Page 81 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Even Laura, who’d been wed two years, began to squirm. Jess was struggling to contain a laugh.

“Though, of course, a gentleman may feel a sense of reserve with his bride, and a lady will naturally be reluctant to—”

Julia refrained from pointing out that she was not really a lady. Perhaps, depending on whom one asked, by birth, but certainly not by inclination. And she already had ample proof that Graham was not always a gentleman.

“Really, Julia,” Mama scolded. “I should think you might approach the event with a bit more decorum.”

“Yes, Mama.” She managed to choke out the words. “But I—I only wished to spare you the trouble. Because . . . well, as it happens, I haven’t any need of a lecture on . . . mechanics.”

“Mechanics?” It was her mother’s turn to blush, and as she was as fair as her children were dark, the color was visible to the roots of her hair. “My dear, I’m not a fool. But I did think that, well . . . Lord Dunstane seems a very stern gentleman, and I thought perhaps you might be worried that in marrying him, all your girlish amusements would be at an end. But he is a good man—the right one for you, of that I’m certain, even after just a few brief meetings. And the happiness you’ll make together, well . . . I assure you, nothing can compare.” Her blue eyes were soft, the corners wrinkled with a gentle smile. “I married a stern gentleman, too, you know.”

“Mr. Remington?” He could, on occasion, call forth a certain stiffness of posture, a certain stuffiness that belied his humble origins—part sergeant, part valet. But stern?

“No, dear. I was referring to your papa. Of course, you do not remember him as stern, because by the time you knew him, he had softened. He had you, and your brother—a family—love—”

All the things Graham had so long been denied.

Tears stung Julia’s eyes as she contemplated the transformation. “Thank you, Mama. I believe you are right. Lord Dunstane and I shall make one another very happy.”

Jess’s lips were wobbly, and Laura dabbed surreptitiously at the end of her nose, which was pink. When Nelly arrived on the scene a moment later, bearing a large box tied with a ribbon, alarm at all their tears showed plainly on her face. “Is aught amiss?” Only partly reassured by four rather snuffly denials, she laid the package on the bed. “This just arrived for you.”

“Thank you, Nelly,” Julia said.

The girl curtsied and retreated to the doorway with obvious reluctance, muttering something about Mrs. Whyte having need of her in the kitchen.

“Stay a moment. You must be curious about what’s inside.” Julia certainly was. Untying the ribbon and lifting the lid, she revealed a hooded cloak of purple velvet, trimmed in soft gray fur. “Oh, my,” she cried gathering its richness into her arms.

Laura peered into the box. “There’s no note. Just a pair of fur-lined gloves to match,” she said, holding them aloft with a mischievous smile. “But there’s no mystery as to who sent this. Someone doesn’t want his bride to catch a chill on that long carriage ride north.”

Julia smiled softly to herself, rubbing her heated cheek against the luxurious softness. How could she ever be cold with a fiery Scotsman at her side?

A half an hour later found her crossing the corner of Clapham Common, the frostbitten grass crisp beneath her feet, her hand looped through her brother’s arm. Aunt Mildred walked a few steps ahead of them, supported between Daniel and Mr. Remington, while all the others followed behind.

“I hope, Jeremy, you can find it in your heart to wish me well.”

His dark brows arced in astonishment. “What else would I wish you?”

“I never imagined I would marry such a man,” she confessed in a voice almost too low for him to hear, thinking of what their mother had said about Graham’s sternness, and the number of times she herself had thought him unpleasant and cold.

“Really? He’s exactly the sort I pictured would suit you—always blathering on about some play, and stubborn as the day is long.”

She couldn’t decide whether he was teasing. “You don’t approve of the match, then. I know the two of you had words about something . . .”

“We did,” Jeremy admitted mournfully, shaking his head. “Not sure he’ll ever forgive me for being the one to make sure Fanshawe understood what would become of him if he didn’t hold his tongue—in prison, or out of it. But I saw no reason not to put my military connections to good use. As to our argument, well . . . Dunstane positively refused to accept a dowry. It took a great deal of arm-twisting even to get him to agree to settle the money on your children.” Then his eyes twinkled down at her. “Have you seen the size of the fellow’s arms?”

“As it happens, brother dear,” she answered with a naughty smile, “I have. Oh, Jeremy, I do love him, you know.”

“And I haven’t the slightest doubt that he loves you.” They were at the doors of the church now. Jeremy slid her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips. “Papa is smiling down on you today. Be happy, little one.”

Why, oh why, had everyone conspired to turn her into a watering pot on her wedding day?

The handful of congregants were dwarfed by the large, modern church, where Wilberforce and the other firebrands of the Clapham Sect often met and worshiped. Mrs. Hayes and Julia’s family were seated in the box pews near the front, while a scattering of others—Mrs. Whyte and the servants; Graham’s secretary, Mr. Keynes; and a gentleman she had thought never to see again—occupied the benches in the balcony that ran along either side.

And at the front of the church, standing beside the rector, stood Graham, handsome as ever. He was clad in a dark-blue coat, the perfect contrast to his coppery hair, paired once more with his kilt. At the sight of him, heat prickled her cheeks.

A high arch separated the nave from the altar. Almost like a stage, she thought. Which was probably sacrilege. But the lines she would speak today were, indeed, scripted, and her elegant new dress might certainly qualify as a costume.

The only difference was that she had long since stopped acting a part where Graham was concerned.