“And the wedding, my lord—if I might make so bold as to enquire?"
Philip glanced at Carring. "Miss Mannering and I have reached a mutual understanding. We'll be married as soon as can be arranged."
Carring's smile held a reciprocating smugness Philip wasn't at all sure he understood.
"Very good, my lord," Carring intoned. "Might I request to be apprised of the date on which the nuptials will be celebrated?"
Philip fought a frown. "Why?"
"With your permission, my lord, I'd like to close the house on that day—so the staff can travel to the Manor to be on hand to tender their wishes to you and your lady."
Philip raised his brows. "If they wish it, by all means."
"Rest assured, my lord, we will certainly be there." Magisterially ponderous, Carring headed for the baize door. "Indeed, I have long looked forward to throwing rice at your wedding."
The baize door swung closed before Philip could think of a suitable reply. Eyes narrowed, he glared at the door—and wondered how good Carring's aim might be.
Antonia's breathless return distracted him; he forgot the matter entirely—until the moment, three days hence, when, with Antonia radiant on his arm, he left the safety of the door of the local church to brave a positive hail of rice.
One particular handful hit him on the back of his head; the grains quickly slid down beneath the folds of his cravat.
Philip swore beneath his breath. He wriggled his shoulders to no avail. Glancing back, he searched the crowd— and located Carring, a wide grin on his face.
An answering grin transformed Philip's face. The carriage, bedecked with flowers, stood befo
re them. He pulled Antonia to him; to the cheers of their well-wishers, he kissed her soundly, then lifted her up to the carriage.
Carring, as always, had had the last word; as he followed his wife into the carriage, Philip decided he didn't care in the least.
He glanced at Antonia, gloriously happy as she waved to their friends.
She was the wife he wanted, the wife he needed—not the comfortable wife she had thought to be but one to keep him on his toes.
Smiling proudly, Philip settled back against the squabs, his gaze firmly fixed on his wife.
His thirty-fifth year would be one he'd remember; he was, he discovered, looking forward, not just to the next, but to all the rest of his life.
* * * * *