He pulled a face at her, then inspiration struck. “Perhaps if you ‘persuaded’ me?”

She grinned, and did. She put her heart and soul into addling his brain sufficiently for him to smile and accept the inevitable.

A monstrous big wedding, complete with all the associated tortures.

In the blissful end, a quiet voice whispered that it was a small price to pay for this much love.


They were married in the church at Newmarket. The event, held just after the end of the racing season, was hailed as the highlight of the social year.

The other members of the Dalloway family and a host of connections traveled from Ireland to be present; still others journeyed from all over england to witness the nuptials of the Earl of Kentland’s eldest daughter. The Cynsters and various other Caxton connections thronged the town; the gathering outside the church when the bride and groom emerged from the chapel was immense, swelled by hordes of local residents eager to see their hero wed.

Smiling proudly, Dillon refused to let go of Pris’s hand as they stopped here and there on their way to the waiting carriage; they’d already weathered a veritable storm of rice. There were many among the crowd they owed a word, a greeting, an acknowledgment, but finally they reached the carriage, and amid rousing cheers, rolled away to the wedding breakfast.

Demon and Flick had insisted on holding the celebration at their home. By the time Dillon and Pris stepped out on the lawn beyond the drawing room, the wide expanse was already dotted with guests.

Dillon’s two closest friends, Gerrard Debbington and Charlie Morwellan, had stood as his groomsmen. Gerrard was waiting just beyond the terrace with his wife, Jacqueline; Dillon and Pris joined them. As Gerrard and Jacqueline had wed only a few months before, the four had much in common.

“I’m still struggling to keep all the names and connections straight,” Jacqueline confessed. “And the clan only keeps growing!”

Pris laughed. “And in more ways than one.” She met Jacqueline’s bright eyes; Jacqueline had whispered that she was increasing, something anyone seeing her beatific smile would surely guess.

Charlie came up as Gerrard and Jacqueline moved on. “Two down. I’m the last man left standing.”

Dillon clapped him on the shoulder. “Your time will come.”

Pris listened as Dillon and Charlie ribbed each other; when she and Dillon were about to venture on, she murmured, “Just remember-there’s no escape.”

Charlie stared at her. She smiled, patted his arm, and let a chuckling Dillon lead her away.

There were so many guests to speak with that her head was soon reeling, but it was a giddy, pleasurable feeling, one she embraced. While she hadn’t specifically wished for it, she was now glad she’d listened to older and wiser heads, agreed to the large wedding, and persuaded Dillon to do the same. There was something so special in having everyone there to share the day; she would never forget these moments for as long as she lived-and that felt very right.

Barnaby was waiting amid the crowd. He apologized for broaching the subject before saying, “Stokes told me they pulled Abercrombie-Wallace’s body from the Thames a week ago.”

She frowned. “He drowned?”

Barnaby hesitated, but at a nod from Dillon said, “No. His throat was cut…eventually. From what Stokes said, Wallace’s death wasn’t peaceful.”

All three of them exchanged glances, then, as one, closed the door on the past and turned their minds to thoughts more in keeping with the day.

Dillon was conscious of a heightened sensitivity, an awareness of people and their interactions, that he couldn’t recall possessing before. He sensed a connectedness, warm and assured, intangible yet so powerful he felt he could almost touch it, as they chatted to devil and Honoria, to Demon and Flick, to Gabriel and Alathea, and the other Cynster couples who had been a constant in his life over the last decade.

He felt the touch of that intangible force even more personally when he embraced his father, then watched the General beam at Pris, when he was the recipient of backslaps and warm handshakes from Rus and the earl, and when Pris laughed and wildly hugged them both.

He felt it when he saw Rus and Adelaide share a secret smile.

Pris’s brother Albert, and her younger brother and sisters, were all present, Albert interested in all around him-in the stud and the town and Dillon’s work-while the younger crew ran wild beneath the shade trees, laughing and playing with Nicholas and Prue and the small army of other children present. Dillon saw Pris, Flick, and a host of other ladies smile fondly, not just at their own siblings or offspring, but at others, too.

Inclusive, all-embracing.

As he strolled arm in arm with Pris through the throng, all in some way part of his extended family, he felt the strands of that familiar, warm and pleasurable power twining and sliding like ribbons linking them all.

Husband to wife, parent to child, sibling to sibling, twin to twin, between lovers, between uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews, the strands of that power reached and touched, linked and held, connected and supported.

Love.

It was in the air in so many guises, it was impossible not to feel it.

Dillon felt, saw, acknowledged, accepted, and let the power flow through him.

He glanced at Pris, on his arm, then looked around with eyes fully open. Soon, he hoped, another strand of love-the one that linked father to child-would find him. They moved through the crowd, and he drank in all he saw, and felt his heart swell with anticipation.

The majority of males, most of whom were married, congregated to one side of the lawn. Leaving Pris with the ladies sitting under the trees, Dillon joined the gentlemen, inwardly smiling at their glib comments, their habitual grumbling giving voice to their reluctance over attending such emotion-laden events.

He now had a deeper understanding of that reluctance. In this arena, it was exceedingly difficult not to wear their hearts on their sleeves, not to openly acknowledge that power that claimed them all so thoroughly. And that always left them feeling exposed and vulnerable, a reality they never appreciated acknowledging, even if for only a short time.

Regardless, they would always attend as commanded by their mothers, their wives, their daughters or sisters.

Because, as he now understood, when all was considered and weighed in the balance, feeling vulnerable and exposed was a very small price to pay…for this much love.

About the Author


New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career, and her series of historical romances set in Regency England about the masterful Cynster cousins has captivated readers, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. She has also introduced the equally unforgettable members of the Bastion Club. She lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters.