Six weeks later
The portrait artist expelled a huff of impatience. The progeny of the Duke and future Duchess of Merleton refused to stand still for a single instant.
“Itchy,” Guinevere groused, tugging on the ruffled collar of her dress as she stood in front of Lucien.
“I know, sweetheart,” Meg said from beside him, breathtaking and regal in a brocaded gown of silvery blue and a long train that swept around her feet, which their daughter had tried to wear as a cape just a moment ago. “But a lady never fidgets.”
Their little lady grumbled her disagreement, likely scowling for the painter.
She lasted thirteen seconds before she wriggled again. And then, apparently fed up with it all, she dashed off and darted out the door.
The nurse followed in pursuit. The artist groaned but continued his brushstrokes.
“Perhaps,” Meg whispered without moving from her pose, “we could do this another time, darling.”
Lucien spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m determined to see this through. Our family portrait will hang in the gallery of Crossmoor Abbey before we leave, directly after the ceremony on Wednesday.”
“After the wedding breakfast, you mean.”
“I still don’t understand why we agreed to wait for the banns when I’d already obtained a special license.”
The artist issued a disapproving throat-clearing. “Your Grace is glowering.”
“This is not a glower,” Lucien muttered for Meg’s ears only. “If it were, that man would be quaking in his spattered, buckled shoes.”
Meg stifled a laugh. “We are waiting because the aunts have been preparing for weeks. And they were over the moon when you jotted down a few of your family’s recipes from memory and then chose to share them.”
“Had I known that my actions would have caused this endless series of days to commence, I would have remained selfish.”
For the past month and a half, Hullworth had turned into a bloody overlord, intercepting nearly every one of Lucien’s attempts to be alone with Meg. And it was driving him mad not to sleep beside her.
She nudged him subtly with her hip. “Surely, they haven’t all been endless. In fact, I can recall several rather satisfying stolen moments.”
“I want you all to myself, for hours, days, weeks,” he murmured, fighting the urge to slip his arms around her, portrait be damned.
“Well, all we must do is be patient for a little while long—”
Her words broke off as a sudden peal of giggles erupted from the doorway, just as Guinevere streaked into the parlor without wearing a stitch of clothing.
The nurse gave chase. And Meg’s shoulders began to shake.
“Don’t laugh,” he said but felt his own lips curve into a grin.
Then their daughter scurried beneath the gown’s train, her exposed feet kicking as she squealed in delight.
The artist tossed down his brush, threw up his hands and then stormed out. “I give up!”
The absolute insanity of the past few hours suddenly broke over Lucien. His head fell back on a hearty laugh as he pulled Meg close. Merlin’s teeth, but he loved his family.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” the nurse said as she held their daughter’s dress. “The little miss rushed into the breakfast room and stole a handful of—”
“Coddled eggs,” Meg concluded on a thick swallow. Her smile faded, and she turned a bit green.
Lucien didn’t even have a chance to ask what was wrong before she hefted up her skirts and made a mad dash for the door. But she didn’t make it farther than the demilune table before she bent over, gripped the two handles on either side of a gilded Warwick vase and cast up her accounts.
Worried, he went to her side, soothing her with gentle passes along her back, and smoothing the hair from her face. “My darling, you’re ill. This is all too much for you. It’s too soon.”
She shook her head as she dabbed a handkerchief to the side of her mouth and then discreetly draped it over the opening of the vase.
“I’m perfectly hale.” When she looked up at him, her color was swiftly returning, her eyes bright, a secret smile on her lips. “This has been happening for a few days now.”
Alarm sprinted through him. “That’s it, then. I’m postponing the wedding.”
“I don’t believe that would be a wise decision. Or else my brother will be quite angry at you when he discovers that all his efforts were for naught,” she whispered and splayed a hand over her midriff. Then she stepped closer and reached up to adjust his spectacles. “You’re looking a bit stunned, Herzog.”
He blinked, then tightened his arms around her, grinning. “I imagine I’ll wear that expression quite often for the rest of my life. Because I am surprised every time I look into your eyes and fall in love all over again.”
