Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(123)
cultivating a better relationship with him in the future. In the end, Thomas and I were surrounded by the people we cherished the most, the ceremony small and focused solely on love.
Thomas kept his gaze locked onto the slow procession of the sun, holding his pocket watch in one fist. A peacock strutted down the path, its head bobbing in time with my heart. I grinned. The bird was his idea, unsurprisingly. Thomas flicked his attention to me, his expression softening. “Ready, Wadsworth? It’s time.”
I inhaled the salty scent of the sea. “Finally.”
I took his bare hand in mine, my heart fluttering like a bird in a cage of bone as he smiled back at me. Each shared memory flashed through my mind. From the moment I first saw him rushing down the stairs in my uncle’s laboratory, to the first time we made love, and every second in between our first adventure and today. He stole my breath now just as he’d done then.
His suit was midnight black, edged with champagne whorls at his cuffs and collar to match my dress. My capped sleeves fluttered in the light ocean breeze and I flushed as Thomas slowly scanned me, his attention pausing ever so slightly on my sweetheart neckline.
This time, my gown was my own design—I chose a sheer white that bordered on a frosty blue, reminding me of sunshine illuminating a glacier. The bodice featured what resembled a golden butterfly with its wings spread wide.
Delicate gold and champagne appliqués cascaded down my waist in thin tendrils before fading into the dreamy ice-blue white layers of my skirts. The bottom of the gown was my favorite part—the same champagne appliqués gathered en masse at the ground and carefully faded into the fingers of the smaller design. It was ethereal in all the right ways.
We stood facing each other, wearing what I imagined were similar expressions of flushed excitement, as the sun slowly descended toward the horizon, turning my dress brighter shades of gold and champagne. The hour had finally arrived.
This time, the priest we’d requested was more than happy for us to say our own words. “You may begin exchanging your vows now.”
Thomas took a deep breath and stepped closer, his smile genuine and sweet.
It was amazing to me, after these past few years of exploring the world and each curve of our bodies, that he might still appear so shy. So blissfully, beamingly in love.
He looked upon me today the way he’d done from the moment we both knew
there was no turning back, no fighting our fate. He and I were two stars in the same constellation, destined to shine brightly together each night of forever.
“My dearest Audrey Rose.”
Thomas gazed unabashedly at me, as if his soul was speaking directly to mine. Tears threatened to choke his words before he could get them out. I gently ran my thumb over his hands, my own eyes glistening.
“You are my heart, my soul, my equal. You see the light in me when I’m lost within darkness. When I’m cold and distant, you’re as warm as autumn sunshine, bathing me in your glow. If I am the night, then you are the stars lighting up my endless dark.” His voice broke, wrenching my heart. “My best friend, the absolute love of my life, now until forevermore, I call you my wife.”
This time—with just the gilded clouds and autumn-colored tree branches swaying in the soft twilight breeze, along with our joyous families on this private estate—there was no one to interrupt Thomas as he slipped the wedding band over my finger.
“Beyond life, beyond death,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear,
“my love for thee is eternal, Audrey Rose Cresswell.”
My breath hitched. The priest turned to me, his voice kind and encouraging.
“Do you accept this man as your husband, to have and to hold, until death do you part?”
I gazed at Thomas, seeing a range of emotions that were entirely him; mirth, love, adoration, and a wicked gleam that promised a lifetime full of surprises and adventure.
I placed the ring on his finger, never taking my attention from his; I didn’t want to miss one second of this moment. His lips quirked crookedly and I knew, without a doubt, that he’d read the same promises in my face. I could not wait to spend forever with my best friend, the dark prince of my heart.
“I do.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Before I wrote Stalking Jack the Ripper, I read a jailhouse confession written by Herman Webster Mudgett, aka Dr. Henry Howard Holmes, or H. H. Holmes, the con man dubbed “America’s first serial killer.” His book started the all-important
“what if?” scenario my muse craves. There are many theories and arguments about who Jack the Ripper really was, but there was something about Holmes that always made me wonder if he was indeed the infamous serial killer who terrorized London.
There were a lot of puzzle pieces that seemed to fit nicely with the “Holmes as the Ripper” theory—the personality, the medical background, the fact that he was in London at the time of the murders, his handwriting closely resembling Ripper letters sent to police, an eyewitness claiming an American was the last person seen with a Ripper victim, and more.
For those of you who enjoy details: Holmes actually traveled on the RMS
Etruria, the setting I chose for Escaping from Houdini, before he began building that labyrinthine murder castle in Chicago. He was a con man and opportunist, much like Mephistopheles, which gave Audrey Rose the much-needed lesson in dealing with sleight of hand and its many applications before this final showdown.