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Authors: Bárbara Metzger
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home.”
“Of course, the heir,” he said lightly, smoothing the irregular tousles of her hair. “Nice to know that someone will be praying for at least parts of me to come back intact.”
“Now who’s talking improperly?” she wanted to know, looking down to hide her blush.
He tilted her face up and, taking a serviette from the coffee tray, began wiping at the smudges there. “Is this what you really want, Sparrow?” A brilliant smile was his answer, blue eyes shining.
* * * *
“Good going, Emmy,” Geoff enthused on his return. Pounding his brother on the back, he chuckled. “I knew all along you would do it”
“So did I,” muttered the Earl of Stokely. He shrugged. “Well, let’s do it, then. You and I, Geoff, are about to go ruffle a lot of feathers. Nothing like shaking a flock of stuffy old men out of their beds. Great Zeus, solicitors and sermonizers, and the sun’s not even up.... And Rigg,” he called louder, “you can stop listening at the door and get out here on the double. You’ve got a harder job yet.”
The red-faced private stood at bandy-legged attention, eyes forward, chest out, even when the captain introduced him to the future Lady Stokely. His round chest swelled even more when his officer said, “Don’t worry, my dear, I’ve trusted Rigg with my life countless times. You can trust him.” But tears came to his eyes and the twin mustachios drooped when the captain gave his final orders: “Make her presentable, Rigg. I’ll not wed a hobbledehoy ragamuffin in britches.”
* * * *
A short time later, on what was the start of a gorgeous sunny morning, Lady Emilyann Arcott was finally wed to Captain Everett Stockton, Lord Stokely. The groom was attended by his brother, his solicitor, and his batman. He wore his second best uniform, and his eyes were only a trifle bloodshot. The bride was given away by Mr. Baxley, her man of business; her matron of honor was the vicar’s plump wife, who wept through the thankfully brief ceremony. The bride’s cheeks were red from scrubbing, and she clutched a nosegay of violets hastily purchased from an early morning street vendor. She wore an exquisite white lace mantilla held by an ivory comb—and the bridegroom’s lace-trimmed nightshirt. Her bare feet hardly showed.
----
Chapter 6
Marry in haste; repent at leisure. But in the middle of a war? Captain Lord Stokely spent the first hours of his marriage giving orders, deploying his ragtag troops, and signing papers. He affixed his name to the marriage license, a settlement deed, a new will, a quitclaim to his wife’s property, and a power of authority, all in Emilyann’s favor. He also sent off notices of the wedding, details omitted, naturally, to the newspapers, his brother Thornton, and, with great satisfaction, Emilyann’s uncle, Lord Aylesbury. Next he saw his child-bride off on her way home, in a carriage, in a dress, with his brother, a maid, and a draft on his bank.
Her readymade dress was at least two sizes too big, the best poor Rigg could do—hell, cannons and bayonets were less scarifying to the bewhiskered batman than frippery doodads and snooty dressmakers. The front was looking better to him all the time. Emilyann’s bonnet was an atrocious concoction of feathers, flowers, and fruit, but she wore Smoky’s gold signet ring on her wedding finger and a brilliant smile on her pixie face as she listened carefully to his firm instructions about her future conduct.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Stokely congratulated himself and Rigg, whose hands were still shaking. “We even brushed through in plenty of time to meet the ship at Portsmouth.”
He hardly gave another thought to the matter, beyond a few chuckles, until rejoining the army and reporting back to his commander. Word of the nuptials had already reached him, and not for nothing was Wellington called the Iron General.
“I don’t like it, boy, do you hear me? I don’t like my junior officers involved in any
“Of course, the heir,” he said lightly, smoothing the irregular tousles of her hair. “Nice to know that someone will be praying for at least parts of me to come back intact.”
“Now who’s talking improperly?” she wanted to know, looking down to hide her blush.
He tilted her face up and, taking a serviette from the coffee tray, began wiping at the smudges there. “Is this what you really want, Sparrow?” A brilliant smile was his answer, blue eyes shining.
* * * *
“Good going, Emmy,” Geoff enthused on his return. Pounding his brother on the back, he chuckled. “I knew all along you would do it”
“So did I,” muttered the Earl of Stokely. He shrugged. “Well, let’s do it, then. You and I, Geoff, are about to go ruffle a lot of feathers. Nothing like shaking a flock of stuffy old men out of their beds. Great Zeus, solicitors and sermonizers, and the sun’s not even up.... And Rigg,” he called louder, “you can stop listening at the door and get out here on the double. You’ve got a harder job yet.”
The red-faced private stood at bandy-legged attention, eyes forward, chest out, even when the captain introduced him to the future Lady Stokely. His round chest swelled even more when his officer said, “Don’t worry, my dear, I’ve trusted Rigg with my life countless times. You can trust him.” But tears came to his eyes and the twin mustachios drooped when the captain gave his final orders: “Make her presentable, Rigg. I’ll not wed a hobbledehoy ragamuffin in britches.”
* * * *
A short time later, on what was the start of a gorgeous sunny morning, Lady Emilyann Arcott was finally wed to Captain Everett Stockton, Lord Stokely. The groom was attended by his brother, his solicitor, and his batman. He wore his second best uniform, and his eyes were only a trifle bloodshot. The bride was given away by Mr. Baxley, her man of business; her matron of honor was the vicar’s plump wife, who wept through the thankfully brief ceremony. The bride’s cheeks were red from scrubbing, and she clutched a nosegay of violets hastily purchased from an early morning street vendor. She wore an exquisite white lace mantilla held by an ivory comb—and the bridegroom’s lace-trimmed nightshirt. Her bare feet hardly showed.
----
Chapter 6
Marry in haste; repent at leisure. But in the middle of a war? Captain Lord Stokely spent the first hours of his marriage giving orders, deploying his ragtag troops, and signing papers. He affixed his name to the marriage license, a settlement deed, a new will, a quitclaim to his wife’s property, and a power of authority, all in Emilyann’s favor. He also sent off notices of the wedding, details omitted, naturally, to the newspapers, his brother Thornton, and, with great satisfaction, Emilyann’s uncle, Lord Aylesbury. Next he saw his child-bride off on her way home, in a carriage, in a dress, with his brother, a maid, and a draft on his bank.
Her readymade dress was at least two sizes too big, the best poor Rigg could do—hell, cannons and bayonets were less scarifying to the bewhiskered batman than frippery doodads and snooty dressmakers. The front was looking better to him all the time. Emilyann’s bonnet was an atrocious concoction of feathers, flowers, and fruit, but she wore Smoky’s gold signet ring on her wedding finger and a brilliant smile on her pixie face as she listened carefully to his firm instructions about her future conduct.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Stokely congratulated himself and Rigg, whose hands were still shaking. “We even brushed through in plenty of time to meet the ship at Portsmouth.”
He hardly gave another thought to the matter, beyond a few chuckles, until rejoining the army and reporting back to his commander. Word of the nuptials had already reached him, and not for nothing was Wellington called the Iron General.
“I don’t like it, boy, do you hear me? I don’t like my junior officers involved in any
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