The weeks while Joshua had remained in Penhallow had seemed endless. But finally he had come.

And today was their wedding day.

She was still nervous-and still hating it.

She lifted her chin. "Wedding days are such a bore," she said to Morgan, "with everyone snivelling and being sentimental. I wish we had simply gone to London, purchased a special license, and married without anyone knowing, as Aidan and Eve did."

"No, you do not," Morgan said smiling. "Come, Freyja. Wulf will be waiting for us."

He was. He was standing in the great hall, surrounded by all the pomp and splendor of medieval banners and weaponry, looking positively satanic. He looked them over from head to foot with his cold silver eyes, Morgan first, and then Freyja. Then he surprised Freyja utterly by holding out both his hands to her. She set her own white-gloved ones in them and looked at him with haughtily raised eyebrows as his hands closed tightly about hers.

"You look very lovely, Freyja," he said.

Wulf paying compliments?

"Promise me you will be happy?" he said.

That was when tears sprang to her eyes. She could cheerfully have punched him in the nose. But he did not wait for her answer. He bent his head over her hands and kissed them one at a time.

Well.

Well.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked haughtily. "I would really rather not be late."

They were all in the carriage-the best ducal traveling coach-before she answered his question.

"I promise, Wulf," she said, gazing at him on the opposite seat.

Sometimes she tried to categorize her brothers in order, from her favorite to her least favorite. Aidan was usually on top of her list-perhaps because he had been away at war for so many years that he had had least opportunity to provoke her. But it was all nonsense anyway. She loved them all in different ways, but quite equally. She would have died for any one of them-and for Morgan too. But this morning-just at this precise moment-Wulf was her very favorite brother in all the world. She would do anything in the world, she thought, to see him happy too.

After that everything was a blur of events and sensations. The carriage drew up at the end of the churchyard path, hordes of smiling villagers-or so it seemed-bent to catch their first glimpse of her, she was hurrying up the path beneath the bare old yew tree, the wind blowing the last few crisp, dry leaves across the path in front of her, Morgan was arranging the train of her gown, Wulf was looking austere and emotionless-and as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar-the church organ was playing, and she was walking along the nave of the church on Wulf's arm, people in the pews to either side of her, and . . .

Ah. The blur dissipated and all her scattered, nervous emotions with it.

Joshua was waiting at the end of the nave, looking breathtakingly handsome in black and white. Not that it was his handsome looks that she noticed. It was him.

Her love. Her dearest love.

She did not even pause to chide herself for thinking such foolishly sentimental thoughts.

She felt herself smile. She felt happiness bubbling up inside her and threatening to spill over into laughter.

He smiled back, and she saw all the familiar laughter in his eyes. Except that it was not the usual reckless roguery she saw there this morning. It was joy. Simply joy.

She blinked furiously. Foolish sentimentality she would allow herself-this was her wedding day, after all. But tears? No, she must draw the line at tears. He would never let her forget.

"Dearly beloved," the rector began.

It was a cold, crisp December morning. A chill wind was blowing. Nevertheless, it was an open carriage that awaited the bride and groom at the end of the church path, and it had been lavishly decorated-by unknown persons, though several of them undoubtedly bore the name of Bedwyn-with ribbons and bows of all colors of the rainbow, and old boots to trail behind.

The church bells were pealing merrily.

Every house in the village must have emptied out its inhabitants, who were gathered in the street in their Sunday best and in festive spirits because they were all to be treated to their own wedding breakfast at the village inn in one hour's time, courtesy of the Duke of Bewcastle.

It was the scene that greeted Freyja and Joshua as they emerged from the church. Someone set up a cheer, and everyone joined in, a little self-consciously at first, but with growing enthusiasm as the congregation began to spill out onto the church steps after the bride and groom and the best man-the Reverend Calvin Moore-and the bridesmaid.

"Shall we wait to be swamped by grinning guests?" Joshua asked. "Or shall we make a dash for it?"

"Let's make a dash for it," she said, and he took her hand in his and ran along the path with her, beneath the great old tree, past applauding, smiling villagers, to the carriage.

It took a while to get her in-her velvet gown came complete with a train. She was laughing and breathless and flushed by the time he climbed in and took his seat beside her.

Everyone was out of the church by then-all her family, the Earl and Countess of Redfield, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg-both smiling fondly at Freyja-his grandmother and his aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Potford, with their children, Constance and Jim Saunders, Chastity, Lord and Lady Holt-Barron with their daughter and her betrothed, a few of his closest friends.

"Drive on," Joshua said to the coachman. It would be time enough to greet everyone back at Lindsey Hall before the wedding breakfast. Right now he had a new bride to gaze upon in some wonder.

Was he really a married man? He had found it hard to believe in the reality of it all after she had left Penhallow with her family. Every day he had half expected that one of her daily letters would be the one breaking off their betrothal.

They were married!

He found her hand inside her large white fur muff and laced his fingers with hers as the carriage rocked on its springs and moved away from the church.

"Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" he asked.

"What nonsense!" she said. "What utter nonsense, Josh. It is the dress and the hat and all the fur. And the color. Aunt Rochester advised me to wear white, and she was quite correct in her judgment. It is just the clothes."

He laughed. "I'll have to take them off you later tonight, then," he said. "All of them. Every stitch of them. Just to see if you are still beautiful without them. I'll wager you are."

"If you ever tell me lies," she said, looking at him severely, "I will knock your teeth down your throat, Josh. I swear I will."

"You can't," he said, grinning at her. "You are my wife now, my marchioness. You have to do as you are told. It has to be 'Yes, my lord,' and 'No, my lord,' and 'How may I serve you, my lord.' No more fisticuffs, my charmer."

For one moment he thought he was going to have to parry blows right there in full sight of their guests and all the villagers behind them. Her nostrils flared and her eyebrows arched upward and her green eyes glared. But then she threw back her head and laughed.

"You would tire of me in a month," she told him.

"Make that a week," he said.

If she were ever to look at herself in a mirror when she was laughing like this, he thought, she would see for herself how incredibly lovely she was, dark brows and Bedwyn nose notwithstanding. But he would not provoke her again by telling her that. Not now.

"No more complaints about winter?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "It is my favorite season."

"I love you, sweetheart," he told her. "My wife."

Her laughing expression softened into a smile, and she looked even lovelier.

"I am, aren't I?" she said. "And you are my husband. I do love you, Josh. I do."

He winked slowly at her and lowered his head and kissed her.

They both ignored the cheers that rose behind them. They were half drowned by the church bells anyway.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Best-selling, multi-award-winning author Mary Balogh grew up in Wales, land of sea and mountains, song and legend. She brought music and a vivid imagination with her when she came to Canada to teach. Here she began a second career as a writer of books that always end happily and always celebrate the power of love. There are over three million copies of her Regency romances and historical romances in print. She is also the author of the Regency-era romantic novels No Man's Mistress, More than a Mistress, A Summer to Remember, Slightly Married, and Slightly Wicked, all available in paperback from Dell. Visit her website at www.marybalogh.com