“I feel as if I am in a dream.”
“You’re my heart, Lily. I promise you won’t regret marrying me. All who don’t approve of our union can go hang.”
“I promise you won’t regret marrying me, either. I’ll read all the books on etiquette, and I’ll be a very attentive student as you teach me all the dances.” She gasped as he placed another kiss on her throat and tilted her head back, allowing him access to the curve of her jawline. “I’ll not shame you,” she vowed fiercely. “I’ll be a wife you will be proud of.”
Her marquess took her lips in a fiery kiss, and Lily giggled as he swept her into his arms and walked with her over to the door. Without releasing her lips, he managed to push it closed.
She pulled from him. “They’ll know what we’re doing!”
“They’ll need to get used to doors in our homes closing for hours in the middle of the day.”
She laughed.
He dropped his forehead to her with a sigh. “Are you desiring a large wedding?”
“This was never something I had to think about. What do you want?”
“You,” came his swift and possessive reply.
What if this is naught but a dream?
“Something small and beautiful,” she whispered. “With our families and close friends. And I’ll be wearing the most glorious dress, inspired by a Parisian design, with layers of silk and the hem trimmed with lace and beads.”
“Pearls and diamonds.”
Lily laughed. “Oh, Oliver, this feels too wonderful to be true. I never thought I would ever be this happy.”
And as her lover kissed her, Lily dearly prayed the hope that bubbled in her soul would flower and bear fruit.
Chapter Sixteen
“The Marquess and Marchioness of Ambrose!”
A hush fell over the elegantly decorated ballroom of the Duchess of Basil as Lily and Oliver appeared on the landing, their first public appearance after the news of their marriage had roared through the ton several weeks ago. She glanced at her husband, not liking the anxiety that scythed through her heart. The dratted man winked.
“They will love you,” he murmured. “And remember, if they don’t, they can…”
“Go hang,” she finished with a wide grin.
“You are the most ravishing woman here.”
Lily felt particularly beautiful in her emerald high cinched waist gown, with its short, ruffled sleeves and scandalous décolletage. Her dancing slippers were golden and matched the gold threads woven through her upswept hair.
“Flattery will always get you whatever you wish, my husband.”
Their hosts and hostess, the Duke and Duchess of Basil, greeted Lily and Oliver. “You are a curiosity, my dear—the commoner who snagged one of the most eligible lords of the season,” the duchess said, her eyes twinkling with pure devilry.
It seemed as if all of refined society had crammed into the duchess’s grand ballroom and were staring. Lily never imagined his set was so ridiculous.
“My dear friend, how truly marvelous you look tonight,” Elizabeth said, the duchess of Basil, looping her hands through Lily’s. The duchess glanced at Oliver. “Allow me to introduce your darling to a few ladies who have been quite eager to make her acquaintance. Everyone has been clamoring to meet her after the scandal of your marriage and departure to Venice.”
Lily nodded, amused despite the collective throng following her and the duchess’s progress through the room. Lily glanced back at Oliver and winked, letting him know she was quite unintimidated by society’s rabid curiosity. She hadn’t idled the weeks away while they had been abroad. She had read many books on the proper decorum a lady should possess.
They had shocked society when they had wed within a week of Oliver asking Lily. The scandal that had roared through the ton had been blistering, if the numerous newspaper articles were anything to judge by, but they had weathered it by traveling from Dover to Calais on her marquess’s private yacht. They had visited Paris, mostly to shop, and then traveled onward to Venice, uncaring of the rest of the world as they burned in mutual sensual delight. He’d shown her all the wonderful places that had inspired the artist in him, and she had posed for him many times. Now his private collection had erotic paintings of his marchioness the rest of the world would never see. Well, at least not while they were alive.
“My dear Minerva,” Elizabeth said to Countess Brenton. “May I present my dear friend, Lily, the Marchioness of Ambrose.”
The countess dipped into an elegant curtsy, and Lily gracefully inclined her head. The many introductions blurred, and she felt like an insect under a microscope as they analyzed and dissected the commoner who had somehow beguiled their charming marquess.