“I’m so, so happy for the both of you.” She held something in her hand—an ornate box tied up with ribbon, dried flowers delicately glued under a glass lid. “Isaac and the girls wanted so badly to be here, but given the circumstances . . .” She shrugged.
Smiling, Elsie reached out and clasped the duchess’s arm. “I’m honored that you came, Abigail.”
The woman brightened at the sound of her Christian name. “And I’m honored to be here.” Her gaze flitted to Bacchus. “And this is a wedding gift, from us to you.” She handed over the box. Bacchus took it, his brow furrowing.
“This isn’t . . . ,” he began, eyeing the duchess.
Elsie blinked. “Isn’t what?”
The duchess smiled softly. “In truth, Bacchus, the duke intended to bequeath it to you. You’ve been like a son to him. And it is an adequate gift, for a magical pair.”
Curious, Elsie took the box from Bacchus’s hands and pulled the ribbon free, peering beneath its lid. Inside was a book with a leather cover dark as onyx, with inlaid, gemlike flowers not dissimilar from those in the box’s lid. The corners were cut into soft fringes, and the thick pages were lined with a glimmering orange that made Elsie think of a sunset.
Her chin dropped. “Th-This is an opus, isn’t it?”
Reaching forward, the duchess took Elsie’s hand and placed it firmly on top of the box. “Take care of it. It’s the least we can do.” She eyed Bacchus. “Receive it graciously. It is not given out of guilt, but love.”
Bacchus nodded, his eyes moist. “Thank you.”
Though they were not having a dinner, Bacchus had made sure some traditions were kept. Outside the church awaited a carriage—a closed carriage, thank goodness—pulled by two gray horses, Rainer at the reins. White roses adorned the carriage—surely half of them would fall off during the ride into London, but the impracticality of it somehow made the gesture sweeter. As Bacchus took her hand and led her to the vehicle, the wedding guests threw nuts in the air. Elsie felt herself blush—it was tradition, yes, but she didn’t miss that the nuts symbolized fertility.
She caught a glimpse of curious townsfolk around them as she slid inside the cab, spying briefly the amazed looks on the Wright sisters’ faces. She wondered what sort of gossip they’d be spreading today, then realized she didn’t care.
Bacchus came in after her, taking a seat beside her instead of across from her. When he slid his hand in her direction, she wove her fingers between his.
“We did it, Mrs. Kelsey.” He had a roguish expression on his face.
The name really did have a rather pleasant ring to it, especially in his Bajan accent. “You’ve decided not to be English today?”
He ran his thumb along hers. “I’ve decided to be myself.”
And if that didn’t spread a warm glow through her . . .
The carriage pulled northward, heading into London. Although they were moving into their new home, they’d agreed to spend the majority of their time at the stonemasonry shop until they stopped Merton. Bacchus had moved in to protect Elsie, yes, but also to protect Ogden, who was just as likely to be attacked or waylaid by the spiritual aspector. But it was also their wedding day.
Wedding day. How surreal.
They arrived at the townhome without fanfare; it was about five miles west of Parliament Square and had a small garden walled off from the street. The irony wasn’t missed on Elsie. She had once thought such nasty things about the wealthy and their walls, and now she was going to live behind one. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
They stepped through the veranda, and Bacchus unlocked the door. Rainer pulled away with the carriage. It seemed, for now, they were to be alone.
Elsie’s nerves returned in full force. She clutched the temporal opus to her chest.
The door opened onto a short hallway, a set of stairs to its left. Bacchus gestured to the room on the right. “The parlor,” he said, then, taking her arm through his, led her down the hallway. “The dining room, and the kitchen is through here.”
The rooms all held appropriate furniture—the parlor could do with another chair—but the walls were scant and in need of decoration, as was the mantel. Bacchus led her back through the hallway.
“I think this wall could do with a portrait,” she said.
He nodded. “I leave all of that to you. Decorate however you see fit.”
Elsie scanned the wall, unsure what to say. She certainly wasn’t going to ask about the budget. Not now. All the better when she’d be able to contribute to it properly.
They walked upstairs, where Bacchus continued the tour. He pointed to an empty room. “I thought this could be a study, unless you’d like it for the library. There’s a larger space this way if you want a sitting room like the one at the stonemasonry shop. It has west-facing windows.”
He showed her the spaces, and together they walked the perimeter of them. There were a few trunks, but these rooms were bare of furniture—an empty canvas for them to paint together. The walls bore outdated wallpaper. Elsie tried to imagine something more floral, with a fine settee and perhaps even a gaming table, but the cylinder of her imagination wasn’t firing. It was far too distracted by the man on her arm, and the rooms that lay upstairs.
They reached the third floor. There was a small chamber near the stairs.
“A guest room, or a servants’ quarters,” Bacchus suggested. “I do think it would be prudent to have a maid. Perhaps Emmeline would hire on?”
Elsie shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly steal her away from Ogden.” And leave him alone in that house. “And I would think your study could be here, and any help we bring in could sleep downstairs. For . . . privacy.”
Bacchus nodded and showed her a second chamber, then a third at the far end of the house, which was larger than the others. This room was furnished, a bed with a sea-green coverlet already made up, side tables beside it, a glass-top breakfast table nearby. It boasted a large wardrobe and additional dresser, as well as a white bookshelf. Elsie’s trunks sat at the foot of the bed, which was most definitely large enough for two. She set the opus gingerly on top of one.
Bacchus rubbed the back of his neck. “John got drapes that matched the coverlet. I hardly mind if you change them.”
Elsie crossed the room and ran her hand down the drapes, which were closed over the window. “Fortunately I know a spellmaker who can easily change the color for me. It’s one of his favorite pastimes.”
Bacchus chuckled. “He sounds like a dandy.”
When he said nothing more, Elsie turned around. His expression had grown serious, and he absentmindedly traced his beard.
Before she could say anything, he dropped his hand and said, “Elsie, I’m more than aware that our union has not been . . . ordinary, or at all conventional. Of course there are expectations between a man and wife . . . What I mean to say is that I will not require anything of you, if you want time to acclimate.”
Elsie’s nerves danced under her skin like fairies. She felt her pulse in her stomach. “How utterly respectful of you, Bacchus.” Her chest felt too light as she garnered courage. “But you cannot kiss a woman the way you have and then not expect her to be fully prepared for her wedding night, even eager for it.” She feigned interest in the windows, ignoring the burning of her cheeks. “Even if it is still daylight.”
“I see.” His voice was lower, seductively rich. She dared a glance at him and saw his eyes looked darker than usual.
Elsie ran her hands down her bodice. The secret page was not beneath her corset today, but stowed in the lining of her smaller trunk. She turned her back to him. “I would greatly appreciate your help with this dress.”
Her heart flipped when Bacchus crossed the room, his fingers grazing the base of her neck, pushing aside a few curls there. She could feel his breath in her hair as his fingers deftly unhooked the first button, then the second, then the third. For better or worse, the dressmaker had sewn a great many buttons onto this dress.