Lord Stillwell's Excellent Engagements

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Pack your bags, Cousin, and prepare to return home no later than June eighth as I shall be married on June ninth. You are, no doubt, surprised as I have always said I shall be quite long in the tooth when at last I take a bride and I have scarcely passed my twenty-fifth birthday. Marriage was not a state I was seeking, at least not yet. As you have likely gathered from my letters, I have had quite a good time of it up to now. I freely admit that there was a moment here and there, perhaps more than one, when I came perilously close to irrevocable scandal and one can only credit the prayers of my mother that I managed to avoid complete social disaster. But, on occasion, fate takes a hand and cannot be denied. The perfect woman has swept into my life, much to the delight of Mother and Father, and marriage is no longer the sentence it once appeared.

She is exquisite, Gray, everything I ever imagined I wanted in a bride in one delectable package. Her hair is the color of darkest night, her skin like the finest porcelain, her eyes rival the rarest sapphire. And yes, I do realize I have never been especially poetic in the past, but she brings out the long slumbering poet in my soul. Even her name—Miss Felicia Abigail Constance Whitingdon—falls like poetry from the tongue.

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