Once Upon A Dream (13 page)

"You need not justify yourself," he said. "Will you come with me to that clearing among the trees where we kissed a few days ago?"

She drew a slow and audible breath.

"But only if you wish," he added.

"Oh," she said with a sigh, "I do indeed wish, Michael."

They walked there, their arms still about each other, and he shrugged out of his evening coat and spread it on the grass. She could not even remember those
other times with Gregory—it had happened twice. But she did not want to remember. That was then and with the love of her youth. This was now with the
love of her heart.

He loved her slowly and thoroughly after they had lain down together, his mouth and his hands caressing her through her clothing and beneath it while she
touched him and felt all the warm, firm splendor of his man's body and all the wonder of knowing that they would spend the rest of their lives together. He
did not unclothe her, only lifted her gown and removed essential items before unbuttoning the flap of his evening breeches and freeing himself. He came
over onto her, cushioning her with his hands against the hardness of the ground, and when he entered her, he did so firmly but slowly, giving her time to
adjust to the shock of the intimacy.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured against her mouth, And while she smiled at the extravagance of the word, she believed it too. She was neither pretty
nor young, but at the moment she knew herself to be beautiful, for she was both lovable and loved and there was no better feeling in the world. Especially
when she returned that love unconditionally and for all time. It did not matter that they had known each other for only a couple of weeks. It just did not
matter.

He was a wonderful, skilled, patient lover. He took his time and gave her time while pleasure built to something that was almost painful and then burst
into something beyond pain or pleasure while she felt him still and deep and hot in her and she shuddered into a relaxation more complete than any she had
ever known.

"Ah, my love." His voice was deep against her ear.

"Mmm." She smiled.

They lay side by side, gazing up at moon and stars, dozing a little. An owl was hooting some distance away. There was the faint sound of music from the
direction of the house. There was the soft lapping of water against the bank. Her fingers were laced with his again. The fingers of her other hand briefly
touched the betrothal ring beneath the bodice of her gown, and she smiled a sad and final farewell to an old and precious love. Tonight she would remove
the chain from about her neck. Tonight there was a new love, a new dream.

"It is going to have to be soon," he said, turning his face toward hers.

"Is it?" She had not even disentangled herself from her school yet. Reality was beginning to intrude.

"Georgette and Robert are going to be
very
impatient when they know we are betrothed," he said. "Not to mention ecstatic. And I might just have
impregnated you, Eleanor. No, do not protest, as I suspect you are about to do, that you are too old. I would wager you are not. Most important of all, I
do not want to wait and neither, I hope, do you. We may have the banns read here, if you insist, and wait a month. Or I will fetch a special license and we
will marry within a week and you will come home with us. We will deal with your school together, or you may deal with it alone. But as a married lady,
Eleanor. Tell me you choose the special license."

"Within a week?" She gazed into his face though it was in shadow.

"I know it seems an eternity," he said.

She laughed. "Are you always so impulsive?" she asked.

"No." She saw the flash of his teeth before he closed the distance between them and kissed her again. "Say yes."

"Yes," she said.

"We will tell your mother and sisters and the children in the morning before I dash away in pursuit of a license," he said. “Georgette may not stop
talking until I return. I give you fair warning and apologize in advance."

"And I give you fair warning," she said, "that I will not stop listening to her and to Robert for a lifetime. Or loving them. I apologize in advance."

He slid his arm beneath her neck and turned her against him. "But tonight," he said, "I am selfishly delighted to have our happiness all to ourselves. I do
love you, Eleanor. I would marry you twenty times over even if I had no children who needed you and schemed shamefully to get you."

"But once will be quite sufficient," she told him.

The moonlight had caught his face, and she could see the kindness, the happiness in his eyes and the curve of a smile on his lips. She gave him back the
same look.

They were dreaming the same dream, she thought. Except that it was not a night dream. Rather, it was a life dream and would carry them through all the
highs and lows of marriage and of life itself. She had never been more sure of anything in her life.

"I must get you back to the ballroom," he said.

"Yes."

But he kissed her again, and it was a full half hour later before an avidly curious gathering of relatives and friends were able to see that yes, indeed,
there
was
a romance between those two.

Probably more than a romance.

Five days after the birthday celebrations for Wulfric, Duke of Bewcastle, the grand medieval hall was again being set up for yet another banquet. This time
the occasion was the wedding of the duchess's sister, Miss Eleanor Thompson, to Michael, Earl of Staunton. But the lavish breakfast would not be served
until after the nuptial service in the village church and that would not begin for another half hour.

Wulfric awaited the appearance of his sister-in-law. Christine and Hazel and their mother had told him a few minutes ago that she was ready and would be
down almost immediately. All three of them had looked a bit dewy-eyed as he had escorted them outside and handed them into the carriage that awaited them.
They were the last of the guests to leave. The others had gone earlier, adults and children alike—all the children, even the babies, including Lady
Caroline Bedwyn, Wulfric's own three-month old.

Eleanor had asked him if he would give her away at her wedding. The problem of which of her two favorite brothers-in-law she should ask was made
considerably easier for her, she had explained, her eyes twinkling, after Charles had agreed to Michael's request that he co-celebrate the nuptials with
the local rector.

Staunton had asked Wulfric rather late on the evening of the birthday ball to make the betrothal announcement. He had also asked, before the announcement
was made, if the wedding could be solemnized here in the village church just as soon as he could fetch a special license and talk to the rector. The whole
thing had been remarkably easy to arrange. The rector and his wife had been at the ball, and he had agreed with a hearty rubbing of his hands to officiate
at the happy event at a moment's notice, provided the groom arrived at the church with the proper documentation and preferably with a ring for the bride's
finger. He had been equally delighted to include the Reverend Charles Lofter in the service. And as for the rest—well, Christine was Wulfric's
duchess. No more needed to be said.

