Chapter Twenty-one

I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.

—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

The first day of summer dawned fine, and miraculously, given the weather they’d been having recently, it stayed fine all day.

Carriages started arriving outside St. George’s in Hanover Square, disgorging smart gentlemen who handed down elegantly dressed women in beautiful hats. A crowd of curious and hopeful onlookers gathered to watch. A society wedding always provided good entertainment. And possibly handfuls of pennies would be thrown.

Soon the church was crowded. It smelled of flowers, perfume, incense, beeswax and brass polish. Dappled lozenges of colored light lit the floor, sunshine through stained glass.

Inside the church, Flynn paced back and forth in front of the altar rail.

“Why so anxious? You’ve been through this three times,” Max, his best man, observed in smug amusement. “My wedding, Freddy’s and Jane’s wedding just gone—you should be used to it by now.”

“It didn’t matter to me then,” Flynn snapped and continued pacing. What if she’d changed her mind? What if she panicked, ran?

Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen grinned. “Nice to see someone else suffering, ain’t it, Max?”

The music that had been playing quietly in the background now stopped and a firm, decisive chord announced a change. Flynn spun around and there she was, his bride, dressed in a soft cloud of white. She looked exquisite, so small and dainty and fragile, so strong and tough and prickly and perfect.

The music played and, walking on Featherby’s arm, she started down the aisle towards him. She was nervous, he could see from the little frown of concentration between her brows, but the minute she saw him, her face lit up and she smiled.

He blinked. Her smile brightened the whole church. Her sisters followed her, but Flynn barely noticed. He had eyes only for Daisy.

She reached him and put out her hand, and he took it, the only thing that felt real—her small warm precious hand. Her hand in marriage.

In a daze he heard the minister begin, in a daze he repeated the vows, in a daze he slid the gold ring on her finger.

“You may kiss the bride.”

They kissed, and Flynn started to breathe again. He’d done it, won the lady of his heart, Daisy Chance, now Daisy Flynn—the finest lady in London.

They walked back down the aisle again, well-wishers filled the church, waving and smiling and sobbing—the damp handkerchiefs were out in force—most of them for Daisy.

Did she see how she was loved? Not for any reason, no reason of birth or position, just because she was the dear, sweet girl she was.

Daisy walked back down the aisle in a blur. She was married. Flynn’s arm was under her hand, strong and sure and warm. She lost track of the well-wishers who crowded around her, familiar faces, from the literary society, from her shop, friends of Flynn’s and Max’s and Freddy’s.

The carriage awaited. She bade farewell to each of her sisters, hugging them and sobbing, as if she was leaving them forever, not for a few weeks’ honeymoon at the seaside—Flynn wanted her to see the real sea that he loved, not the stinky river, and was threatening to teach her to swim. She’d see about that.

She bade good-bye to Featherby and William, hugging them both.

Lastly she hugged Lady Beatrice, the old lady who’d changed her life.

“Don’t see what you’ve got to cry about,” the old lady grumbled, her own eyes red with weeping. “Got a fine husband there. All my gels have done exceptionally well in the husband department. But Daisy”—she leaned forward and said in a voice that no one else could hear—“for what it’s worth I would trade every jewel, every lover I’ve ever had and ten years of my life—twenty—for what you have.” She smiled and patted Daisy’s cheek. “A man who loves you, just as you are, and a babe.”

Flynn threw handfuls of silver coins into the crowd and they drove off in a shower of rose petals and rice and a clatter of noise from the things someone—probably Freddy—had tied to the back of the carriage.

They were spending the first night in a grand London hotel—the Pulteney, which the czar of Russia had graced with his presence. As the carriage bowled smartly through the streets, they fell quiet.

“Happy?” Flynn asked.

She nodded. “Happier than I ever believed possible. I love you so much, Flynn.” She leaned against him, her heart full to bursting.

“I know darlin’—and I love you too.”

After a moment she said, “So, did you notice?”

“Notice what?”

“What I’m wearin’.”

He grinned. “You look beautiful, as always.”

She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t notice, did you?”

“I did. It’s a beautiful dress.”

She stuck her foot out and pulled the hem of her dress up so he could see them clearly.

He looked. Red shoes with a red and white rosette on the toe. “Are they . . . ?”

She nodded. “The ones you gave me. I wore them to our wedding—they’re not exactly weddin’ shoes, you know, but I wore them.”

“Why?”

“For you. So I wouldn’t limp down the aisle.” She thumped his shoulder. “It’s the first time I’ve worn them, and I didn’t limp and you watched me all the way and now, you didn’t even notice!”

He pulled her across his knees. “That’s because, my little hedgehog, I was looking at you—the prettiest bride a man ever had—not checking how you walked.” And he kissed her, hard.

“Are they comfortable?”

She nodded. “You were right—they do make it easier to walk.”

“Good. So will you wear them again?”

“Maybe. For special occasions.”

He frowned. “What kind of special occasion were you thinking of?”

She fiddled with his waistcoat buttons, suddenly shy. “Like when we waltz . . . or summat.”

Flynn hugged her tightly, too moved to speak. And then he kissed her again because she was his wife and he loved her. “Have I told you lately how wonderful I think you are?” he murmured.

“You just called me a hedgehog—that’s a compliment in Ireland, is it?”

“It is. The very finest of compliments.”

His loving bride snorted. And then she kissed him.