The customary wedding breakfast was to follow, and based on the activity of the house when they’d departed for the chapel, the staff was making their best efforts to please. Quin extended the invitation to the Fellows who had attended his wedding. He still could hardly fathom that they had attended, or that the chaplain had invited them. It was a sprinkling of sugar on an already delightful event, and he’d been moved by their kindness. Colleagues he had worked with for years, all taking time to offer their congratulations, meant more than he was able to articulate.
It was a piece of who he was. Matching up with who he had grown to be, the past and the present together.
Catherine’s hand nestled within his as they sat at the table, the hum of conversation fading into the background as his eyes met hers, finding home as so much more than a place. It was a person. Which was saying a lot, since Cambridge had always been where he felt most himself, most at peace.
He lifted her hand gently and bowed, closing his eyes as he inhaled the sweet scent of rosewater. He felt the slow burn of need for her that consumed him. Kindling caught fire quickly but burned out just as fast. His need for her was more like the smoldering embers that flared and glowed, burning hot and consistent.
As if sensing his thoughts, her face flushed a pretty pink, making him feel hot and needy. But they had still one more course of food before he could sweep her from the dining hall and into his bedroom.
Morgan stood, the movement catching Quin’s attention and providing a much-needed distraction.
“I’d like to offer a toast.” Morgan lifted his wineglass.
Everyone turned toward him, raising their glasses.
“Quin, you and I have quite a history. Many here can testify to it.”
There were a few chuckles from those who knew Morgan and Quin best.
“Never in all my life have I seen you as happy, contented, and, dare I say, bested—” More mirth, and this time Quin joined in. Catherine gave his arm a squeeze. “But as your longtime friend, it is my greatest honor to lift my glass to celebrate your marriage to such a lovely lady.” Morgan nodded in Catherine’s direction and everyone cried, “Hear, hear!”
Quin reached for his wine as Catherine did, and they clinked their glasses together.
“Now, as my wedding gift, because I tend to be more of the last-minute type fellow…” Morgan began.
Quin tore his attention from Catherine and back to his friend, who winked at him.
“I’m going to say good night and encourage you all to do the same.”
Quin was torn between wanting to thank his friend profusely and to berate him for playing the poor host when he wasn’t even in his own home. But gratitude won out as the guests at the table provided a few knowing chortles and slowly, one by one, offered their congratulations and then bid them a good evening.
Morgan waited till the last guest left, then offered his arm to Joan and approached Quin and Catherine, who had moved to the doorway, making it more convenient to bid the guests good night and thank you.
“Well, that was easier than I thought it was going to be,” Morgan said to Quin, offering his hand.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Quin admitted, bemused and shaking his friend’s hand.
“Yes, you can,” Morgan replied, then slapped Quin’s back. “Congratulations, my friend. You’ve done quite well for yourself.”
“If you imply that I’m marrying above my touch, you’re entirely correct.”
Morgan sniggered. “Indeed, but I think she didn’t get the raw end of the deal. There are few better than you, Quinton Errington.” Morgan nodded, his expression sober as he gave a final nod and then led Joan through the open door.
“My greatest good wishes.” Joan gave a quick squeeze to Catherine’s hand. “I’ll see you in London.”
“Yes, indeed, and soon I’m sure,” Catherine replied. She and Quin watched their friends enter a hackney coach headed for the inn where they had reserved a night’s stay to give the newlyweds some privacy.
Quin was thankful for his friend’s foresight, and it benefited them as well since the inn was just beyond Cambridge and would give them a head start back to London in the morning.
Quin turned and lowered his attention to Catherine’s hand resting on his arm. Her delicate gloves were stark white against the black of his coat. As he grasped her hand within his, he smoothed his thumb over the soft kid leather of the glove, traced her first finger to the tip, and then pinched the top, tugging lightly. He moved to the next finger and repeated the process till the glove was loose and he slipped it off, tucking it into a pocket of his coat. The warmth of her hand melted into his, and he grasped her fingertips, then laced his fingers through hers.
Their eyes met, and the hazel of her irises made small rings around her pupils as her hunger reflected in their depths. Without looking away, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing each finger one by one.
Her pink lips parted, her gasping became ragged, betraying the effect of his kisses.
As Quin kissed her last finger, he rubbed his lips softly against her knuckles. “I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you,” she answered, the words barely more than a gasp.