“Wait. Easy . . . love, there’s another part of the surprise that I don’t want you to miss.”

“Where?” Beatrix asked drowsily, her hand searching over his front.

Christopher gave a muffled laugh, taking her by the shoulders and easing her away. He stared down at her, his gray eyes glowing.

“Listen,” he whispered.

As the thrumming of her own heart quieted, Beatrix heard music. Not instruments, but human voices joined in harmony. Bemused, she went to the window and looked out. A smile lit her face.

A small group of officers from Christopher’s regiment, still in uniform, were standing in a row and singing a slow, haunting ballad.

Were I laid on Greenland’s coast,

And in my arms embrac’d my lass;

Warm amidst eternal frost,

Too soon the half year’s night would pass.

And I would love you all the day.

Ev’ry night would kiss and play,

If with me you’d fondly stray.

Over the hills and far away . . .

“Our song,” Beatrix whispered, as the sweet strains floated up to them.

“Yes.”

Beatrix lowered to the floor and braced her folded arms on the windowsill . . . the same place where she had lit so many candles for a soldier fighting in a faraway land.

Christopher joined her at the window, kneeling with his arms braced around her. At the conclusion of the song, Beatrix blew the officers a kiss. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she called down to them. “I will treasure this memory always.”

One of them volunteered, “Perhaps you’re not aware of it, Mrs. Phelan, but according to Rifle Brigade wedding tradition, every man on the groom’s honor guard gets to kiss the bride on her wedding night.”

“What rot,” Christopher retorted amiably. “The only Rifles wedding tradition I know of is to avoid getting married in the first place.”

“Well, you bungled that one, old fellow.” The group chortled.

“Can’t say as I blame him,” one of them added. “You are a vision, Mrs. Phelan.”

“As fair as moonlight,” another said.

“Thank you,” Christopher said. “Now stop wooing my wife, and take your leave.”

“We started the job,” one of the officers said. “It’s left to you to finish it, Phelan.”

And with cheerful catcalls and well wishes, the Rifles departed.

“They’re taking the horse with them,” Christopher said, a smile in his voice. “You’re well and truly stranded with me now.” He turned toward Beatrix and slid his fingers beneath her chin, nudging her to look at him. “What’s this?” His voice gentled. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Beatrix said, seeing him through a shimmer of tears. “Absolutely nothing. It’s just . . . I spent so many hours in this place, dreaming of being with you someday. But I never dared to believe it could really happen.”

“You had to believe, just a little,” Christopher whispered. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have come true.” Pulling her between his spread thighs, he wrapped her in a comforting hug. After a long time, he spoke quietly into her hair. “Beatrix. One of the reasons I haven’t made love to you since that afternoon is that I didn’t want to take advantage of you again.”

“You didn’t,” she protested. “I gave myself to you freely.”

“Yes, I know.” Christopher kissed her head. “You were generous, and beautiful, and so passionate that you’ve ruined me for any other woman. But it wasn’t what I had intended for your first time. Tonight I’m going to make amends.”

Beatrix shivered at the sensual promise of his tone. “There’s no need. But if you insist . . .”

“I do insist.” He smoothed his hand over her back and continued to hold her, making her feel safe. And then he began to kiss his way along the side of her neck, his mouth hot and deliberate, and she began to feel not entirely safe. She drew in a quick breath as he lingered at a sensitive place.

Feeling the ripple of her convulsive swallow, he lifted his head and smiled down at her. “Shall we have supper first?” Standing in an easy movement, he pulled her up with him.

“After that enormous wedding breakfast,” Beatrix replied, “I’ll never be hungry again. However . . .”—she gave him a brilliant grin—“I wouldn’t mind a glass of champagne.”

Taking her face in his hands, Christopher kissed her swiftly. “For that smile, you can have the entire bottle.”

She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Would you unfasten my dress first?”

Turning her away from him, he began on the row of concealed hooks that held the back of her dress together.

It felt like a husbandly act, this unfastening of her dress, both comforting and pleasant. As he bared her nape, he pressed his lips to the delicate skin, and strung more lingering kisses to the top of her spine.

“Shall I do the corset as well?” he asked, his voice close to her ear.

Beatrix was privately amazed that her legs were still supporting her. “No, thank you, I can manage that by myself.” She fled to the privacy of the dressing screen, and tugged her trunk behind it. Opening the lid, Beatrix found her neatly folded clothes and a drawstring muslin bag containing a brush and a rack of hairpins, and other small necessities. There was also a package wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a matching ribbon. Picking up a small folded note that had been tucked under the ribbon, Beatrix read: