Page 151 of Thief of the Ton
Epilogue
Springfield Cottage, one month later
“Inow pronounceyou husband and wife.”
The vicar closed the Bible with a snap. A breeze drifted across the air, carrying the scent of blossom, and a tendril of hair worked loose from Lavinia’s headdress to caress her cheek.
Before she could brush it aside, a warm pair of hands cupped her face and tipped it upward, and she looked into a pair of eyes—rich, warm brown eyes with flecks of green and gold. A spark of desire glowed within their depths, and her body gave a little pulse of pleasure at the prospect of the night to come.
Without waiting for instruction from the vicar, Peregrine brushed his lips against her mouth. She parted her own lips in invitation, and he slipped his tongue inside, caressing the inside of her mouth as if savoring a delicious sweetmeat—an appetizer before he devoured her.
And,sweet heaven, how she longed to be devoured!
Over the past month, the two of them had indulged in a glorious banquet of the flesh. Standing before the staid vicar, now surrounded by a small congregation of trusted friends, Lavinia felt the heat rise in her cheeks at the memory of the night when Peregrine had taught her the exquisiteness of being feasted upon—her body open and ready for him while he ran his tongue along her flesh, savoring every part of her, his growls of pleasure vibrating through her body while she threw back her head and cried his name.
And—oh my—when he’d taught her how to pay him the same loving attentions, savoring that part of him that elicited such pleasure…
She blushed again. Did their friends know the extent of the wicked premarital pleasures they’d already indulged in?
He deepened the kiss, and Lavinia could swear she heard a low cough from the vicar. But she was beyond caring—not when the pleasure to be had was too great. He tasted earthy and spicy, a taste that she knew intensified when they made love.
He lowered his hands to her shoulders and caressed the skin of her throat; his fingertips danced across her skin. His mouth curled against hers in a smile, as her nipples beaded against the fabric of her gown. Then he slipped a hand beneath her neckline, seeking a little peak. When he reached his quarry, her nipple hardened further. He gave it a little flick, then swallowed her cry, holding her close to conceal the wanton act they’d just committed—an act with the promise of more to come.
Then he broke the kiss and casually tucked the stray tendril of hair behind her ear.
She squeezed her thighs to ease the ache throbbing in her center, and his warm breath caressed her neck.
“Good girl,” he said, his voice deep and low. “I long for the wedding breakfast—when I can feast on you again.”
He took her hand, and they turned to face the witnesses—who, by the absence of blushes, were clearly ignorant of the wanton act that had just taken place.
Or were they?
A wicked smile shone in Lady Betty’s eyes.
The vicar was more liberal than most, given that he’d agreed to conduct the ceremony in the gardens at Springfield Cottage on receiving dispensation from his bishop. But he would, no doubt, have suffered a fit of apoplexy had he known half of the activities in which they’d indulged, in all manner of locations, inside and outside.
Peregrine extended his hand to the vicar. “I’m much obliged to you, Reverend Elliot.”
“The Almighty looks upon us wherever we may be,” the vicar replied. “A pledge of faith to one another, taken before Him, is just as sacred conducted in a cottage garden as it is in a church.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “In fact, I rather believe He looks more favorably upon a quiet, unassuming ceremony than the ostentation of a Society wedding undertaken in front of a full congregation who have come to church merely to further the appearance of virtue.”
Yes—the vicar was more liberal than most of his kind.
“I trust both you and Mrs. Elliot will stay for tea,” Lavinia said. “Mrs. Bates has baked her cherry fruitcake, which I hear is a favorite among your household.”
The vicar’s eyes illuminated with the expression of an overexcited child. “We’d be delighted, Lady Marlow.”
Lady Marlow…
Lavinia shivered. She was now Lady Marlow. And, when Peregrine inherited his father’s title, she’d be Countess Walton.
As if he read her mind, Peregrine dropped a kiss on her ear. “No matter what your title, you’ll always be my little Guinevere.” Then he took her hand, and they joined the small group of guests.
“Reverend Elliot’s right, my love,” Peregrine said, glancing about the garden. “An intimate ceremony with one’s best friends is always preferable to a Society affair where we’ve been obliged to invite people we cannot stand—who cannot stand us in return, yet have to express the delight they do not feel.”
“Not all of my friends are here,” Lavinia said. “I wish Henrietta and Beatrice could have come.”
“Lady Thorpe’s still recovering from her confinement, my love,” Peregrine said. “Thorpe would never allow her to curtail her rest cure. And Beatrice is unwilling to leave her side. I doubt the poor child would thrive at a wedding, given her husband’s recent abandonment.”
