Magical Weddings (108 page)

Parker’s reflection in the window gave him a disapproving frown, and to keep his staff from quitting his employ, Bennett turned aside and gave the man a distinct wink.

Parker’s eyes bulged momentarily, then he got hold of himself and stood. “Come, gentlemen. Let us leave these two to their negotiations.”

Bennett inclined his head and turned to face the face he loved.

“Bennett, listen.” She didn’t wait for the room to clear. “I don’t want your money. In fact, here is a card with your fifteen thousand on it.” She pulled a MasterCard out of her purse and tossed it on the table. “What I want is that second chance. I don’t care if you have a policy against it or something. Give me one anyway. Forget the napkin. It was just a joke. I thought I might need an excuse to get past your guards or something.”

She reached in her purse again and pulled out the cream square he remembered so fondly. The way she placed it on the table and patted it told him she cherished that memory as well.

“Look. I know it’s sudden. I know we haven’t really spent much time together, but if you count all the hours you’ve been in my dreams, we have been dating for a good two months.” Her hands began to fidget. “I would have come sooner, but it took a while to get a passport—”

“Enough.” He faced the window and tried to get his adrenaline under control. He tugged on his cuffs. Shrugged his shoulders. Tugged on his cuffs again, trying to think of the perfect thing to say—something she might always remember. “I’m calling your bluff, Mallory. I don’t want out of the contract.” He swung around to savor all the emotion he read clearly on her face. “I can’t get you out of my mind. No matter where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing, I think of you. Every flower smells like you. Every arrangement looks a little lacking without your touch. My life is lacking without your touch, darling Mallory. And I may well go mad if I don’t kiss you very soon.”

She smiled sweetly and beckoned him to her with her finger.

He walked purposefully around the table, tapping a finger along the edge as he went, drawing out the exquisite anticipation. When he’d risen that morning and braced himself for the journey into the city, he’d had no idea his life was about to fall into alignment, that all his direst wishes were about to come true.

He pulled her to her feet, then leaned down until their lips fell into each other.

“Like magnets,” she murmured against his lips.

“Exactly.”

The second kiss was less tame. They ended up pressed against the wall again.

After he caught his breath, he leaned his forehead against hers and looked into her eyes. “Of course, if I turn out to be a true ass hat, if you find you don’t care for me as much as you have in these dreams of yours, I will understand. At any time, you can simply tell me to…kiss your arse…and I will at least
attempt
to let you go.”

“I have a better idea,” she said and pointed to her mouth. “Why don’t you kiss this instead?”

Bennett threw an anniversary party for Pemberly and her husband, Jordan, at Harmony Lodge the following December. The weather was fine with no need for snow plows. No sleighs or helicopters filled the parking lot, and the causeway was clear. The tables were graced with simple, tasteful arrangements created by London. The food was sublime. And for dessert, the young couple ate stale, slightly frozen wedding cake that had, once upon a time, sat eight feet in the air. The rest of the guests were served the fresh stuff.

Well, all but two.

Bennett and Mallory St. John enjoyed a layer of slightly frozen wedding cake of their own. In the competition to eat the most of it, the wife won, but only because she was four months pregnant and had been dreaming of that very layer of cake for all of those four months.

“I promise you,” Bennett told Mallory, “you may have more cake in March, darling.”

“What?” She looked positively horrified. “I have to wait three months to have cake again? You’re already putting me on a diet?”

Bennett laughed. “No, silly.” He kissed her on the tip of her nose. “We will eat the top layer of our own wedding cake then.”

She looked a little disappointed. “Ours was much smaller.”

Bennett laughed again, knowing Mal didn’t care about the size. It was only her appetite talking. Or maybe their son’s appetite.

Pem’s head came between them, just as he leaned over to kiss Mal’s neck. “Oops. Sorry.” She laughed. “First of all, I’m to tell you that London would like her own English gentleman when you get around to thinking about someone other than yourselves—her words, not mine. And I was wondering if you two ever figured out what happened to that old man, the one who was here on the island with you during my wedding reception.” She placed a photo album on the table between the plates and flipped it open. “The photographer found these in his digital files last week and sent them on to me. I can’t find a picture of an old man in a livery costume.”

Bennett scanned through the small collection, pleased to see proof of one of the most memorable nights of his life. When they weren’t looking, Ferguson must have made free with the photographer’s equipment as he had with the harp. There were pictures of Mallory and himself standing before the grand fireplace, dancing along the line of arched windows, and feeding each other cake from the partially dissembled cake. If memory served, however, the old man had disappeared from the island before they’d eaten the cake.

He looked sharply at Mallory. She seemed to be realizing the same detail. Her eyes were round and alarmed. “Who?” She swallowed her latest bite of cake. “Who took this picture?”

Bennett laughed, knowing his answer was going to thrill her.

“I think old Ferguson must have been…a ghost.”

L.L. Muir lives in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains with a charming husband who makes her laugh, but does
not
make her do pans. Like most authors, she is constantly searching for, or borrowing pens. The best ideas always begin on a napkin. You can reach her through her website:
www.llmuir.weebly.com
.

Jennifer Gilby Roberts

Copyright © 2015 by:

Jennifer Gilby Roberts

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.

