Duke of Storm

by Gaelen Foley

  Not that she needed it, independent as she was. But Penelope was happy with her affable soldier, and that was all that mattered.

  The two waited side by side as the liveried footman jumped down to get the carriage door while the vehicle rolled to a halt.

  The mahogany barouche had been a wedding gift from Connor, just as he had promised. Of course, its luxurious seats had also served as the site of previous naughtiness between them that splendid day in the carriage house. But even though Maggie still felt a wee bit guilty about having the wedding night before the wedding, nevertheless, she wore her bridal white with pride.

  Her gown was a glorious confection of ivory lace with a heart-shaped neckline and a small train edged with rich embroidery. The gown was high-waisted, with short puff sleeves, below which she wore elbow gloves of ivory satin.

  Her simple gauze veil was held in place by a tiara that the previous Duchess of Amberley, Aunt Caroline, had passed down to her.

  As the moment of her momentous walk down the aisle drew ever nearer, Maggie could not wait to see Connor’s reaction to her appearance this day. He was already inside the church, along with a throng of guests.

  Naturally, the groom had been kept in the dark about her bridal attire. But, playful as ever, he did not mind. The arrival of his Irish relatives had kept him busy, as had the raucous celebration that the gents of Moonlight Square had thrown for him over at the Grand Albion.

  Reinforcements for their mischief that night had arrived in the form of more soldiers from his regiment, as well as his merry Irish cousins. Rumor had it there had been a great deal of drunken singing; the cousins had informed her that Connor had a beautiful baritone voice when you got enough whiskey into him, but he denied any knowledge of this.

  Meanwhile, Maggie had been honored to meet his charming mother and grandmother, both great beauties for their respective ages. It was clear where the man had come by his looks. Of course, in planning the wedding, there had arisen the delicate question of religion.

  Although the maternal side of Connor’s family was Catholic—rather alarming Delia—the Irishwomen had long since accepted the fact that their connection to the highborn House of Amberley came with certain political duties that required the English line of their menfolk to hold to the Protestant faith. Given the current laws, it was just easier that way, though his mother had told Maggie that her son had always had an almost Catholic devotion to certain saints.

  Maggie was just relieved that his dam and granddam liked her. They could not have been kinder, bringing her gifts of fine glass and elegant linens from Ireland. So far, in fact, Maggie got along smashingly with all her soon-to-be relatives.

  She had even achieved an uneasy truce with Grandaunt Lucinda.

  Of course, Aunt Florence remained her favorite, though Aunt Caroline’s rambunctious twins had divided her heart between the two of them. The youngsters had been thrilled to find themselves in London.

  The twins were inside now…along with nearly the rest of the world, Maggie thought with a gulp. All of Moonlight Square had said they were coming—whether she had invited them or not.

  Maggie suspected this was due to Connor’s joviality as he went about befriending half of London, as he was wont to do, now that he no longer had to be suspicious of everyone he met.

  Ever since that night by the Thinkery, when he had rid the world of their tormentors, he had been like a different person, effusive, lighthearted. Seeing him happy gave Maggie such joy.

  But she snapped back to attention and curbed her drifting thoughts when the footman opened the door and Edward rose. The marquess got out first, then turned to assist his lady.

  Delia looked ravishing in a mint-green gown with a dark green sash. Edward wore a silver gray suit with a coordinating mint-green waistcoat.

  Watching them together, Maggie saw the intimate little smile they exchanged, and could still only shake her head, mystified, at the wonderful change she’d witnessed between the pair.

  Ever since her return from Dorset, she’d been amazed at how well Delia and Edward were getting along.

  It made her all the gladder that, as of today, she would be moving in with Connor, because, clearly, Delia and Edward’s time alone as a couple without her underfoot had done their marriage a world of good.

  Maggie was happy for them, and deeply relieved. They both deserved happiness, even Delia, who had been showing a real sisterly side ever since Maggie had returned from Dorset. She had been most helpful in planning the wedding, marshaling her formidable energies to help Maggie see to all the details. Whenever she had started taking over the whole operation, a polite “ahem” had sufficed to remind Delia that it was Maggie’s wedding.

