Page 112 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

He returned it with a deep bow. “Lady Petunia.”

Once the niceties had been observed, Warwick drew me aside to a quiet corner where we might talk.

"I applied for the wedding license. It should be granted within a day. We can marry any time after that."

"Friday." That was three days away. The word felt strange in my mouth, too soon and too late at once. "Grandmother suggested Steele House for the ceremony. Does that meet with your approval?"

He grinned. "Mother is already decided upon it.”

I blinked. "Has she?”

"Your grandmother and I have arranged it between us, dear Rosalynd,” the Duchess pronounced from the sofa, where she’d joined grandmother. "Steele House will make the perfect venue. Warwick agrees. Don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

"We'll need to plan the menu, order the food, and, of course, arrange for the flowers."

I thought of the tidy column on my list, penned not two hours past—menu, flowers, confirm venue—each item now struck through by the duchess and grandmother who had not consulted me on a single one of them. I decided to be profoundly grateful.

"I can suggest—" Cosmos began.

"Roses." Steele raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. "In every shade that can be managed."

"Yes, of course," the Duchess said.

For once, Cosmos had nothing further to offer, owing chiefly to Claire's elbow finding his ribs.

"As for our guests," I said, attempting to reclaim some small territory, "I'd just as soon have only family and friends."

Warwick brushed a thumb across my cheek. "Whatever you wish, Rosalynd.”

"For the ceremony, certainly," the Duchess said from her perch, “but for the wedding breakfast we'll want a hundred guests at least. It isn't every day the Duke of Steele marries."

I bit down on my lip to keep from laughing. "Congratulations, Warwick. Apparently, you are marrying yourself."

"So what will you wear, Rosie?" Chrissie asked.

"Um." In all the hours of letters and lists, the question of a wedding gown had not once crossed my mind. I had remembered the flowers and the menu and the guests. But not once had I thought of a wedding gown. "I shall have to—er—think about it."

"Come naked,” Steele murmured into my ear. "All I want is you."

My entire body flushed with heat. "Stop it."

"We're never going to get a sensible word out of either of them, Duchess," Grandmother declared. "We'll simply have to arrange it all by ourselves."

"I quite agree." Warwick's mother folded her hands. "The ceremony will be held Friday at eleven, at Steele House. The wedding breakfast to follow immediately. The dowager countess and I will see to the whole of it." She nodded toward the two of us as though bestowing a great kindness. "All you need do is be present.”

I sighed as I thought of my poor lists now rendered entirely pointless. And then I glanced at Warwick, who was watching me with that warm, infuriating amusement of his. Bother the lists. I was marrying the man I loved.

"Well," I said. "That was easy."

Supper was anything but. The moment we were seated, the table erupted. The cause of the commotion was, for once, not Petunia.

"William," Chrissie announced, leveling her fork at our brother, "has said perhaps four words since he came home, and I won't stand for it another minute. You've been gone half a year. Talk."

William, who had spent the meal attending very closely to his food, looked up. He was browner than when he'd left, leaner, and there was something about the set of his mouth that hadn't been there before—some weather he'd come through that he hadn't yet seen fit to describe.

"There's little to tell," he said.