A Mother For His Family. Susanne Dietze

He would be a good husband in that way. Perhaps not loving, but good.

      It was more than she deserved. A jerky swallow pained her throat as she took his right hand. Not too firmly. Nor too affectionate, or too scared, or however else he might interpret her clasp. She fixed her gaze on the precise knot of his neck cloth.

      “I, Helena Caroline, do take thee, John Angus, to be my married husband, and do, in the presence of God, and before this congregation—”

      She glanced at Papa. His mouth was downturned, like a child’s drawing of a rounded mountain.

      “Before this congregation, promise and covenant?” The clergyman bore an indulgent smile. She must not have been his first overset bride.

      “—before this congregation promise and covenant to be a loving and faithful wife unto thee, until God shall separate us by death.”

      There. She’d done it. Maybe God would absolve her now.

      Her fingers squeezed Lord Ardoch’s.

      His brows rose.

      Oh, dear. She meant nothing more in her gesture than relief. Assurance of their partnership. But perhaps he hadn’t understood. Prickles of heat barbed her neck and cheeks. Her hands pulled back, but he held on, his grip far firmer than hers had been.

      She couldn’t lift her gaze from the buttons of his silver waistcoat while the clergyman spoke about the fruits of marriage. There would be none of that. The warmth of her blush washed away, from the crown of her head down, leaving her cold again.

      After more prayers, Lord Ardoch slid a cold, polished ring with a deep red stone on the fourth finger of her left hand.

      And then the one other thing. Their first—and last—kiss.

      With one hand, he cupped her shoulder, and with the other, he lifted her chin. It was a light touch, enough to hold her steady. But more than enough to send her insides quaking.

      He bent his head. His well-formed lips brushed the corner of her mouth, fleeting and gentle. Then he lowered his hands and released her.

      She had received warmer kisses on her hands from courtiers back in London. Still, the tingle of his touch lingered. She resisted the urge to touch her mouth.

      One final blessing by the clergyman, and it was done. She was married. Her problems were solved, neat and tidy. Her parents would be relieved. God approved, too. From this day forward, everything would be smooth as the cream icing on her wedding cake.

      A shriek, shrill and jarring as a parakeet squawk, echoed off the stones. Startled, Helena dropped her prayer book.

      Lord Ardoch spun toward his youngest child. “Louisa—”

      Louisa’s red-slippered feet kicked Margaret, who dropped her cousin with a gasp of exaggerated outrage. Louisa fell to her hands and knees, screeching.

      “Is she ill?” Helena rushed forward.

      “No.” Lord Ardoch scooped Louisa into his arms. “What is it, poppet?”

      “Get it out!” Louisa’s screams reverberated through the sanctuary.

      Papa’s grumble wasn’t loud, but it lifted the hairs at Helena’s nape. She didn’t need to look up to know every eye fell upon them. All she could do was watch Louisa writhe and howl in her husband’s arms. Yet he said she was not ill. Then what sort of problem could explain her behavior? Children knew better than to show such poor deportment. In church. At their father’s wedding—

      Alexander and Callum—whichever was which—doubled over, hands pressed against their diminutive satin waistcoats, silent laughter escaping their ruddy little faces. Why, they weren’t just amused by Louisa’s tantrum. No doubt the rascals caused it.

      She touched the boys’ shoulders. Not hard, but enough for them to spin toward her, their eyes wide.

      “What did you do?” She enunciated each syllable.

      They glanced at one another. Her eyes narrowed.

      “Nothing—”

      “’Twas his idea—”

      “Dear me,” the clergyman lamented, retrieving Helena’s prayer book.

      Louisa thrashed. Lord Ardoch cupped her golden curls, and below his hand, under Louisa’s dress, something moved.

      Helena’s stomach rippled. “Inside her gown.”

      Her husband’s brows lifted. She may not know him well, but it was not difficult to discern his utter befuddlement. With a huff, Helena thrust her hand down the backside of Louisa’s lacy bodice and grasped something hot and furry.

      She yanked. A thin, hairless tail dangled between her fingers.

      A yip, like an angry Pekinese’s, escaped her throat and her grip went slack. A gray blur fell from her hand and shot under the pew. The clergyman clutched Helena’s flowery prayer book and the boys fell to their knees. Not out of penitence, but to hunt the rodent.

      Lord Ardoch held out Louisa to Helena, but Margaret hurried forward and took the sobbing girl, leaving Helena feeling foolish with her arms extended and empty, and half her new family either weeping or crawling about the floor.

      Tempted though she was to swoon, she’d never managed to escape in such a convenient fashion, so she fixed another frozen smile on her face.

      Lord Ardoch pulled one of the twins to stand. “Enough.”

      “But he was a good mouse.” The boy’s lip stuck out.

      The lad cared about the mouse more than his sister? No blood or rips marred Louisa’s white gown and the child’s cries had hushed, but Helena would have to summon a physician to be certain. “Your sister could have been bitten.”

      “That one never bites.” The second twin folded his arms. “He goes about under our waistcoats all the time and all he ever does is tickle.”

      Gemma and Tavin’s ward, Petey, broke from the pew. “I want him in my waistcoat.”

      “Not now.” Gemma pulled him back.

      “The only creature that beastie will be acquainted with now is the kirk cat, but that is the least of your concerns.” Lord Ardoch’s brows knit. “Apologize to your mither for causing such a scene at her wedding.”

      Her wedding, and oh, dear, what had he called her? Helena’s stomach swirled as the twin’s eyes widened. Then narrowed.

      “She’s not my mither!”

      Well. Louisa was not the only one with strong lungs in the family.

      “I won’t call her mither, either,” the other boy said. At least he wasn’t screaming.

      “You will not disrespect your m—your st—Lady Ardoch.” Emotion bleached a rim of white around her husband’s tight mouth. “Apologize now.”

      The boy’s lips twisted, as if he’d been presented with an unappetizing dish. “Sorry, ma’am.”

      Helena forced yet another smile. “This is a new situation for us all. Perhaps together we might think up a name for you to call me. You cannot call me Lady Ardoch forever.” And perhaps they could discuss it later, in private, rather than in front of their assembled wedding guests.

      Margaret took the twin’s shoulder. “Leave Lady Ardoch alone, Alex. ’Tis her wedding day, after all.”

      “Margaret.” Lord Ardoch’s snap brought color to the girl’s cheeks. “Your tone leaves much to be desired. Your aunt deserves a better welcome than this.”

      Margaret hid her face in Louisa’s bonnet, but her mumble of “She’s not my aunt” was nonetheless audible.

      “I apologize.” Her new husband looked sincere and poised. Every bit the politician he was, working to pass bills in Parliament.