceremony passed in a blur; the familiar phrases and Julian’s straightforward responses required so little thought they didn’t distract his senses from their fixation on his bride.
Felix and Damian stood alongside him in silent support, and when the time came, Felix produced the simple gold band, and Julian took it and slid it carefully onto Melissa’s delicate finger.
And then the reverend, beaming, pronounced them man and wife.
Julian’s heart leapt. He turned to Melissa and saw the same riotous mix of joy, hope, eagerness, and impatience that surged through him shining in her deep-blue eyes.
He drew her to him as she moved to close the distance. Without conscious direction, his arms encircled her and drew her closer still as he bent his head, and they kissed.
Their first kiss as husband and wife, as a couple committed to forging a shared life.
This, then, was their beginning, and he felt it in his bones.
Her lips moved beneath his, and the promise that welled in the simple caress made his head spin.
Stunned, grateful, and uplifted all at once, he raised his head, and they drew back from the kiss.
For one shining moment, there was only him and her, standing in the shaft of light that shone through the chapel’s rose window in celestial benediction. Lost in the other’s eyes, they savored the moment, then as the rustling of the congregation intruded, he and she shared a private smile and, as one, turned to face their world.
For the first time as Julian’s countess, Melissa faced his family and hers with a mix of giddy delight, unalloyed happiness, and a deeply rooted confidence in him and herself—in their ability to make their marriage into all they wished it to be.
That confidence lived so powerfully within her, it armored her in strength and serenity as Julian wound her arm in his, and they stepped down into the nave, where their eager well-wishers waited to mob them.
In seconds, they were surrounded and being congratulated and lauded on all sides. People pressed close to kiss her cheek or her free hand, while others pressed or pumped Julian’s hand or slapped him on the back.
The noise was Babel-like; it was difficult to know who said what, much less remember each encounter.
Eventually, Julian’s mother—now the dowager countess—clapped her hands, and into the momentary silence, in a stentorian voice, Julian’s uncle Frederick directed everyone to repair to the ballroom, “Where our celebrations will continue!”
Everyone happily fell in, and at the encouragement of all there, Julian guided Melissa to the head of the crowd, and unable to stop smiling, they led the guests out of the chapel, along the corridor into the castle’s central section and—accompanied by cheers and applause from the assembled staff—on into the grand ballroom that took up the rear of that wing.
The wedding breakfast that followed proved to be a time of untrammeled joy, much to the very real relief of Julian, Melissa, Felix, and Damian, all of whom, regardless of their duties and nonstop demands on their time, beneath their genuinely delighted façades, remained alert, on guard, and ready to react.
Since Melissa’s arrival at the castle, she and Julian had managed only a very short interlude together. He’d offered to show her the rose garden, an excursion their elders had thought sufficiently romantic to allow them to venture forth on alone, albeit within sight of the house. While he and she had strolled amid the rioting blooms, he’d told her about the incident in his study. She’d been horrified, but on returning to the house, the pandemonium of last-minute preparations had swept her up, and she hadn’t had time to even think of the incident.
Now, as they circled the ballroom floor in the wedding waltz, she waited until they’d completed their first solo circuit and other couples had joined them so they were less on show, then with her expression still one of delighted joy, she smiled at her husband and asked, “Nothing more’s happened, has it?”
Involuntarily, her hand tightened on his shoulder; she was so very grateful he’d survived the latest attack. Attack by bookcase; it was hard to credit, let alone accept.
His expression a mask of all the emotions their guests expected to see, he replied, “No. No reports of any unusual activity from anyone.”
In the rose garden, he’d told her that Felix and Damian would act as his lieutenants in liaising with the small army of staff and also selected friends who had been asked to be on the lookout for what they’d vaguely described as suspicious behavior. During the reception thus far, she’d noticed that the castle butler, Phelps, as well as the butler she’d met in London, Crosby, were somewhat on edge.
She said as much and added, “Crosby, especially, seems to be trying to look everywhere at once.”
“I had to leave cleaning up the detritus in the study to him and the footmen. Consequently, all the staff who came up from London to help today understand the threat is real.” Julian drew her closer as they went through the turn. Once they were revolving smoothly again, his lips quirked, and he added, “Crosby seems to have taken the incident as a personal affront.”
“Hmm. I can see that. Luckily, if any guests notice anything, they’ll put it down to the stress of the day.”
