Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(37)

“No.” Mary took a handkerchief from Nell and dabbed at her eyes. She wore a cream dress embroidered in palest rose and silver thread. It had been a wedding present from Lord and Lady Caire, and she did want to do it justice.

A knock came at the door and Nell let Mr. Winter Makepeace into the room. He was a severe-looking man with dark hair and eyes and plain attire, but Mary knew he ruled the home with a firm but kind hand.

“Are you ready, Mary Whitsun?” he asked gravely.

“Yes,” she said and took his arm.

He led her from the little room. Up the stairs. This was a different building from the one she’d mostly grown up in. That old home had been rickety and cramped and had burned down the same year Lady Caire had married Lord Caire. This building had been made from brick, the walls straight and neatly painted. Still they passed dormitory rooms full of little beds. That at least had not changed.

Mr. Makepeace paused before the door to the assembly room where she was to be wed. He looked down at her, and she remembered how large he’d seemed to her when she was a child. How commanding and inspiring. How he’d held her in his strong arms when she’d fallen and scraped the palms of her hands.

“I’m proud of you, Mary Whitsun,” he said now, this man who was like a father to her. “You’ve grown into a kind and good woman—everything I ever expected of you. I wish you every happiness in your marriage.”

She swallowed as her throat closed again. Oh, drat, she was going to cry!

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Come. Your future awaits you inside.”

She took a deep breath as he pushed open the doors to the assembly room. Joanna was right: it was completely full of people, all of whom stood and turned. She saw friends she’d known for years and friends of only a few months’ standing. She saw the Earl of Keating—surprisingly—looking grumpy but standing with his wife, who was positively beaming.

But as she walked toward the front of the room on Mr. Makepeace’s arm, she looked only at Henry, standing with a small grin on his face as he waited for her.

Her future.

Her love.




That night…

It wasn’t a grand house. It wasn’t even a very big house.

But it was their house.

Mary smiled at her reflection in the small mirror hanging over the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Her brown hair hung loose over her shoulders, brushed with one hundred strokes, and she wore a new lawn chemise, a gift from Lady Angrove. That lady had declared that she didn’t care that Mary wasn’t of her blood—Lady Angrove still considered her a daughter along with Jo and the real Cecilia, who had turned out to be quite nice.

She was looking forward to continuing to see the Angrove ladies, since Henry’s new job was in London. He was managing his school friend’s business interests here while his friend traveled abroad. And Henry had been right—his pay, while not extravagant, was more than enough for this little town house on a quiet London lane. He’d had to sell his horses and his carriage, of course, but he pointed out that he could walk to work, and anyway stabling horses was too expensive. Mary even had a maid—a girl from the home who looked at her with awe—and a cook who liked to sing as she baked.

There was a knock at the door, interrupting her thoughts. It cracked open, and Henry asked from without, “May I come in?”

“Yes,” Mary called, her fingers trembling with nerves as she smoothed them down her chemise.

Henry opened the door and stepped into the room, then stopped.

She could almost feel his gaze traveling over her from head to toe.

“Lady Blackwell,” he said, his voice husky, “have I told you today how beautiful you are?”

She bit her lip and shook her head, suddenly and unaccountably shy. How foolish! She’d seen Henry nearly every day of their engagement. She knew him and he knew her.

Of course they’d never had a wedding night before.

“You,” said Henry as he untied his neckcloth, “are more beautiful than the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the night sky.”

She could feel herself blushing. “Might that be a tad bit exaggerated?”

He knit his brow as if thinking. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

He drew off his neckcloth and placed it on a chair.

She couldn’t just stand there and wait for him.

Mary crossed to Henry and set to work unbuttoning his waistcoat. He’d already shed his coat.

“Why, Lady Blackwell,” he said, bending over her, “one might think you were impatient.”

She pursed her lips, not daring to look at him. “I am impatient. A three-month engagement, and you never once took me to bed.”

“My dear,” he husked in her ear. “Had I taken you to bed it surely would not have been only once.”

She couldn’t help but look up at that, and he took her mouth at once.

This they had done many times in the last months, and yet each time was new and exciting. Her fingers stilled as she opened her lips, sucking in his tongue, feeling thrills thrumming down her body.

He muttered something, and then the room whirled as he picked her up and strode to the bed.

He placed her on it and began to climb in as well, but she placed her hand on his chest, halting him. “I’ve waited too long to see all of you.”