“What the devil is going on here?” Chisholm, who’d picked himself up from the stone floor, bellowed.

With terrifying hauteur, the Duke of Bretton lifted one dark brow and intoned, “We are having a wedding. Sir.”

At which the handsome, black-haired devil standing beside Lady Cecily added, “Rather to say, we have had a wedding. Sir.”

“Whose wedding?” Finnian Burns demanded.

“Mine,” said Duke of Bretton. “To Catriona.” He smiled broadly. “Father-in-law.”

Burns reeled back under this pronouncement as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a mule, falling into the waiting arms of the Kilkarnity men behind him, more than one of whom had the sense to whisper to their fallen comrade, “A duke, Fin. A bloody rich duke!”

“And mine, also,” the darkly handsome man said before Burns had recovered, “to the Lady Cecily”—words that set Earl of Maycott starting forward in alarm, for now he recognized the man holding his daughter’s hand and remembered his reputation. But Maycott’s steps faltered to a halt when he saw the beatific expression on his daughter’s face.

He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever objection or comment he might have made was forever lost when the icily handsome Earl of Oakley spoke.

“And mine,” he announced, his gaze never straying from the face of Kilkarnity’s most famous romp, Fiona Chisholm. “To the Countess of Oakley, my own Fiona.”

“Fiona?” squawked her own father, dumbfounded. “Not Marilla? Are ye mad?”

“Quiet, Jamie,” one of the Kilkarnity men hissed, “ye have a son-in-law what’s an earl,” while behind them, the much recovered Finnian Burns beamed with paternal pride at his new son-in-law, the duke, until Maycott turned to him and in voice heavy with irony said, “Don’t think this means you’re shut the cost of a proper English ceremony, Burns. That’ll come later.”

To which Burns, who was known far and wide to have deep pockets and short arms, shot back smugly, “Unless a bairn comes first.” Meanwhile Chisholm, heedless of proffered advice, burst out, “But what of Marilla?”

At which point Taran, the instigator and author of all this fascinating drama, stepped forward—though later reports claimed he wisely kept his muscular nephews Lords Oakley and Rocheforte between him and Chisholm—and said, “Well, Jamie, since ye’re of a mind to know, I’m glad to be telling you—”

But Marilla, who had no patience with, well, anything, burst out with obvious glee, “I am wed, too, Father! I won’t have to leave Scotland and I shall have my very own castle!” She grabbed Taran’s arm. “So come and kiss your new son,” she crowed.

Chisholm’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and all about the room, everyone fell dead silent. Then, with a roar such as hadn’t been heard since Braveheart’s time, Chisholm launched himself at Taran, going straight through the laird’s nephews—well, not truly through, as both men stepped neatly aside—aiming for Taran’s neck and . . .

. . . And all merry hell broke loose.

Witnesses at the pub that night all agreed that Taran made a fair show and acquitted himself well for a man of his years. The laird wasn’t there to dispute it, since he was dancing the bedtime waltz with the prettiest girl in the county, even as her da sat gazing into a glass of whiskey and shaking his head.

Those who believed in fairies and suchlike—and since the Scots aren’t fools, they know right well that magic has its place—well, those folks said later that a strange moon shone over Finovair Castle that December, a lovers’ moon, a blue moon, a spoonin’ moon. Other said the Seelie Court had come riding in on that winter storm, their steeds as white as snow itself, and their laughter falling like blessings down Finovair’s old chimneys and turrets.

Whatever magic took hold of Finovair castle that December of 1819, the four couples who fell in love there never thought of that storm without a leap of the heart.

More to the point—and sure evidence of the magic if ever there was—some nine months later five new bairns squalled their way into the light of day. That would be one each for the noble parents, and a set of red-faced, lusty twins for the laird.

Beautiful, those babes were. And strong. And—or so their parents said—canny. And—so the Ferguson oft proudly said—loud.

But mostly, they were blessed . . . as is every child born to a couple who love each other with the kind of passion that only grows deeper with time. Neither the laird nor his male guests were the sort to babble much poetry, but there wasn’t a one of them that didn’t, now and then, drop a kiss on his wife’s sweet mouth and make her a promise: “And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.”

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.







About the Authors

A New York Times bestselling author of twenty-two novels for Avon Books, JULIA QUINN is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. She can be found on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.

New York Times bestselling author ELOISA JAMES is a professor of English literature who lives with her family in New York but can sometimes be found in Italy. Please visit her at www.eloisajames.com.

CONNIE BROCKWAY, the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-two books, is an eight-time finalist and two-time winner of the RITA® Award. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and two spoiled mutts. Her website is www.conniebrockway.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.







Praise

Julia Quinn is

“Smart, funny.”

Time Magazine

“Delightful.”

Nora Roberts

Eloisa James is

“Extraordinary.”

Lisa Kleypas

“Romance writing does not get much better than this.”

People

Connie Brockway is

“Delightfully witty and dazzlingly imaginative.”

Booklist

“Simply the best.”

Teresa Medeiros







More Dazzling Romance From

Julia Quinn

A Night Like This

Eloisa James

The Ugly Duchess

Connie Brockway

The Other Guy’s Bride


 

 

 

 





Copyright