Dukes By the Dozen

Lord, but they grew them fine, these Beecham boys. He was impossibly handsome, made neat and tidy by her shears. Or at least made neater and tidier—there was no ridding him of his devilishly piratical seafaring air.

“Good Lord, Beech,” she said because she didn’t know quite what else to say. “I do hope you’ve come to marry me.” Despite her best effort at wry nonchalance, her voice quavered and cracked with the unspoken question—would he have her? Had she left it too late?

But Beech was as honest and loyal and steadfast as they came. “I have.” He let out a deep exhalation. “Let us do so at once.”

Penelope smiled. “Right now? Surely I’m meant to at least offer you a hot dish of tea first?”

“The only warmth I need is you.” He patted his coat as he stepped nearer. “I have used the hours since you left me wisely—I have that marriage license I boasted I could procure.”

Relief, gratitude and sheer unadulterated love made her giddy. “You’re sure? Your mother—”

“I won’t be persuaded against you, Pease Porridge. Not now. Not ever.”

“You really are the bravest man, Beech. Well then.” She held out her hand to him.

He reached for her as if it had been a burden not to touch her. Not to place a kiss upon the back of her hand. Not to show her how relieved and pleased and grateful he was, too. “Thank you, my darling girl.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Beech,” she teased. But she could only smile. Because the sun was shining, and she loved him. They were going to marry, and everything was going to be all right. “Make me a duchess first.”

CHAPTER 16

MARCUS and his Pease Porridge followed the snow-covered path from Hayholm Mote beside the frozen river, hand in hand, with the snow crunching beneath their feet.

It seemed like the right moment to pledge his troth. “I have something else for you.”

Pease Porridge laughed her surprise. “A wedding present?”

“A before-the-wedding present.” He held out a thickly folded piece of paper it had taken him half the night to prepare. “A valentine.”

“Beech.” She regarded him through her lashes. “Dare I ask if it is smutty?”

“It is not smutty.” He extended her the packet. “It is my heart.”

She took the valentine from his hand with solemn reverence, and carefully turned it to and fro to find the beginning of the puzzle. And then she began to read. “Dear love, this heart which you behold, which breaks apart as you unfold,”—she turned the valentine to continue—“cannot show my truefast love, which came to us as from above.” She smiled up at him and the sun made a halo of her frosted breath. “That’s very sweet, Beech.”

“There’s more.” He tried to point out the intricacy of the design. “It’s a puzzle you have to unfold.”

“Thank you, Beech—I am aware of how valentines work.” She peeled off her gloves to pull carefully at a corner. “My dearest dear, my own true love, you’ve given me my heart. Each moment long, each day divine, you to me impart, the greatest care, the greatest love, that my life might be part.”

It sounded dreadfully trite in the cold clear light of morning. “I beg you will remember, I am a sailor, not a poet.”

“Hush, Beech, I’m getting to the good part. Look all these lovely pretty flowers. Did you really draw them yourself? Charmingly done.” She cleared her throat slightly to resume reading. “With you by me, and I by you, as steadfast as the sun, ne’ermore be parted, but live in love, so our hearts beat as one.”

“Oh, Beech.” She threw her arms around his neck, and he felt the warm wet of her tears against his skin. “You really are the kindest, sweetest man.”

“I only wish to be your kindest, sweetest man.” He made his voice unnecessarily gruff to counter his sentiment. “The rest of the world can go to the devil.”

“Yes, well.” She laughed and disentangled herself from his embrace, so she might fold the valentine carefully away. “Well they might go to the devil, but we had best get ourselves to the Lord.”

THEIR FOOTSTEPS ECHOED in the quiet nave of St. Michael of Hayholm, carrying them up the short aisle to stand in front of the vicar, who stamped his feet to bring feeling back into his chilly toes.

“Are we all here, then? Your Grace of Warwick?” The vicar checked the man against the title on the license. “Been some time since I married anyone with one of these—regular license, and not special.”

“Because we are regular people, Reverend, who desire to be regularly married people.”

Penelope liked the sound of that—not that she objected to being a duchess.

“If the bride would move to the other side,” the vicar was instructing, “and stand on my right?”

Beech wouldn’t like that—she’d be on his wrong side. “We’re fine as we stand, Reverend,” Penelope said. “God will know which one of us is which.”

“I daresay.” The vicar retreated into his book, presumably to find the order of prayers. “Let us begin.”

“Now you’re in it,” Beech whispered at her side.

“Pease Porridge in the pot?”

“No.” Beech took her hand to kiss it. “Pease Porridge Perfect.”