Page 99 of Miss Delightful
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Alasdhair’s cousinsboth stood up with him at the wedding, Michael presided, and Papa escorted Dorcas up the aisle of St. Mildred’s. Mrs. Merridew, Mrs. Benton, and Mrs. Oldbach had helped her dress for the occasion and sat in the front pew, smiling as if they each personally had brought the bride and groom together.
Doubtless they were enjoying the sight of Alasdhair in his clan finery almost as much as Dorcas was.
When Michael began the actual wedding service, a heavily veiled woman in lavender—possibly half-mourning?—slipped into the back of the church to sit next to Henderson, Mrs. Lovelace, Timmens, and baby John. For reasons Dorcas did not understand, the bishop of London and Mr. Zachariah Ingleby were present as well, sitting with Papa and gazing benevolently at all and sundry.
The vows were spoken, though to Dorcas, the promise in Alasdhair’s eyes was all the assurance she needed to spend the rest of her life with him. The presuming wretch kissed her when Michael pronounced them man and wife, and so Dorcas had to kiss him back.
Michael cleared his throat, the ladies beamed more fiercely, and Dorcas took a somewhat dazed new husband by the hand and escorted him down the aisle.
“You enjoyed that,” Alasdhair muttered as they waited on the church steps for the rest of the assembly. “You enjoyed stealing m’ wits before your friends.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
The day was unseasonably balmy, or perhaps Dorcas was so thoroughly swaddled in her husband’s love that she’d never be cold again.
“Did I enjoy it?” Alasdhair asked, peering at a clump of newly blooming daffodils along the walkway. “I hardly know, Mrs. MacKay. Do it again and help me make up my mind.”
“No whispering sweet nothings, Mr. MacKay,” Mrs. Oldbach said, coming down the steps. She had Papa by one arm. Mrs. Benton had him by the other. “You are a married man now.”
“Correct you are, ma’am,” Alasdhair replied. “When I whisper to my lady now, I’m no longer limited to sweet nothings.”
Colonel Goddard smacked him on the shoulder for that, and Mrs. Merridew, for perhaps the first time in a year, laughed outright.
The wedding breakfast at the vicarage had been prepared by Ann Goddard and was almost too pretty to eat. Dorcas made Alasdhair eat anyway.
“You are afraid I will swoon?” he asked between bites of fruit quiche.
“You do not swoon,” Dorcas replied as Papa began regaling the guests with the story about that time a very young Michael climbed the steeple in an effort to see to America. “You grow a bit light-headed when you neglect your tummy. I am more concerned that you will need to keep up your strength.”
Alasdhair lifted a glass of champagne—Goddard’s finest—and winked at her. “As you will, Mrs. MacKay.”
How she loved it when he called her that. “I suppose this means I’m no longer Miss Delightful.”
“Would you like a newnom de guerre? Mrs. Delighted, for example?”
“I heard that,” Captain Powell said. “Time for Goddard to start the toasts.”
The toasts were by turns sentimental, funny, and sincere, but eventually, the guests were taking their leave, and it was time for Dorcas to bid her father farewell.
“Before you go,” Papa said, “take a turn in the garden with me. I must clear my head after all those toasts.”
Now Papa wanted to take a turn in the garden with her? Well, perhaps that was the beginning of a new tradition, and Dorcas hadn’t the heart to refuse him.
“I’ll be a moment,” she said as Alasdhair held her chair.
“Take as long as you need,” he replied. “As long asyouneed, Dorcas. Not as long asheneeds.” Alasdhair softened that admonition with a wink and was still chatting with his cousins when Dorcas returned from her garden constitutional.
She eventually realized Alasdhair was waiting for her to choose the moment to depart, while she’d been… marveling at the pleasure of becoming his wife. She approached him, wrapped an arm around his waist, and seized on the next lull in the conversation.
“Mr. MacKay, not to be rude, but I believe I’m ready to go home. The day has been long and lovely, and I would have you all to myself.”
Colonel Goddard saluted her. “MacKay, you have your orders.”
“I have my heart’s delight,” Alasdhair said. “Come, my dear. We will slip away while Goddard creates a distraction. He’s good at that.”
Just like that, Dorcas was seated beside Alasdhair in his town coach—a silly indulgence, given the lovely weather—and rolling away from the vicarage.