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“I fear, my daughter, that this will have to be your last season.”

Juliana Stanley dropped her head a little as she stood before her father in his study. So, this was it. She had suspected it was coming, but still…

“It will be your third, after all. Next year your sister Catherine will come out, two years after that Jane and then there are Louisa and Emily. Your mother is concerned that if it appears we cannot marry you off the others will not take either, and I am forced to concede that she has a point.” Her father took off his eye-glasses and rubbed his temples. “You know I do not wish you to marry someone you cannot respect, but I must consider your sisters’ futures as well.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Ana knew how fortunate she was. Most of her peers had no say in whom they married. To permit a daughter to turn down three acceptable proposals of marriage would be deemed dangerously indulgent, if not a sign of hereditary madness.

She did not consider herself to have unreasonably high expectations. All she had asked was that her husband was younger than her father, had a functioning moral compass and did not make her feel as if she had lice crawling all over her body when he was close by. Unfortunately, none such had proposed.

“Then there is the expense.” Sir William Stanley wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “My investments have done well, but with five daughters to bring out and provide dowries for…” He sighed. “Squire Porter came to see me just before we came to town. He intends to marry again as soon as he is out of mourning and asked about you.”

Ana stiffened and dug her nails into her hands.

“I know he is some years older than you, and already has children—”

He could not be less than twice her age and had four unruly–and exceedingly ill-mannered–boys under the age of seven.

“—but he is a kind and respectable gentleman. You would not need to fear marriage to him.”

No, because he had a backbone like a
soufflé
and was so weedy he struggled to keep his feet in a strong wind.

“I told him you would have your season as planned, but should you return unmarried once again…”

Ana nodded and tried to buoy up her sinking heart. Every season brought a new crop of men to town in need of wives–or rather legitimate sons and/or money–and she had a reasonable dowry, good health and child-bearing hips. Give that she was also accounted attractive, could conduct herself appropriately and had no scandal attached to her name, she should have a good chance of making a decent match.

That was, if her mother could be persuaded to lower her expectations…

****

“Viscount Chester is a possibility,” Lady Stanley said, head slightly tilted to one side as she consulted her list. “He will, after all, be an earl eventually. But his father is relatively young and is looking provokingly healthy, so that could be a long time coming.”

Ana sighed inwardly and did her best not to fidget. Her mother had called her into the drawing room as soon as she had left her father’s office to continue what the Stanley girls affectionately called the Lecture Tour.

“I have heard a rumour that the Earl of Denver may be looking for a bride. Of course he is not the most appealing of men, what with that hunchback and the growth on his neck, but otherwise his credentials are impeccable.”

It was no good. Ana rose as gracefully as she could and tried to make pacing look like taking a turn about the room.

“Naturally your first choice should be the Duke of―”

“Mother,” Ana said, as gently as she could, “if I was likely to get a title, I think I would have got one two years ago. We will be accused of overreaching. I am only a Miss, so most likely I will marry a plain old Mr.”

Lady Stanley sighed, the corners of her mouth drooping. “Perhaps, but it would be such a disappointment. And what hope have the others of making a good match, if you do not? What a waste of your looks! Not to mention your dowry.” She heaved another, greater sigh and sat limply down on the chaise. “Oh, Ana, I am sure if you would only try…”

Ana wanted to protest that she did try, but knew it was no use. Her mother would never accept Ana had tried her hardest to make a good catch unless a titled gentleman slid a wedding ring onto her finger.

Perhaps she would have more luck if she acted the typical undemanding and empty-headed young debutante. She had once thought that gentlemen would value a modicum of intelligence in a wife–if only because it might be passed on to their children–but it seemed not.

“Perhaps I should ask Harriet for advice,” she said, glancing restlessly out of the window.

Lady Stanley sat up straight. “What an excellent idea, I cannot imagine why I did not think of it before! Your cousin has nothing you have not got and she landed an earl. Call on her this afternoon and under no circumstances leave without discovering her secret!”

****

“Harriet, I have already had my dresses made for this season,” Ana protested again, as they walked along the street.

“But Madame Lenard is no ordinary
modiste
,” Harriet said, tucking her arm more firmly into Ana’s. “She is a magician, I swear to you. She made the gown I was wearing the night I waltzed with Charles and we both know where that led!”

Ana was tempted to say, “To the orangery?” but held her peace. If no one found out and you married the man, it did not much matter if you were compromised.

“And your mother agreed, after all.”

Ana suspected her mother would have agreed to a dozen new dresses if she thought it would make a difference.

“She can work miracles,” Harriet said, eyes dreamy. “Just think, you could become a countess too. Maybe even a duchess!”

“I do not need a title.”

“Oh, I know that. And I would have married Charles just the same without one. But if you did happen to fall madly in love with a titled gentleman, it would help your family would it not?”

“Lower your voice,” Ana murmured, as they reached their destination. “Or it will take more than a magic dress to marry me off.”

They made their way into the
modiste
’s unassuming establishment. Ana took in the dust and shabby
décor
as they climbed the narrow stairway and whispered, “Are you quite certain this is the place?”

“Trust me,” Harriet whispered back. “We discovered her quite by accident. She is still almost unknown, but by next season only the cream of the
ton
will be able to afford her. Her work is magic.”