* * *
“Have any of you seen Lucien?” Meg asked as she entered the drawing room the following afternoon.
She found Ellie standing with her friends, Lady Northcott and Lady Holt, at the bank of mullioned windows lining the far wall. Jane and Winn had arrived earlier with their husbands and children in tow, bringing an abundance of joy and warmth to the wedding festivities.
“I don’t see Merleton, but it’s possible that he’s assisting with the crate,” Winn offered, absently sweeping a stray strawberry blonde curl from her cheek without turning away from the view.
Curious about what could be holding their rapt attention, Meg stepped farther into the room. “Crate?”
She went to the window to look toward the courtyard. But when she peered through the diamond paned glass, she didn’t find Lucien with the others. However, what she did see made the flesh of her brow pucker in confusion. “Is that . . . chainmail?”
“Lord Holladay arrived a short while ago with the suit of armor that Merleton is giving to Brandon,” Ellie explained. “Apparently, he brought a few other things from Caliburn Keep.”
“And the gentlemen have decided to hold a tournament of sorts,” Jane concluded.
Sure enough, the men were engaging in mock-battles, sparring against each other. Their exertions caused their breaths to crystallize in the crisp November air. And, as one might expect, Maeve and Myrtle were standing nearby in their pelisses, pink-cheeked and grinning as they waved colorful ribbons, as if to bestow their favors on knights errant.
“What is it with men and their swords?” Ellie asked with a shake of her head, attempting to sound disapproving. But she wasn’t fooling Meg.
Winn agreed and tsked. “They are nothing more than fully grown boys.”
And yet, none of them turned away from the spectacle.
“Raven does look rather exceptional in that jerkin. His biceps should be sculpted in bronze,” Jane said with an appreciative hum.
“The sight of Asher in tights and a codpiece is not something I’ll ever want to forget,” Winn practically purred. “In fact, I wonder why those ever fell out of fashion.”
“And just look at the way Brandon wields that heavy halberd,” Ellie added breathlessly. “Good heavens!”
Then the three of them looked at each other and started to giggle like schoolgirls.
“I think my aunts have the right idea. Perhaps we should go out and join them.”
Jane grinned. “Now that is a flawless plan.”
“But wait,” Winn said, hesitating. “Haven’t we forgotten something?”
Their collective gazes fell on Meg an instant before she was taken by the hand and led to the rosewood table in the corner. And in its center sat a bandbox tied with string.
Ellie slid it toward her. “It’s from all of us.”
Meg wasn’t one to feign a disinterest in presents. There was no pretense of Oh, you shouldn’t have or For me? Really? that fell from her lips. Instead, she dove right in with a quick tug on the string and a lift of the lid, tossing it aside. Inside the box was a sheaf of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen fashioned with an ornate steel nib. She picked it up, testing the pleasing weight of it in her hand. “It’s absolutely perfect. I’ll be able to write so many letters with this.”
Not for the first time, her heart ached at the thought of leaving Crossmoor Abbey. Even though she wanted to start a life with Lucien more than anything, she would still miss her home.
“True,” Ellie said, squeezing her hand. “And I expect several from you each week. However, we did have something else in mind.”
Jane nodded. “As you know, we started to write a book a few years ago on the Marriage Habits of the Native Aristocrat.”
“But it turned out that we learned more about the Mating Habits of Scoundrels,” Winn added with a playful lift of her brows.
“And now we invite you to write your story.”
Meg felt the sting of happy tears along the rims of her eyes. “I’m honored. But Lucien isn’t a scoundrel. In fact, I was the one who pursued him without ever intending to marry—” She stopped when it suddenly occurred to her. “Wait a minute. I’m the scoundrel of my own story!”
A burst of bright laughter abruptly spilled down her cheeks and they joined in her merriment.
“We’ve come to realize that we all have a bit of scoundrel in us,” Jane said with an erudite gleam in her eyes.
Winn winked. “Our husbands bring it out of us.”
