The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [119]
He remained very important to Lord Hobbs and to Lord Beecham. Lord Hobbs could not prove to his own satisfaction, however, that Lord Crowley had murdered Reverend Mathers. Nor could he wring a confession from Old Clothhead, Reverend Mathers’s brother. Helen firmly believed that Gerard had killed Reverend Mathers, but still, they could not be certain. It was damnable to Lord Beecham, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“I have a toast!”
Five hundred pair of eyes looked toward the bride’s father. Lord Prith, a giant of a man who was of vast good humor, proud of his daughter, and seemed genuinely fond of his new son-in-law, stood on the dais in front of the orchestra hired for the reception.
He lifted an elegant crystal flute of champagne. “My beautiful Helen has married a fine man who will give her his all. He will continue to give her his all even as the future eventually becomes the present.
“I wish all of us to drink to their happiness and their immense and endless regard for each other, a regard that surprises even a fond father.”
Helen burst out laughing—there was simply nothing else to do. There was no one like her father. She wished she was close enough to kiss him and hug him for a brief moment, to tell him again how much she adored him, but she was standing beside her new husband, and so she just laughed and waved at her father, who much enjoyed being the center of attention.
The crowd loved this unconventional toast given by the unique and quite eccentric Lord Prith, whose manservant had tears in his eyes as he passed around glasses of champagne to the guests. No one would know that Flock, the manservant, was weeping not with the joy of the day, but because his Teeny had married a certain Walter Jones just two days previous in Court Hammering.
The toast and the manservant’s tears for his beloved Miss Helen and her happiness, were spoken of for a good three days after the wedding.
At exactly 3:57 in the morning, long after all the guests had departed, Lord Beecham lay upon his bride, wondering seriously if he would survive his wedding night, which was only half over. His beleaguered heart was going to pump itself right out of his chest, but before that, he would probably suffocate because he, very simply, could not breathe. He pressed his forehead to his bride’s. “It’s all over for me, Helen.”
It was the fourth time he had loved her.
“It should be.” She managed to purse her numbed lips together, finally, and lightly kiss his neck.
“I did it. I succeeded.” He hauled himself up and managed to balance himself over her, so exhausted, so replete with pleasure and love for the nearly unconscious woman beneath him, with her beautiful blond hair all tangled around her face, that he could have wept with the power of all those wondrous feelings settled deep in his heart.
“Helen, this was quite an accomplishment. We did it.”
“Hmmm?”
“Four times, Helen, not just three. I have managed to break that miserable sameness, that triad cycle that seemed to have us by the throat.”
“We could have stopped at two times, Spenser. That would have broken the cycle too. We could have stopped after one time.”
“No, that would have made me less of a man. A man must always strive to achieve even greater strides. I have strided tonight, Helen. But I fear that I cannot strive more.”
He dropped down beside her and pulled her against him. He managed to kiss her hair. He was unconscious in the next drawing of a breath. As for Helen Heatherington, Lady Beecham, she simply lay there, pressed against her husband, lightly stroking her fingers down his chest. She didn’t have the energy to do more.
She rested her palm on his belly. “There is something I must tell you, Spenser.”
He snorted in his sleep, managed to pull up his head, and kiss her ear. He fell on his back again, but not to sleep. She had his attention.
“I wanted to tell you earlier, but you were so intent upon extending our lovemaking horizons that I didn’t want to distract you.”
“You could not have distracted