And with every fiber of her being she was aware of Rannulf, of the fact that she had missed him dreadfully during the past month, of the fact that after today they would be together for as long as they both lived. He had had his hair cut though he still looked like a Saxon warrior. He looked achingly attractive in a brown, form-fitting coat with gold waistcoat, cream knee-breeches, white stockings and linen and lace, and black shoes. His hand was large and firm and warm as it held hers, and his fingers were steady as they slid her wedding ring onto her hand. His blue eyes smiled into hers from the moment she first saw him until after the vicar spoke his final words.
“I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
She wondered how it was possible for happiness to be so intense that it was almost painful.
“My wife,” Rannulf whispered for her ears only, and he lifted the veil from her face, arranged it over the brim of her bonnet, and looked at her with bright, intense eyes. For a startled moment she thought he was going to kiss her right there at the front of the church with the vicar and both their families looking on.
They signed the register to make their marriage finally official, and then walked out of the church together as man and wife. It was September. The heat of summer was gone but autumn had not yet arrived. The sun shone from a clear sky.
“My love,” Rannulf said as soon as they stepped out onto the church steps, circling her waist with one arm and dipping his head to kiss her.
There was cheering and applause, and Judith looked up and saw a large crowd of people gathered about the lych-gate at the end of the stone path that curved through the churchyard. All the villagers must have come out to see them.
She laughed and looked up at Rannulf, who was laughing back.
“Shall we make a dash for it?” he asked.
The open barouche drawn up beyond the gate was decorated with large white bows, she could see. It was also surrounded by people.
“Yes.” She clasped his hand, lifted the front of her dress with her free hand, and ran with him to the carriage. For the final few yards they were pelted with flower petals and surrounded by laughter and shouted greetings.
They drove off after Rannulf had taken a fat pouch from one corner of the seat and hurled handfuls of coins into the crowd. He sat down beside her, laughing, though his smile faded from all but his eyes as he took her hand in one of his again and laid the other on top of it.
“Judith,” he said. “My love. Are you happy?”
“Almost too happy,” she told him. “Happiness wants to burst out of me and cannot find a way.”
“We will find a way,” he said, dipping his head to kiss her again. “Tonight. I promise.”
“Yes,” she said, “but first the wedding breakfast.”
“First the wedding breakfast,” he agreed.
“I am so glad both our families are here to celebrate with us,” she said. “I think it is only today that I have realized fully how very precious families are.”
He squeezed her hand with both his own.
Family was indeed a priceless commodity. And the two families—the Bedwyns and the Laws—were not as awkward with each other as Rannulf had feared. Bewcastle unbent sufficiently to make himself agreeable to each of the Laws as he was presented to them and engaged the Reverend Jeremiah Law in a conversation during breakfast that sounded as if it were about theology. The Marquess of Rochester spoke at length with Sir George Effingham about politics. Aunt Rochester, that haughtiest of aristocrats, allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with Judith’s mother and grandmother as well as Rannulf ‘s grandmother. Alleyne maneuvered matters so that he was seated between Hilary and Pamela Law at table. Morgan, seated opposite them, conversed with Branwell Law. Eve, smiling and charming, spoke with everyone, her children at her side except when the little girl finally tired from all the excitement of the day and Aidan scooped her up on one arm.
Rannulf’s Uncle and Aunt Rochester were gracious to Judith when he presented her to them.
“If you have captured Rannulf’s heart you must be something out of the ordinary,” his aunt said in her usual forthright manner, her lorgnette poised for use in one hand, “even apart from your good looks.
Bewcastle informed me that you are a beauty.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Judith smiled and curtsied.
Morgan and Freyja had kissed her on the cheek when they arrived from the church. Eve, whom she had never met before, hugged her tight.
“Rannulf came to Grandmaison a couple of months ago determined to resist all attempts to marry him off,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and a swift, mischievous glance at Rannulf. “I am so glad you thwarted him, Judith.”
Aidan—tall, dark, dour Aidan—made his bow to Judith, probably forcing her to the conclusion that he was even stiffer and colder than Bewcastle. But then he took her by the shoulders, bent his head to kiss her on the cheek, and smiled at her.
“Welcome to our family, Judith,” he said. “We are a ramshackle lot. It takes a brave woman to take one of us on.”
Eve laughed and reached down to set a hand lightly on the young boy’s head. “I can tell,” she said, “that Judith is as intrepid as I.”
Freyja moved from group to group, making herself perfectly civil. Yet she seemed the one most out of place in the cheerful scene of celebration, Rannulf thought. He drew her to one side while Judith was with her grandmother, who had just declared in his hearing that she had already soaked three handkerchiefs but still had three more dry ones in her reticule.
“Feeling maudlin, Free?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said briskly. “I am happy for you, Ralf. I was somewhat appalled when you first arrived at Bedwyn House with Judith, I must confess, but she is not a milk-and-water miss or a gold digger, is she? I daresay you will be happy.”
“Yes, I daresay I will.” He tipped his head to one side and regarded her more closely. “You will be going home to Lindsey Hall with Wulf and the others tomorrow?”
“No!” she said sharply. “No, I am going to go to Bath. Charlotte Holt-Barron is there with her mother and has invited me to join them.”
“Bath, Free?” He frowned. “It is not a place where you are likely to find a great deal of young company or agreeable entertainment, is it?”
“It will suit me,” she said.
“This does not have anything to do with Kit, does it?” he asked. “And the fact that his wife is expecting to be confined soon?”
Kit Butler, Viscount Ravensberg, Freyja’s former beau and her expected husband just last summer, lived unfortunately close to Lindsey Hall. And Lady Ravensberg was soon to give birth.
“Of course not!” she said altogether too vehemently. “How foolish you are, Ralf.”
The imminent event and the wedding of a brother must be painful for Freyja.
“I am sorry, Free,” he said. “But there will be someone else, you know, and then you will be glad you waited.”
“Drop this ridiculous subject,” she commanded him, “if you do not want to be punched in the nose, Ralf.”
He grinned at her and kissed her cheek—something he rarely did.
“Enjoy Bath,” he said.
“I intend to,” she told him. She looked beyond his shoulder. “Grandmama, how are you feeling?”