Page 107 of A Fragile Enchantment

“All rise,” a herald called, “for the Prince Christopher Carmine, Duke of Clearwater, and Niamh Ó Conchobhair, the Duchess of Clearwater.”

By the time they escaped the crowds, the last of the daylight had dwindled.

Niamh would never disentangle all the petals from her hair. White flowers drifted across the streets like snowfall. They were crushed into the cobblestones, releasing their sweet fragrance. They spiraled in the breeze, tantalizing and free. Niamh had half a mind to pluck one from the air and tuck it behind Kit’s ear. With the unusually good mood he was in, she suspected he’d let her. The thought made her smile.

Sinclair’s townhouse welcomed them, cozy and bright in the warm light of dusk. The front porch was like a bower, enclosed by the limbs of the bougainvillea. The master of the house himself heaved a long, dramatic sigh as they ascended the stairs. “I understand you don’t want to return to the palace yet. But did you really have to come tomyhouse?”

“Technically,” Kit countered, “this is my house.”

Sinclair, apparently, had nothing to say to that. He unlocked the front door and instructed his housekeeper to have a guest room prepared for “the happy newlyweds.” Kit bristled at the suggestive emphasis he put on the phrase. His housekeeper looked positively delighted, but Sinclair gave a good show of being put-upon despitethe fond glimmer in his eyes. Once they were divested of their hats, gloves, and coats, Sinclair ushered them out of the foyer.

“I’ll be barricaded in my study if you need me,” he said, “although I suspect you’ll be otherwise occupied.”

Kit choked. “Can you be civilized for ten minutes?”

“No, indeed.” Sinclair gave a careless wave and disappeared down the hallway. “Congratulations, you two.”

“Shall we?” Kit asked, clearly flustered.

Even in the low, romantic flicker of the candles, Niamh noticed how he’d gone scarlet. His skittishness both charmed and surprised her. She threaded her fingers in his and leaned against him.

“Nervous for what comes next?” she teased. “I’ll be good to you.”

The color on his face deepened. “Hardly.”

Niamh allowed him to lead her through the halls. Delicate shards of pink light played across the floorboards. When they reached the top of the staircase, exhaustion finally caught up to her. Her ankle—somehow—rolled. Without batting an eye, Kit bent over and scooped her into his arms.

She laughed breathlessly as he lifted her off the ground. “Kit! Don’t drop me, please!”

“I won’t. I’ve done this once before, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

At that, he preened. She nestled into his shoulder. She could hardly believe that this was her life now—that they truly belonged to each other. The world swam in a dreamy haze, and try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

Kit’s laugh was a bare exhalation. It rustled the loose hair at her temple. “Rest. It’s been a long day.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” she mumbled.

“As you say,” he said indulgently. But she felt so warm and safe in his arms. To the rhythm of his heart, she drifted off.

Moments or hours later, Niamh awakened to Kit gently shaking her. She shot bolt upright in bed. Outside the window, the sky was dark and the gas lamps glowed hazily. How long had she been out? Groggily, she looked up at Kit.

“The prince regent and his wife have called on us,” he said by way of explanation.

In the drawing room, a painful scene greeted them. Sinclair had crammed himself into an armchair at the farthest corner of the room, his shoulders bunched around his ears. Jack waited on the opposite side of the room, one hand loose at his side and hovering dangerously close to the wrought-iron basket of fire pokers. The hearth crackled, casting the entire room in a gentle glow. Sofia warmed herself by it, a peacefully content smile on her face. The rain drummed on the window, stained a watery red in the firelight.

“Finally,” Sinclair muttered.

Over the past few hours, Jack had pulled himself together nicely with a regal black jacket. His hair had once again been tidied, his feelings once again tucked away behind that assessing amber stare. The only welcoming thing about him was the cheery bouquet he’d brought, but he clutched it with such grim forbearance, it seemed as though he were about to deliver it to a funeral. The flowers were already limp from their rough treatment.

He slowly dismantled Niamh with his gaze. She could only imagine what faults he found. Her sleep-mussed, wild hair. Her gown, still crumpled and streaked with mud. Her face, freckled like a commoner’s and creased from the sheets.

Unworthy,the set of his jaw said.

Unsuitable,said his deepening frown.

Anxiety made her pulse flutter. Even if he did not like her, even if their union offended his sensibilities, she couldn’t squash that childish desire to please him. More than anything, she wanted Jack to believe she could make his brother happy.