Cordelia's wedding is gatecrashed by what seems like half of Vorbarr Sultana: Counts and Countesses, military men and town clowns, all eager to get a peek at the famous Admiral Lord Vorkosigan and his galactic bride.
"How did they know?" she asks Aral, hiding out in one of the disused little rooms scattered throughout Vorkosigan House. "I've barely been here a week, it was supposed to be small—"
"I'm afraid gossip travels fast around these parts." His eyes are apologetic, though crinkling at the corners like he can't stop smiling, even for a moment. She reaches out and places her hand in— her husband's, yes, that is what he is now, and how strange the word feels, when stood next to her. "Armsmen speak to armsmen, those armsmen speak to wives, wives speak to friends who speak to husbands, and so it goes. You, Dear Captain, are something of a novelty."
"Huh. And here I thought I was your wife."
The smile at the corners of his eyes breaks through. "And so you are." He cups her cheek and kisses her briefly, a mere echo of that long kiss at the center of the wedding circle, as they fiercely ignored the whooping, whistling, cheering audience packed into a space intended for a fraction of their number. "My beautiful wife, who all of these people have come here tonight to see."
"Then I suppose we mustn't keep them waiting. It is our house they're trashing, after all." Our house. She has had apartments and bunks and cabins and bedrolls, but never a house, and certainly never one that was our.
He gets to his feet and pulls her up with him. "The-Count-my-father's house, if we're being technical."
She shrugs this off, smoothing her skirts and taking her husband's arm. "It's Vorkosigan House. I am Lady Vorkosigan."
He is still smiling as they leave their brief sanctuary and return to the fray. "Now and always."