  Yet now that the momentous day had arrived, Maggie could not help but feel a twinge of sadness, wishing their parents could have been here. To know that, at least, she still had a sister who truly did love her helped to soothe the loss.

  “There you are, my love,” Edward said cheerfully, having handed his wife down safely to the pavement. Then he turned back to assist Maggie.

  Penelope hurried closer to help manage the gown’s train, while Delia stepped back, temporarily holding Maggie’s lush bouquet of June’s first red roses.

  “Lady Margaret, you are truly a vision,” Rory declared, standing nearby. “Well, there—I’ve enjoyed calling you Lady Margaret for the last time. When we leave this church, it’ll be Your Grace.”

  “Nonsense,” Maggie said with a smile as she stepped down. “Anyone who helped in the grand effort to save my neck has earned the right to call me Maggie, including both of you.” She glanced at Penelope.

  “Duchess Maggie, then,” Rory amended with a grin.

  Penelope chuckled. “Maggie and the major.”

  Rory gave a carefree laugh. “I’ll go let him know you’re here.”

  “Is he nervous, sergeant?” Edward asked in amusement as Rory strode toward the heavy wooden doors of the church. “I mean, I was on my wedding day, but then, I was never a war hero.”

  “Just a wee bit petrified,” said Rory with a wink.

  “Well, that makes two of us,” Maggie muttered as she smoothed her skirts and adjusted her veil, her pulse racing.

  Meanwhile, the white carriage horses swished their tails calmly, oblivious to the importance of the destination they had brought her to this day.

  “Ah, you have nothing to fear, sis.” Edward offered Maggie his arm, and she took it gratefully. His smooth, unflappable demeanor helped, as always, to calm her nerves.

  He truly was the best of men, or at least the second best, she thought. As they walked toward the entrance, who should appear but Nestor and Will, also in uniform.

  Right on cue, they opened the heavy double doors and held them open for the arriving wedding party.

  “Criminy!” Will said, his eyes widening when he looked at her, while Nestor’s jaw dropped.

  “Now I really wish I had both eyes,” said Nestor. “Lady Margaret, you look beautiful.”

  “Aye, you do!” Will chimed in.

  Maggie laughed. “You both are too kind.” She squeezed Nestor’s hand as she passed. He’d been magnificent about looking after all three of them who’d been wounded in Dorset—Maggie, Connor, and Penelope, too.

  If only Aunt Florence would stop interrogating him about her many ailments, both real and imagined…

  “I wish you most happy, my dear,” the old surgeon said fondly.

  “Me too!” Will gazed adoringly at her, loyal as a spaniel. “Thank you for making our major happy, milady.”

  “The honor’s mine,” she said earnestly. “I’m happy for you and Saffie, too.”

  “Aww,” Will said, blushing.

  The most remarkable thing had happened.

  Luckless as she’d been, Saffie Diggs’ fortunes seemed about to turn in the most dramatic way.

  Indelicate though the topic was, Connor had confided in Maggie that, apparently, Seth Darrow had got the girl with child. With Elias Fl
ynn dead, and his sons dead, too, the last surviving heir who stood to inherit the millionaire’s fortune was none other than Saffie’s baby.

  The situation was a bit complicated, since Seth had presented himself to the girl under a false name. But, with a bit of probing at the Officers’ Club, Connor had managed to track down the one dragoon in Seth’s regiment who had found out about his dalliance with Saffie.

  This highborn cavalryman had become Seth’s closest friend in the regiment, mainly because the miscreant had once saved his life. Of course, the other dragoon had noticed that Seth was not exactly honorable, and had privately warned him about his disgraceful behavior once he’d learned of Seth’s game with the unfortunate girl.

  This dragoon was willing to tell the Chancery court that, to the best of his knowledge, Seth was indeed the father of Saffie’s child. Along with Aunt Lucinda’s written testimony, as Seth’s former patroness, that he was, indeed, the son of Elias Flynn, the money should go to the underworld king’s unborn grandchild.

