Page 659 of From Rakes to Riches

“Don’t thank me yet, Beech,” she teased.

But she could only smile. Because the sun was shining, and she loved him. They were going to marry, and everything was going to be all right.

“Make me a duchess first.”

16

Marcus and his Pease Porridge followed the snow-covered path from Hayholm Mote beside the frozen river, hand in hand, with the snow crunching beneath their feet.

It seemed like the right moment to pledge his troth. “I have something else for you.”

Pease laughed her surprise. “A wedding present?”

“A before-the-wedding present.” He held out a thickly folded piece of paper it had taken him half the night to prepare. “A valentine.”

“Beech.” She regarded him through her lashes. “Dare I ask if it is smutty?”

“It is not smutty.” He extended her the packet. “It is honest and true. It is my heart.”

She took the folded packet of the valentine from his hand with a solemn reverence, and carefully turned it to and fro to find the beginning of the puzzle. And when she found the start, she began to read.

“Dear love, this heart which you behold, which breaks apart as you unfold,”—she turned the valentine to continue—“cannotshow my truefast love, which came to us as from above.” She smiled up at him and the sun made a halo of her frosted breath. “That’s very sweet, Beech.”

“There’s more.” He tried to point out the intricacy of the design. “It’s a puzzle you have to unfold.”

“Thank you, Beech—I am aware of how valentines work.” She peeled off her gloves to pull carefully at a corner. “My dearest dear, my own true love, you’ve given me my heart. Each moment long, each day divine, you to me impart, the greatest care, the greatest love, that my life might be part.”

It sounded dreadfully trite in the cold clear light of morning. “I beg you will remember, I am a sailor, not a poet.”

“Hush, Beech, I’m getting to the good part. Look all these lovely pretty flowers. Did you really draw them yourself? Charmingly done.”

She cleared her throat slightly to resume reading. “With you by me, and I by you, as steadfast as the sun, ne’ermore be parted, but live in love, so our hearts beat as one.”

“Oh, Beech.” She threw her arms around his neck, and he felt the warm wet of her tears against his skin. “You really are the kindest, sweetest man.”

“I only wish to be your kindest, sweetest man.” He made his voice unnecessarily gruff to counter his sentiment. “The rest of the world can go to the devil.”

“Yes, well.” She laughed and disentangled herself from his embrace, so she might fold the valentine carefully away. “Well they might go to the devil, but we had best get ourselves to the Lord.”

Their footsteps echoedin the quiet nave of St. Michael of Hayholm, carrying them up the short aisle to stand in front of the vicar, who stamped his feet to bring feeling back into his chilly toes.

“Are we all here, then? Your Grace of Warwick?” The vicar checked the man against the title on the license. “Been some time since I married anyone with one of these—regular license, and not special.”

“Because we are regular people, Reverend, who desire to be regularly married people.”

Penelope liked the sound of that—not that she objected to being a duchess.

“If the bride would move to the other side,” the vicar was instructing, “and stand on my right?”

Beech wouldn’t like that—she’d be on his wrong side.

“We’re fine as we stand, Reverend,” Penelope said. “God will know which one of us is which.”

“I daresay.” The vicar retreated into his book, presumably to find the order of prayers. “Let us begin.”

“Now you’re in it,” Beech whispered at her side.

“Pease Porridge in the pot?”

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