“That was probably the shortest, most ungainly waltz ever danced,” he said.
“And that was perhaps the shortest, most glorious kiss ever enjoyed beneath the mistletoe,” she said.
He rested his cheek briefly against her dark curls. “I loved you before I left here in the summer, Samantha,” he said. “I did not mean to fall in love with you. It did not seem quite fair when I came with you to protect you. But it happened anyway. And my feelings have not changed.”
“Oh, you provoking man,” she said after several moments of silence between them while the waltz proceeded in the ballroom beyond their little haven. “How dare you stop there. You cannot stop there, Ben.”
He turned his head and grinned down at her. “I was giving you the chance to stop me if you did not want me to embarrass myself further,” he said.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I want you to embarrass yourself.”
“Wretch,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
He heard her swallow.
“Hmm,” she said, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual. “Let me see. I will have to think about this.”
“Right,” he said. “I will go away for another six months while you do so.”
She laughed softly and lifted her head so that she could turn her face to his. Her eyes were shining, he could see in the light of the chandeliers beyond the alcove. Shining with unshed tears.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
They gazed at each other for a few moments, and then they were in each other’s arms again and laughing—oh, yes, and shedding more than a tear apiece too.
“I love you,” she said, her breath warm against his ear. “Oh, Ben, I have missed you. I have missed you so very much.”
He drew back his head and smiled at her.
Samantha. His love.
Ah, the wonder of it.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked her.
She raised her eyebrows.
“For ripping up at you the day we met,” he said, “and swearing most foully. You never said I was.”
“I will think about it,” she told him, and laughed.
24
They considered waiting for a more clement time of year, but neither wanted to put off their wedding until June or July or even May. They considered Kenelston as a venue, but it had not really been Ben’s home since childhood despite the fact that he owned it, and it never would be home now.
They settled upon Wales at the end of January, specifically upon the church in Fisherman’s Bridge, with the Reverend Jenkins officiating. Samantha, after insisting that she would leave for her wedding from her cottage, realized that she had hurt her grandfather though he did not say so, and changed her mind. She would marry from the big house with her grandfather to accompany her and give her away. Ben would move to the village inn on the eve of the wedding. A grand wedding breakfast would be held in the ballroom at Cartref.
It was the very worst time of the year in which to expect guests to travel from any distance, but invitations were sent out anyway.
Beatrice and Gramley were the first to reply. They would come, though Beatrice reported that her husband was now quite sure his brother-in-law had taken leave of his senses. A letter came from Calvin the next day. He and Julia would also be coming. After that, while the banns were already being read at the village church, a steady stream of replies were delivered, all but one of them acceptances. Amazingly, all the Survivors were going to venture into the darkest bowels of Wales—Flavian’s description—to attend Ben’s nuptials. The exception was, of course, Vincent, whose wife was close to her time of confinement.
I will not leave Sophie, he had written, though she has urged me not to miss your wedding, Ben.
It was obvious that his wife had written the letter for him, for there followed a brief message in parentheses: (Vincent is more nervous than I am about the coming event, Sir Benedict. It would be cruel for me to try insisting that he go to Wales when he is so anxious for my sake. You will come here in March, though, for the annual gathering of the Survivors’ Club, will you not, even though you will be so recently married? And you will bring Lady Harper with you? Please? I so very much want to meet all of Vincent’s friends.)
On a separate sheet of paper, enclosed with the letter, was a charcoal drawing—a very fine caricature indeed—of a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Vince, pacing with his head down and his hands clasped behind his back, droplets of sweat falling from his brow, and generally looking very worried indeed while a little mouse in one corner gazed kindly up at him.
“I am so sorry,” Ben said, taking Samantha’s hand in his as they sat together on the couch in her sitting room at the cottage one afternoon a week before the wedding. “All the outside guests will be mine.”
“Ah,” she said, “but all the inside guests will be mine, you see. All my friends and neighbors will be about me on what I expect to be the happiest day of my life. And Grandpapa will be there to give me into your keeping.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Besides,” she said, turning her head so that he could see that her eyes were twinkling, “I had a very civil letter from Matilda today.”
“You did?” His eyebrows rose in some surprise.
“Indeed,” she said. “She congratulated me upon having snared a very eligible husband for the second time despite my origins.”
“Your shady Gypsy past?”