“In the best possible ways,” Ellie added. “Now, let’s go down to shamelessly ogle our gentlemen.”
Yet, as they entered the courtyard, Meg still didn’t see Lucien. Where could he have gone?
Before she went back inside to look for him again, she asked the aunts.
“I believe Merleton is in the kitchens, dear,” Myrtle chirruped as she tied a ribbon to the pommel of Pell’s sword.
Maeve tutted. “We weren’t supposed to say anything, sister. It is a secret, remember?”
“Rather more of a surprise than anything,” Lucien said from behind them, descending the terrace steps. On his way to her side, he raked a hand through his hair and adjusted the cuffs of his coat. But there was a spray of powder—flour, perhaps?—on his waistcoat and, as usual, his lenses were smudged.
She tilted her head in question. “What have you been up to?”
Dutifully, he put his glasses into her waiting palm and she cleaned them. Then he lowered his head as she lifted up on her toes to set him to rights, their simple routine almost like the steps of a dance. And with her face close to his, he grinned and whispered, “All in good time.”
Before she could pester him for more information, a sleek black carriage arrived, the door emblazoned with the crest of the Marquess of Savage. Her heart lifted at once. Prue was here! Even though they corresponded every week, they hadn’t seen each other since shortly after Guinevere was born and Prue’s own daughter was just over a year old. Meg couldn’t wait for their two little girls to meet again.
As they waited for the occupants to emerge, Lucien spoke for her ears alone. “I stopped by the parlor and noticed that our portrait is underway again. Without us.”
“Would you rather be standing there, dressed in all your finery?”
“Certainly not. I’m just wondering what methods of coercion you used on our temperamental painter, and whyever didn’t you employ them before?”
“I merely gave him several sketches of us for a frame of reference. Then I warned him that, if he couldn’t work with those, I would commission him to paint a dozen portraits of Guinevere.”
Lucien laughed. “Have I told you that you’re absolutely brilliant?”
“Not today,” she beamed up at him, batting her lashes before she slipped from his side.
She went to greet Prue and they whispered in secret before Lucien came close enough to hear. “Any news to report?”
“Only the very best,” Prue whispered and handed over a heavy leather satchel.
Meg was brimming with excitement, but she refused to take the credit. “It’s all because of you. So I think you should tell him.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t. The last time I met the duke . . . well, let’s just say, he was a little suspicious of my motives.”
“Fear not, moonflower,” Lord Savage said fondly, turning from the open carriage with his daughter on his hip. Her pale head rested on his shoulder as she yawned and opened a pair of sleepy green eyes. “I’ll be glad to take the credit. I’ve been wanting to tell Merleton I told you so for ages.” He flashed a grin.
Meg knew that look. He’d been her brother’s schoolmate and there was nothing Savage liked better than a friendly competition. “Be nice, Leo.”
“What?” he asked, all innocence. “I’m Saint Savage, remember?”
Lucien joined them, those intense river-stone eyes bearing down on the marquess. “And what’s all this?”
“I was just about to tell your betrothed about the time when you came to London and I mentioned knowing an exceptional investigator, but you refused my assistance.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then I heard a rumor about a certain duke losing a certain book and . . .”
Ever-perceptive, Lucien glanced down to the leather satchel and back to the marquess. And his voice was barely audible when he asked, “Did you find it, then?”
“No,” he said, a smirk remaining on his lips. “My exceptional investigator, Mr. Devaney, found this tucked behind a loose stone in the ruins of St. Michael’s Tower on the Isle of Avalon.”
Lucien appeared dumbfounded and it was up to Meg to put the leather strap in his grip. That seemed to jolt him out of his stupor. He opened the satchel and reached inside to take the cloth-wrapped tome. And as he trailed his fingers reverently over the bejeweled cover, Meg felt her heart pinch. She knew how much this meant to him.
He shook his head. “I cannot believe it was in Glastonbury Tor all this time. That’s just a stone’s throw from Caliburn Keep.” He reached out to clasp Leo’s shoulder. “Thank you, Savage. And if you need to hear it, you were right.”
