Page 90 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
The wonder of the moment was the emotion that had him so joyously embracing that reorienting of his life.
He was smiling with genuine happiness when the minister prompted him, and after receiving the wedding band from Denton, he slid the simple gold ring onto Meg’s slender finger.
He looked into her face, into her eyes. Expectant excitement lit the sky-blue orbs, and her lips were as curved as his. Her entire expression was simply radiant.
The minister droned on through the various prayers, and Drago and Meg, their fingers now entwined, continued to play their prescribed roles. Then finally, he heard the minister declare that they were man and wife.
Closing the tome he had held throughout, the minister beamed on them both and, to Drago, said, “You may now kiss your bride.”
His smile broke free, and he swept Meg into his arms. Laughing, she came readily, and they kissed—given the circumstances, not too passionately, yet the promise was there, rich and warm and alluring—to the sound of applause, laughter, and cheers.
They broke apart and turned to the congregation, only to be enveloped by a crowd of family and friends, all eager to press their congratulations and good wishes for a long and happy life.
Working in tandem, in the polished, free-flowing partnership they’d perfected over the past weeks, he and Meg didn’t miss a beat in responding appropriately to each and every felicitation.
Eventually, courtesy of their mothers and various family members, they managed to beat a path to the church door and across the porch to the steps, at the bottom of which a barouche bedecked with white roses, lilies, and ribbons waited to carry them to St. Ives House. As the invited guests would join them at the wedding breakfast, all were happy to see them set off, and rice and flower petals rained upon them as hand in hand, smiling and laughing, they dashed down the steps to the carriage.
Drago helped Meg in, then followed. The footman—one of Drago’s in full Wylde livery—shut the door and scrambled up to stand behind the seat. The footman, the coachman, and everyone Drago saw in the crowd was smiling delightedly.
The carriage moved off to cheers and waves.
As the barouche rolled into quieter surrounds, Drago sat back with a satisfied sigh. He was still smiling.
He glanced at Meg and found her regarding him, her expression relaxed and serene. She studied his face as he studied hers. Wondering what she was thinking, he arched a brow.
The curve of her lips deepened, then she said, “I feel as if I’ve stepped through some door and into a new life.” She tipped her head. “I’d expected to feel something of the sort, but nothing so definite, so sharp and clear.”
He thought, then replied, “I suppose, for you, the change is dramatic. Your identity has altered. You’ve just become the Duchess of Wylde. You’ve left your childhood home and will go to a new one, of which you’ll be the mistress.” He paused, then went on, “For you, the change is far more physically manifest than it is for me.”
She searched his eyes, then head still tipped, prompted, “But…”
He flashed her a private smile, acknowledging that she’d read his thoughts correctly. “But despite the lack of physical change, for me, the sense of embarking on a new, fresh, and as yet entirely unwritten chapter of my life is equally real.”
Holding her gaze, he reached for her hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her white-gloved knuckles. “We did it. We bowed to Fate, and now we’re here. And we’ll go forward together.”
She looked into his eyes and, her expression still radiantly serene yet serious, nodded. “And together, we’ll shape our joint future as we wish it to be.”
He smiled, leaned closer, and kissed her lightly. “Amen.” There was no doubt in his mind that they would do just that.
They arrived at St. Ives House to find members of their families already there, waiting to welcome them and direct them and all the guests that were following to the ballroom.
The next hours vanished in a giddy celebration, one full of laughter, happiness, and sincere good wishes.
With Drago, Meg circled the room, receiving the accolades and the congratulations heaped upon them with outward serenity; all of that, she’d been prepared for.
What set excitement and anticipation bubbling inside her was the realization that, in marrying Drago, she’d secured all she’d ever hoped to achieve—all she’d ever dreamed of achieving—through her marriage.
She’d married the right man for her; so many told her so, and in her heart, she knew that to be the unvarnished truth.
And as they’d agreed on the drive from the church, it was now up to them to make of their life what they would.
She couldn’t wait to get started.
The wedding waltz she and Drago shared was, to her, a reflection of that. She laughed and let him whirl her down the room, keeping pace as he effortlessly swept her along.
To her mind, with the wedding now behind them, there was no cloud—no threat, no danger—any longer on their horizon.
The future beckoned, unfettered and full of promise.