  In the meanwhile, Saffie had already hinted to Will several times that she wanted him for her husband. Will was already so smitten with her, and felt such tenderhearted sympathy both for her and for the fatherless child, that their eventual union seemed inevitable. A million pounds sterling was sure to make their future bright. But Will had vowed that if he did marry Saffie, he was shutting down all those horrid brothels first thing.

  As he and Nestor held the doors open, admitting Maggie and Edward, Delia and Penelope into the church’s dim vestibule, Maggie could not help but applaud her fiancé’s taste in friends.

  She’d thought them a ragtag bunch at first, but they had all become quite dear to her.

  Then Will and Nestor let the exterior doors shut behind them, closing out the sunshine, and went to get the next pair of doors, leading into the sanctuary.

  “Wait!” Maggie said. “I need a moment.”

  “You all right?” her brother-in-law murmured, turning to her.

  “I-I think so.” She gulped. “D-do I look all right?” She turned to Penelope, who smiled with reassurance.

  “You’re radiant.”

  “She’s right.” Delia handed Maggie her flowers. “You look perfect, and you know I’d never give you a false compliment.”

  Maggie chuckled. “To be sure.”

  “Good luck, sis. You’d better get to your seat,” Delia told Penelope, who glanced at Maggie in question.

  “You may go.” Maggie nodded to her. “And thank you for everything, Pen.”

  “Oh, you’re very welcome, my lady. Well! I think I’ll go take advantage of this chance to stare at Sergeant McFeatheridge. Doesn’t he look handsome in his uniform today? I should have a perfect view, since he’s standing up at the altar next to His Grace.”

  “Enjoy it,” Maggie said with a grin.

  “Signal to the choir when you go in! Let them know we’re ready,” Delia stage-whispered, shooing Penelope away.

  “Yes, Lady Birdwell.” The maid disappeared, but Delia remained by the sanctuary doors, peeking through the crack.

  “I hope she can find a seat,” the marchioness said. “This place is filled to the rafters. Uh-oh, there’s Lord and Lady Gable.” She glanced wryly over her shoulder. “They brought their baby. I hope he doesn’t scream.” She let the door drift closed and turned around to face the others, hands on hips. “Well? Are we doing this or not?”

  “I’m ready,” Maggie said firmly, gathering herself.

  “Good! Let’s get you married off already, then. It’s taken you long enough.” Delia leaned past Maggie’s fragrant bouquet to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Be happy, sister.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said dazedly. “I will. You too,” she added, but Delia was already bustling off to take her place near the altar.

  The opening bars of the first wedding hymn began, and Maggie started to tremble.

  “Easy!” Edward teased, patting her fingers as she curled them around his biceps. “You’re going to break my arm, dear.”

  “Sorry,” she said, loosening her grip. “I’m just not used to being the center of attention.”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it awfully soon, considering that in a few minutes, you’re about to become the Fourth Duchess of Amberley.”

  At his succinct summation of the moment at hand, Maggie gave him a breathless smile. Joy infused all her jumpiness.

  “Listen,” Maggie whispered to him while the choir sang. “I just want to thank you for all your kindnesses to me. You are the best brother-in-law anyone could ever have.”

  “Ahh, you know I adore you too, Mags.”

  “And thank you for being so good to my sister.”

  “Yes…” He flashed a sudden, mysterious smile. “About that.”

  Something about his sly tone made her glance at him curiously.

  “Should we open the doors now?” Will whispered.

  “Ready?” Edward asked her.

  Maggie nodded, momentarily distracted. “What were you going to say?” she said while Nestor and Will hauled the sanctuary doors open.

  At once, the choir’s song flooded the vestibule where they stood at the threshold of the church.

  The whole congregation turned around to look.

  “We’re having a baby,” Edward informed her.

  “What?” Maggie nearly shouted while the whole church stared.

  Edward grinned. “This winter, you’ll become an auntie.”

