Terri Brisbin (25 page)

And later, much, much later, after the wedding and the feast and the dancing were done, when the last of the guests had left or retired for the night, the new Lady Cordelia leaned from the window of her husband’s bedchamber and gazed up at the stars overhead.

“I know one is supposed to wish on the first star of the evening,” said Cordelia as Ross joined her, “but do you think it would be ill luck to wish on one now instead?”

“Not at all,” he said, slipping his arms inside the coverlet she’d draped around her bare shoulders. “I don’t know who concocted such baseless superstitions anyway.”

“Baseless or not, I don’t see the harm. I’ll wish on that one, there, the brightest that’s left.” She pointed up at the sky, closed her eyes and whispered her wish. “Now
that
should bring us all the luck in the world!”

“Except that the star you’ve chosen isn’t a star at all, but a planet.” He pulled her closer, his hands sliding up and down along her bare skin as he kissed the nape of her neck. “But since it’s the planet called Venus, I suppose I’ll let you have your wish.”

“Ha, as if even you have any control over wishes.” She laughed softly and leaned her head back against his shoulder. “But you do know, don’t you, how very, very happy you make me?”

“I’ve observed that, yes,” he said softly. “Almost as happy as you make me, my fair thespian bride. Were there ever such star-crossed lovers, indeed?”

“Star-crossed,” she said, “and now star-bound, forever and ever.”

He frowned a bit, searching for a rhyme, and cleared his
throat. “Star-crossed and star-bound, forever and ever / That nothing under that heaven or on this earth will ever find a way to sever.”

“That was dreadful.” She laughed, and so did he, and as she twisted around to face him, she arched up to kiss him again. “Now come, My Lord, take your bow, and back to bed.”

“To bed, my love,” he said. “To bed.”