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“Are you sure about this?”I asked Fiona the next day as we waited outside a French church. We had agreed to marry before we left for home, wishing to be able to share a cabin on our long trip back to America.

“Josephine will be angry with me,” Fiona said. “But we can always do another ceremony at home if the sisters insist upon it.”

Instead of her sisters and brothers, Fiona’s friends had come to witness our vows. Her parents were there too. Mr. Basset was not invited.

We were married in a small ceremony in a Lutheran church not far from the apartment. It all flew by so fast that later I had trouble remembering the details. Afterward, we all went out to a festive meal at our café. Even Henri seemed happy for us, cracking a few smiles as he brought out decadent courses of oysters, fennel salads, pasta with chanterelle mushrooms, and roasted lamb, and finishing with a plate of fruit and cheese. Each course was paired with a lovely bottle of wine. By the end of the evening, after many toasts and congratulations, we were all warm and slightly tipsy. I’d almost forgotten our wedding night was still to come by the end of the evening.

Fiona’s parents had arranged for us to have a night at an upscale hotel and had offered to stay with the boys, even though Gabriella was fine on her own.

Later, I stood by the window and looked out at the lights of the Eiffel Tower while Fiona changed into her wedding-night attire. Mrs. Barnes had insisted the hotel have a view of the famous tower, saying it was romantic and noteworthy. I agreed, although, at this point in the night, I was too nervous to enjoy the view.

Finally, Fiona emerged from the bathroom. She wore a lacy nightgown that clung to the curves of her hips and small breasts. I swallowed and took a deep breath at the same time, making me light-headed. I held on to the back of a chair to keep from toppling over and giving myself a head injury before we were able to consummate our marriage.

I was dressed in only an undershirt and a soft pair of pajama bottoms. Her hands went to her mouth. “Is it really you?” Fiona whispered. “Is this truly happening?”

“Yes, it’s all real.”

“Are you as nervous as I?” Fiona moved to the end of the bed and sat, as if her legs were suddenly unable to hold her upright.

“Do you remember the first night we played at the club?” I asked.

“Very well, yes. If I recall, we were both scared witless.”

“I’m more nervous than that night.”

She covered her mouth with her hands, giggling. “Me too.”

I went to sit next to her on the end of the bed. “Whatever happens, we can try again.”

“Cymbeline and Josephine have assured me it’s very fun,” Fiona said. “But I’m having trouble understanding how it all works.”

I chuckled and smoothed a stray curl from her eyes. She had her hair completely down, and without combs or barrettes to hold her thick curls in place, they were as unruly as sweet pea bushes in the late spring. “We’re novices,” I said. “But perhaps after a time, we’ll become experts at playing these new instruments?”

We both giggled, sounding like schoolchildren.

“What happens first?” Fiona asked.

I ran my thumb over her rosy bottom lip. “We kiss, I think. After that, we’ll have to feel our way through it.”

“Like a new piece of music.” She sounded more confident thinking of it that way.

“Yes, practice makes perfect.”

“Perfectly perfect,” she whispered before I silenced her with a kiss.


Tags: Tess Thompson Emerson Pass Historicals Historical