  The entire congregation saw Maggie’s jaw drop as she gaped at her brother-in-law. They then heard the bride giggle inexplicably from behind her veil.

  Maggie immediately wondered if that might explain why Delia had been extra moody these past couple months, but realized she was making a wee bit of a spectacle of herself at this most important moment of her life. Her questions would have to wait for the reception waiting for them at Amberley House under Trumbull’s eager supervision.

  For now, she pressed her lips together, vowing to keep her sudden wave of nervous humor under control. “Er, congratulations, Edward.”

  “Thank you,” he said mildly, looking pleased with himself.

  Maggie divined then that he had only told her the big news now, of all moments, to distract her from the tension. “You are proving to be a bit of rogue, aren’t you, marquess?”

  “No, there’s the rogue.” Edward nodded toward the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of her waiting fiancé standing by the altar in a dazzle of golden sunshine. “You want to go marry him, then?”

  “Oh, I do,” she answered fervently.

  “Good. Right foot first?”

  “Let’s go. I’m ready.”

  And she was. So they went, processing down the red-carpeted aisle at a sedate pace while the music floated around them and the rosy morning light streamed in through the tall, translucent windows of the vaulted nave.

  Edward held his head high while Maggie trailed her gaze with great fondness over all her friends and soon-to-be relatives as she passed them.

  Gable and Trinny, holding their apple-cheeked, black-haired tot, with the stately grandparents, Lord Sefton and his wife, standing with them in the pew.

  Connor’s aunts, all three of them, and the beaming twins. Aunt Lucinda narrowed her eyes at Maggie, ever the dragon, but then gave her a discreet smile and a nod of respect—much to Maggie’s astonishment.

  She had barely recovered from the shock of that when she noticed Aunt Florence already weeping copiously. Maggie gave Florence a comforting pat on her bony shoulder as she passed.

  The Irish relatives smiled at her. The soldiers bowed their heads; a few even gave her brief, playful salutes. She grinned at them from behind her veil, then passed her friends, Jason and Felicity, the Duke and Duchess of Netherford, who had brought Jason’s two children along.

  Beautiful little Annabelle sat contentedly in her ducal sire’s arms, while the handsome five-year-old boy stood on the pew next to his godfather, Felicity’s brother, Major Carvel.
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  Maggie smiled at them all, but gave Peter a look of gratitude after his help with the whole Dorset matter. He nodded a wordless You’re welcome.

  Lovable Lord Sidney was sitting with the Netherfords. The golden-haired flirt sighed like some disappointed swain and shook his head as she passed.

  Maggie fought a smile at the charmer’s usual teasing.

  Azrael and Serena stood nearby, their shoulders touching. They both gave Maggie affectionate looks as she and Edward walked past. I hope Connor and I will always be as happy as those two, Maggie thought. I have a feeling we will.

  The last person who caught her eye was her wedding-mad friend, Lady Portia Tennesley.

  The clever blonde had supplied Maggie with plenty of useful advice in planning this day, though she did seem to treat it more like the grand production of some elaborate stage play, rather than the joining of two souls in holy matrimony.

  But then, unfortunately for Portia, that was all her own wedding day would likely be, poor girl, pledged to a man in whom she had no earthly interest.

  No wonder her smile seemed slightly wistful.

  Maggie truly pitied her friend. Maybe Portia’s parents would change their minds, or failing that, perhaps she could learn to love her future husband, if he wasn’t too odious.

  Of course, Maggie could not deny that some men were simply easier to fall in love with than others.

  And with that, finally, as they approached the altar where the robed clergymen waited in full High Church regalia, her gaze came to rest on Connor.

  Delight in him tingled through her.

  Resplendent in his scarlet uniform with gold epaulets, his broad chest adorned with war medals he had apparently been too modest to wear on the night of Aunt Lucinda’s soirée, his silver dress sword glittering by his side, his hands encased in snow-white gloves, his black hair slicked back neatly, he waited for her at the altar, the very embodiment of her dreams, and then some.