She kissed his shoulder. He fell backwards but kept talking, the devilish laughter in his eyes as always. She kissed his neck. And then his chin, that strong chin now free of its jaunty little beard. So she kissed his dimple too.
“I love you,” she said. Her voice sounded husky and seductive, except now she knew that it wasn’t French but just desire. “I don’t know how it happened, how I was so lucky. Because it’s true that had you been some other man, some other duke, my mother would have forced me to marry you and I was such a stupid little creature that I would have. But somehow—somehow—you were the duke who appeared. I don’t deserve you.”
“I feel the same way. The way you respond to me while making love—”
“I listened to my mother,” she said, interrupting. “I could hear her in my head all the time. I could feel her disgust—never you, Fletch. Because if I’d really felt you, if I’d really known you, it would have been different. From the very first night together. I just didn’t know you were my husband, not really.”
“I was always your husband,” he said. “There’s never been anyone for me since I saw you the first time, Poppy. Never. When you left me, I felt as if my soul had left the house. I kept walking about and pretending to be a normal person, but I was missing this vital part, this soul part—does that make sense?”
“With this kiss,” she whispered, her lips against his, “I give you my soul. For keeping.”
“For better, for worse,” he said.
“In sickness and in health.”
“'Til death do us part.”
And from that moment forward, the Duke and Duchess of Fletcher fell silent. But from then onwards, they surprised their friends, and later their family, by insisting that, all evidence to the contrary, they were married on Christmas Day.
And they celebrated that day together for years, and years. And years.
Chapter 55
A Costume Ball at the country seat of the Duke of Beaumont January 6, Twelfth Night
“Not one of these costumes is particularly interesting,” the Duke of Fletcher complained to his wife.
“I think that Mrs. Patton’s costume is very imaginative. I’ve never seen quite such a fierce-looking Diana, and all in royal blue too. The bow and arrow is a nice touch. And I like the squire over there, the one dressed as Henry VIII.”
“I know Henry VIII had a large stomach,” Fletch observed. “But I think Lord Pladget took liberties in his interpretation.”
“His wife told me that he tied the hearth rug around his middle with twine.”
“You know, I thought that Lady Isidore was quite sedate when I first met her,” Fletch said. “But look at her now!”
Isidore danced by, dressed as Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra. Her skirt was made of gold tissue and embroidered all over with peacock tails; her bodice wasn’t worth mentioning because there was so little to it.
“Oh no,” Poppy moaned. “That’s Lord Beesby she’s dancing with, isn’t it?”
“He’s a bit of a silly old codger,” Fletch said. “Always votes—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Poppy said. “Just look at the way he’s staring into Isidore’s eyes.”
“In love,” Fletch said. “Hopeless case, I’d say.”
“Is he married?” Poppy hissed.
“Not yet.”
She relaxed and they continued dancing down the length of the room, narrowly avoiding a collision with a boisterous peer dressed, rather improbably, as the Pope. His face had turned a ripe purple and he was swaying like the sail of a tall ship. All the talk of costumes made Poppy remember something she’d been meaning to ask.
“Fletch, who was that young man you hired?” she asked.
But Fletch didn’t hear; he was laughing at the way the Pope stumbled to the floor, bringing a sailor dancing with the Queen of Sheba with him.
The Queen of Sheba wasn’t quite as amused. Charlotte untangled herself from the Pope’s feet. Dautry pulled her to her feet as if she were a feather, and a moment later they were dancing down the floor again.