Chapter 7: Perfectly Wonderful

It wasn't until they were in the car, alone — well, alone with the chauffeur at the front — that Bertie and Edith realized that they were truly, completely married. He still couldn't believe his great good luck. That Edith had given him the time of day during the Sinderby shooting party. Running into her on the street in London. Gaining her affection and love over the ensuing weeks. Winning her forgiveness that night at the Ritz.

"My dear wife. Happy new year," Bertie murmured before reaching for her hand. He took off his hat and kissed her soundly.

"My dear husband," Edith replied in a whisper against his lips. "Happy new year."

They were to stay the night in London before embarking on their honeymoon in Paris. Edith was unaccountably nervous about the evening. She'd been with a man before, although it had been just that one night with Michael.

Glancing at Bertie, he only seemed incandescently happy. That she could make him feel that way nearly made her heart burst.

"I was glad to see Laura catch the bouquet," Edith said. "I don't want to play matchmaker, but I thought she and Tom were getting along quite well."

Bertie tilted his head, as he often did when thinking. He liked Tom very well, and they'd had several very interesting discussions about farming and land development. "Hmm, yes, I saw them speaking. I don't know either well enough to say it'd be a good match."

"Oh, it's just ruminations. Now that I'm happily married, I want to marry off everyone I know," she laughed.

They arrived at their hotel, where they got the very best suite — they were, after all, a marquess and marchioness — and asked to have supper sent up to their rooms.

Bertie ate heartily; he'd hardly touched a thing at the wedding breakfast. Edith picked at her food, still feeling butterflies. She wondered if Bertie would look at her differently, knowing she'd been with someone else. She wondered if he thought she'd … well, know what she was about. Even though she didn't.

After eating (or in her case, not), they sat by the fire with a cocktail, snuggled together in the same way they'd always done. And to Edith's surprise, Bertie spoke up.

"Darling, whatever is the matter?"

Edith froze. "Nothing. Nothing at all. This is the happiest day of my life."

"Something is the matter." Bertie turned to look her in the eye. He was a little disappointed at the thought that Edith still felt she had to hide things from him. "I hope you can trust me to say what it is."

Edith let out a deep sigh. "I do trust you, of course. You know that I do. I just feel so very silly." At his encouraging nod, she continued, "I'm just worried about … tonight. Our wedding night."

Comprehension dawned on him. "Ah," he said, breathing in. "Are you afraid, is that it? I assume you … you know what happens."

She let out a short bark. "Yes, of course. I didn't find Marigold in a manger." Edith was reassured somewhat when Bertie took her hands and squeezed them. "We've never talked about … the details, I suppose. I worried you might think I was more … experienced than I am. And I worry that maybe … deep down, part of you thinks I am damaged goods."

Edith's stomach was in knots and she could hardly breathe. But Bertie squeezed her hands again, then caressed her cheek.

"My dearest, darling Edith. Put your fears to rest, all of them. I love you. I adore you. I cherish you. I respect you. I want to make you as happy as any woman could be. We shall find our way through anything and everything, together. Tonight, tomorrow, and in 50 years. I'm ready for whatever comes."

Tears came to Edith's eyes. Bertie was looking at her so earnestly, so lovingly — it reminded her of that dinner at the Ritz. "The only thing I'm not ready for is a life without you," he had said.

She had trusted him then, and she trusted him now — with her heart, her body, and her soul.

Their life together was just beginning. And it was going to be perfectly wonderful.