Royal Weddings(16)
And she couldn’t step back from this—from the precipice he’d brought her to—any more than he could. Not now.
Holding her gaze, he drew a deep, tight breath. “Trust me, mignonne. Place your hand in mine and step with me into the fire and the flames—and let them have us.”
She was caught in his passion, his certainty. Clung to it. “Here? Now?” She asked only to be sure. If he would accept the risk, how could she not?
He nodded. “Here. Now.”
The breath she drew was shaky. She raised her head. Nodded back. “All right.”
He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed. His eyes burned into hers. “You will never regret this.”
Her smile wobbled. “Make sure I don’t.”
He smiled and bent his head.
His lips were still curved as they met hers.
And he waltzed her into the conflagration of the fire and the flames.
Through the long hours that followed, through the searing passion and the scorching desire, she saw, again and again, that all he’d told her was true.
They were equals even in this—equally bound, equally conquered, and at the end, equally blessed.
And there was, as he’d told her, nothing to fear, because even when they reached that pinnacle beyond which there was no beginning and no end, there was always one shining truth remaining—one beacon to guide them through oblivion and back to earth, to the bliss and joy of each other’s arms.
That truth would always be with them, engraved on both their hearts. He was hers and she was his, and between them, finally set free, their love shone in all its brilliant splendor, bright, strong, passionately fierce.
The years had never dimmed it, and no years to come would see it sundered.
No threat, no weapon, could ever come between two lovers love had chosen, who had the courage to embrace and surrender to love.
June 18, 1820, 11:00 A.M., the day of the wedding
St. James Chapel, Manchester Square, London
The ceremony uniting Robert, Prince du Garde, of the House of Bourbon, and Juliette, only daughter of the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Rocher, went off splendidly, without a single hitch.
As expected, the senior groomsman handed over the vital gold ring at the appropriate moment, and countless sighs were heard as the handsome bridegroom slipped the ring on the radiant bride’s finger.
Later, outside the chapel, many guests, either while congratulating the happy couple or congratulating themselves on the felicity of being invited to attend such a signal event as a royal wedding, noted the absence of Lady Margaret Dawlish, but all assumed that her ladyship, having overseen the ceremony from some concealed spot, had rushed on to wield her magic at the ballroom in which the wedding breakfast would take place.
Fewer guests remarked on the nonattendance of the Duc de Perigord, assuming his visit to London had been fleeting, perhaps cut short, or that matters of state had intervened, keeping him busy elsewhere.
Had they but known it, all the above were true.
Luckily, none but their families knew of any reason to connect Lady Margaret’s invisibility with the Duc de Perigord’s defection, and as said families remained sunnily unconcerned, deflecting all inquiries with transparent confidence, no one in the wider ton paid the matter any heed at all.
June 18, 1820, 1:00 P.M.
Old Minstrel’s Gallery above the Ballroom, Durham House, London
“See?” From over Meg’s shoulder, Gaston looked down at the wedding breakfast in full swing in the ballroom below. “I told you they would manage perfectly well without us.”
Meg scanned the faces. “God only knows what happened at the ceremony.”
“Do you see any unhappy faces there, mignonne? No. Because all went perfectly, exactly as you had arranged.”
Meg glanced at him, eyes faintly narrow. “I hate it when you’re right.”
He grinned at her. “You will have to learn to get used to it—just as you did last night.”
Meg felt a blush climb up her throat and into her cheeks at the reminder of exactly what had filled their night, and most of their morning, too, resulting in her missing the only royal wedding she’d ever organized.
Not that she truly minded; Gaston, and all he’d shown her, was more than adequate compensation.
But it hadn’t been until fifteen minutes ago that she’d realized that none of their respective families had expected them to make an appearance at the ceremony, or indeed, at the breakfast. She and Gaston had slipped into the house through a side door, and gone straight to her room so she could change. He had a yacht standing by to catch the afternoon tide, and she had agreed to go with him.
On entering her room, she’d come to an abrupt halt. Gaston, following, had propelled her farther in and shut the door. Leaving her gawping at her traveling trunks, all packed and ready, waiting.