Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(106)

“I do,” he said when prompted by the vicar.

“I do,” she said.

He took the ring from Ben’s steady hand—Joy was bouncing on his other arm and chuckling at something Owen must be doing—and slid it onto Gwyneth’s finger. Symbol of eternal commitment. Of eternal love. He looked up into her eyes when it was in place.

And they were husband and wife, and he was leading her off to the vestry to sign the register and make it all official and final. Ben and Philippa witnessed their signatures and Ben hugged Gwyneth and shook Devlin’s hand firmly while Pippa helped her on with her cloak and passed her the gloves Stephanie had held through the service. The vicar shook both their hands.

And then they were making their way back along the nave, her arm drawn through his. Through the open church doors he could see that it was still snowing. Sir Ifor was playing a glorious anthem on the organ. The church bells were ringing. A group of villagers were gathered on the village green, smiling and waving, perhaps even cheering. Owen and Nick and Idris and the Welsh cousins were preparing to launch an ambush in the space between the church doors and the carriage, which was all decked out with holly and ivy and ribbons and bows. Flower petals—from the Ravenswood hothouses, no doubt—rained down on their heads with the snowflakes.

Gwyneth was laughing and clinging to his hand. Devlin was laughing too and helping her into the carriage before arranging her cloak about her feet and climbing in after her.

“Well, my lady Stratton.”

“Well, my lord Stratton.” She looked at him with shining eyes.

“Gwyneth.” He took her right hand in his right while he wrapped his left arm about her shoulders.

“At least have the decency to wait until the door has been closed.” It was Idris calling out to them, his hands cupped about his mouth.

“Yes, Dev,” Owen called. “Remember that I am only eighteen.”

The congregation was spilling out of the church.

“To the devil with them,” Devlin said, smiling at his bride as he drew her closer and kissed her on the mouth.

There were a few piercing whistles. The organ was still playing inside the church. The bells were still pealing. The carriage door slammed shut. The carriage rocked into motion, and the unholy din of the expected pots and pans and other paraphernalia tied beneath the carriage drowned out all other sound.

Devlin lifted his head and looked at his bride. She looked back. And they both laughed.

“I love you,” he mouthed to her.

“I know,” she mouthed back.

As the carriage rumbled over the bridge on its way back to Ravenswood, he kissed her again. What else was there to do, after all?





About the Author

Mary Balogh has written more than one hundred historical novels and novellas, more than forty of which have been New York Times bestsellers. They include the Bedwyn saga, the Simply quartet, the Huxtable quintet, the seven-part Survivors’ Club series, and the Westcott series.