Staunton had left Lindsey Hall at the crack of dawn the morning after the ball, having first woken his children to explain the situation to them. He had
returned yesterday, early in the afternoon, and the assembled Bedwyns and their spouses and the Lofters and the other house guests, all of whom had stayed
with the obvious exceptions of Lady Connaught and Miss Everly, had been informed that today would be the day.

When Eleanor stepped into the great hall and glanced about her at all the bustle of preparation and then looked at Wulfric, it occurred to him that she
looked at least five years younger than she had the first time he had seen her. It was not that she was dressed like a blushing bride fresh out of the
schoolroom. Indeed, he would be very surprised if he had not seen that blue dress on her more than once before. And her hair was not dressed any more
elaborately than usual. The brim of her bonnet had been newly trimmed with what looked like fresh flowers, it was true, and she was carrying a small posy
of matching flowers in one gloved hand. But it was none of those things that had stripped years from her age.

It was—indeed it had to be because Christine had told Wulfric so a number of times during the past few days, and he would not have dreamed of arguing
with his duchess upon a matter in which she was a self-styled expert—it was, in fact, love.

And though he looked upon his sister-in-law with his customary austere expression and with silver eyes that very rarely hinted at any warmth he might be
feeling within, nevertheless Wulfric regarded her with affection and approval. A bride ought to be in love with her bridegroom, just as a groom ought to be
in love with his bride.

He knew it from personal experience.

"You are looking very fetching, Eleanor," he told her, offering his arm.

"You are kind, Wulfric," she said. "My mirror tells me I will do—provided, that is, we proceed to the church without any delay before my flowers
wilt."

It was the sort of reply he might have expected of her—though she proceeded to spoil the effect almost immediately. "Oh," she said, taking his arm
and clutching it, "is it natural to feel so very nervous?"

He led her from the house to the waiting carriage. "I do believe," he said, "it would be quite
unnatural
not to."

The village church was quite respectably full though only two members of the congregation belonged to Michael. They were enough. Eleanor had expressed
concern about it and had offered to be patient and wait until all his relatives and any particular friends of his could be summoned. He had been unwilling
to wait any longer, however. He had fallen unexpectedly in love and he did not want to delay any part of his future. His children had also fallen in love,
and making them wait might have provoked a near mutiny.

Georgette was out of sight at the back of the church with the Duchess of Bewcastle and Mrs. Lofter. She was wearing a new pink party dress he had bought
hurriedly in London, hoping it would fit her and be something of which she approved. He had been fortunate on both counts. She had a task to perform today.
She was to walk down the nave of the church behind Eleanor, and she was to stand beside her during the service to hold her flowers and her gloves.

Robert, dressed in his new clothes, was seated against Michael's side in the front pew. Mrs. Harris had plastered his hair to his head before they left the
house, but by now it was its usual blond fuzz—rather like a halo. Robert too had a task to perform. Michael had dispensed with the offices of a best
man. His son would stand beside him and hand him the ring when the time came. Strangely, it had not seemed to occur to Robert to be nervous about it or to
fear that he might drop the ring.

"When will Mama come?" he asked in a loud whisper. "Will I be able to call her that soon, Papa?"

"Very soon," Michael said as a slight bustle at the back of the church heralded the appearance of Lofter and the rector, who gave the signal for the
congregation to stand. The organ struck a chord.

And she came toward him along the nave, her arm drawn through Bewcastle's. And Michael, far from feeling nervous, felt a rush of gladness that a certain
thunderstorm had stranded them together at the same small inn three weeks ago—was it really no longer ago than that?—and that Georgette had
invited herself to take tea with Eleanor in the dining room. It was true that they would have met anyway and spent two weeks at the same house party here,
but would they have made the connection if it had not been for that storm? Would the children have made the connection?

She looked familiar, beautiful, dearly beloved, and he felt himself smiling warmly at her even as she smiled at him.

Robert, he could feel, was clutching one of the tails of his coat. Georgette was peeping around Eleanor and beaming at him.

They turned together to face the clergymen. And so it began—their new life together, a new dream to replace the old. No, not to replace it—to
add
to it. For they had both sincerely loved before and they had both suffered loss. They had both mourned and would forever remember. But now,
today, there was another dream to promise present and future happiness.

Nervousness fled as soon as Eleanor stepped inside the church and saw Christine and Hazel awaiting her there and Georgette, her face alight with
excitement. She was actually jumping up and down on the spot, her pink froth of a dress notwithstanding.

"I am going to hold your gloves and your flowers," she said, "and I am not going to crease the gloves or crush the flowers or drop anything, and I
am—"

Eleanor cupped her face with her hands and kissed her.

"I know, sweetheart," she said, recognizing terrible nervousness when she saw it. "But it would not matter dreadfully even if you did do any of those
unspeakable things."

And then, as she made her way along the nave on Wulfric's very sturdy arm and saw Michael waiting for her, looking immaculate and elegant in black and
snowy white, it was the happiness and the kindness in his face that struck her more than anything else. She had never in her life done anything more right
than what she was doing now, she thought. She had never been happier—and she was not even married yet.

Robert, clutching one of the tails of his father's coat, was peering around his leg, his eyes wide, his hair wild and adorable.

And then the nuptial service began, and while Eleanor was still trying to concentrate upon and savor every single moment of it, it was over and Charles,
beaming kindly from one to the other of them, was informing them that they were man and wife. Eleanor thought she might well burst with happiness.

"Papa," a whispered voice asked, "may we call her Mama now?"