The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

us at the chapel. Shall we go?” Dunhill indicated the door.

Miles spoke from the top of the stairs. “I’ll fetch the ladies and walk them over.”

The estate chapel stood in the fold of a hill about two hundred yards from the main house. A small lych-gate guarded the family cemetery, and ivy grew on the fence.

Charles stepped into the little church, and the scent of flowers greeted him.

“The parish women wanted to do something nice for the happy couple. They’ve cleaned and decorated the chapel.” Reverend Dunhill followed him inside. “From the looks of things, they plundered every flower patch in the district.”

The altar was a bower of greenery and blossoms.

Flowers.

He should have sent a bouquet to Sophie. What a dolt he was.

The sound of footsteps on the gravel path outside preceded the arrival of Thea. She wore a dress of sea blue, and silk ribbons fluttered with her movements. She panted, and a fine sheen broke out on her forehead, dampening the wispy red hair. “I ran all the way.”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

She frowned. “No. I just wanted to run.”

He found himself laughing. Thea was as mercurial as a mermaid.

Penny and Betsy followed at a much more sedate pace, and Miles slipped in behind them, taking up a post in the back corner of the little chapel. Lady Richardson was next, and Charles found his chest going tight.

There was no music, and yet his heart lilted as if someone were playing Handel on a pipe organ.

Lady Sophia stepped into the church, her eyes alight, color in her cheeks. Her dress was pale gold, and she wore a bonnet that framed her face perfectly.

He needn’t have worried about the bouquet. She carried flowers that matched those in the church. The parish ladies had come up trumps where he had failed.

With little ceremony, she walked up the aisle and put her hand on his arm. She looked serene, as if nerves were no such thing.

He wondered if his buttons were jumping, his heart beat so hard.

Dunhill moved to stand before them, and in what felt like an indecently short time, it was done. He had promised to love, honor, and cherish. Sophie had promised to love, honor, and obey. They had pledged that from this moment forward, they belonged solely to one another.

Dunhill recited from his Book of Common Prayer. “I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

They stood at the altar, hands clasped, looking at one another. Did she feel as stunned and sober as he? They were now married, in the sight of God and the church.

There was no going back now. The enormity of what they had done hit him square in the chest.

Lady Sophia Haverly—now Wyvern—was his wife.

His collar felt unbearably tight.

“Are you going to kiss her?” Thea’s voice ricocheted through the sanctuary, and the tension was broken. Everyone laughed, and Sophie blushed delightfully.

Charles raised his hand and touched her cheek, marveling at how soft her skin felt against his palm. Delicate as a rose petal. He raised his brows, silently asking for permission.

She bit her bottom lip briefly and nodded.

His heart clattering like a pebble in a bucket, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. The scent of the flowers surrounded them, but as he inhaled, he caught a brief snatch of her lemon verbena perfume. He felt that no matter where he went in the world after this, the mere whiff of lemon would remind him of this moment.

He stepped back, and she gifted him with a smile.

“Can we have our picnic now?” Betsy slid off the front pew and came to take Sophie’s hand. “Are we done getting married?”

“Yes, we are, sweetling.” Sophie brushed her fingers over Betsy’s curls. “Let’s have our picnic.”

Mrs. Chapman and Miles had prepared everything ahead of time, carrying baskets of food and cutlery down to the flat area near the staircase to the beach, and spreading a pair of blankets on the grass. Reverend Dunhill joined them. He carried a green bottle with a tight cork.

“To toast your happiness.”

Probably some ratafia or local ale.

Sophie helped Mamie ease down onto the blanket, and Mrs. Chapman and Miles offered pillows. Penny stole shy glances at Miles every chance she got, and Thea peeked into the baskets. Betsy popped up and picked daisies in anticipation of another chain-making session with Mamie.

They were acting like a family. His family.

God, You move in mysterious ways. Never did I envision having a family, much less one stitched together like this. Three orphan girls, my best friend’s fiancée, and his elderly mother. Thank You, God, and help me be worthy of them.

“What are you thinking about?” Sophie took a seat beside him. She twisted the gold circle on her finger.

“I was just telling God how mysterious His ways are to me.” Charles leaned back on his palms and crossed his boots. Sunshine streamed down, and the wind, while fresh, wasn’t too brisk.

She nodded, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. She had beautiful ears, shell-like, small, and perfect.

“Mysterious, to be sure. But if He is sovereign and He is good, then what He brings about must be for our good and His glory, should it not? I try to hold on to that truth no matter what.”

He nodded, contemplating her words. Did that account for the peace and serenity she displayed lately?

“A fine day for a sail.”

Miles tore his attention away from filling a plate for Penny. “The Shearwater’s ready, sir.”

Charles accepted a plate from Mrs. Chapman, but his mind drifted to the sailing trip. If he was honest, he would admit he was looking forward to being back in his element, to show Sophie—and the girls—that he was capable. His pride had taken a bit of a battering, not knowing how to run an estate and being teased about not knowing how to ride a horse. But aboard ship, any ship, he would excel.

“May I be