The marquess grinned. “I always need to hear it. Now, what do you say to a little sword fight between friends?”
“Men,” Prue said to Meg, rolling her eyes.
Lord Holladay stepped up, his eyes widening as his gaze fell on the book. “Cousin, is that . . . the book? You know, I haven’t actually seen it since we were children.”
“Our book, Pell,” Lucien corrected, putting the treasure into his cousin’s arms. “Our legacy. We are the faithful stewards who will guard and protect it.”
“Do you mean it?” Pell blinked at him, his expression falling somewhere between awe and disbelief.
“Well, you couldn’t do any worse than Merleton’s done,” Savage said with a chuckle.
Lucien gave him a dark look, but laughed, too.
Then he turned to face the rest of their party, who were all gathering close for a peek at the legendary book.
Standing at Meg’s side, he settled a hand against her lower back. “It was a long-standing tradition at Caliburn Keep that we celebrated family and friends with a festival, merriment and food. I intend to restore that very tradition and I hope that each of you will join us in the coming years. In the meantime, however, Hullworth has been good enough to lend me the use of his kitchens and, with the help of his staff, we’ve prepared a small pre-wedding feast. So, without further ado, I invite you and the children to join us in the ballroom for some revelry.”
“You planned all this?” Meg asked as they walked inside behind the others, except for Pell who lingered nearby, slowly carrying the book as if it were made of glass. “But I thought you couldn’t wait to leave Crossmoor Abbey.”
Lucien shook his head as he led them away from the main party. “While it is true that I am impatient to have you to myself, I also want to share our lives, not separate them. So I intended to bring a certain percentage of Caliburn Keep to Crossmoor Abbey.”
She sighed adoringly. “That is a lovely thought. Have I told you how absolutely wonderful you are?”
“Not today,” he said. “But I cannot take all the credit. The servants agreed to keep you away from the ballroom for the past week while we decorated it in true Arthurian style. Not only that, but my cook, Mrs. Philpot, arrived yesterday with boxes of iced buns. And, make no mistake, we will all be ready to depart after the wedding breakfast. However, there’s one more surprise I have for you.”
“Well, don’t keep me waiting,” she said with an eager squeeze of his arm.
“I’ve made you a pie.”
Pell groaned from behind them. “Here we go again.”
“What’s in it?”
“Trust me,” Pell interjected. “It’s better if you don’t ask.”
They entered a small room that faced the walled garden. This was referred to as the butterfly parlor. A round table sat at its center, a glass dome shielding a deep pie with a glossy fluted crust. And when he lifted the dome with a flourish, the air was filled with sweet scents of cinnamon and clove.
“Mmm,” she hummed appreciatively. He cut it precisely down the center, the interior was essentially comprised of a layer of mincemeat, topped with a surfeit of . . .
“Cherries,” she said with a broad grin. He had made her a pie. He had planned a festival. He had brought Caliburn Keep to Crossmoor Abbey and all of it made her heart swell with so much love she couldn’t contain it. And she wouldn’t want to, even if she could.
Just as she was about to wrap her arms around him, Pell squeezed in beside her and gave the pie a cursory sniff. “Well, it smells better than those frog brains, or whatever you had me eat last time.”
“It looks quite scrumptious, doesn’t it?” she asked, wafting the plate under Pell’s nose. “And do you know what? I think you should be the first one to try it.”
He blinked at her. “Really?”
“Indeed,” Lucien said, already cutting a thick wedge. He seemed to know exactly what Meg had in mind, for he put the tapered end against Pell’s lips, encouraging him to take hold of it with his teeth. “Now, don’t get any on the book.”
Then, without a by-your-leave, he was nudged backward over the threshold and the door closed in his face.
Meg giggled and wrapped her arms around Lucien’s neck. “Lock the door, Herzog. We’re going to need privacy for this.”
“What do you have in mind?” he asked, smiling as he nibbled the corner of her mouth.
“Something guaranteed to make your lenses foggy.”