by Anne Gracie
People would talk in London too, George thought. That was the point. They’d called her a hussy, a jezebel, a strumpet, and today she would flip it back in their smug, hypocritical faces. She’d show them she didn’t give the snap of her fingers for their stupid opinions.
Besides, white made her look sallow.
“Fetch me the black silk domino from the wardrobe, would you?”
“Domino, miss?”
“A black silk cloak thing with a hood.”
Sue looked horrified. “You’re not going to wear black to your wedding, are you, m’lady?”
George laughed. “No, just to the church. It’s a bit chilly outside—that breeze—but I’ll take it off before I get out of the carriage.” Really the domino was to stop any potential argument from her family. Who knew what aunts, especially skinny old busybodies, might still be lurking about.
A knock sounded on the door. “His lordship is waiting downstairs, Lady George,” Burton called. “The carriage has arrived.”
“Coming.” Sue settled the domino around her and George pulled it close so that not an inch of dress was visible.
Right, this was it. She was off to marry the duke. An hour from now she’d be his duchess. Or not.
She hurried down the stairs. Cal was pacing back and forth in the hallway. “Cutting it fine, George. Emm and the ladies have gone ahead—” He broke off, staring at her. “Good God! What the devil are you up to? You’re not wearing black to your wedding, George. Not even you—”
“Of course I’m not wearing black. It’s chilly outside, that’s all.”
His frown didn’t shift. “There are any number of cloaks in this house that are better suited to a wedding.”
“I didn’t have time to find one, and anyway I’ll take it off before I get out of the carriage. Now, come on, I don’t want to be late.”
Cal glanced at the clock in the hallway. “Hell, no.” He hurried her into the carriage, oblivious of the various servants who’d gathered in the hallway to wish her well.
George waved to them as the carriage set off. Cal sat opposite her, his arms folded and his face grim. “What kind of mischief are you up to, young George—and don’t give me that innocent look. I know mischief when I see it.”
“Mischief?” She grinned.
“You won’t be able to play your tricks on the duke, you know. He’s a very serious fellow.”
She quirked her lips and gave a careless shrug.
“Every man is a bundle of nerves on his wedding day,” Cal continued, “and Everingham will be more on edge than most, given what happened with Rose.”
“He’s the one who forced this wedding on me,” she said lightly.
“He tried,” Cal agreed. “But you weren’t forced. You agreed of your own free will.”
She had. And truth to tell she was ridiculously nervous. The closer to the church they got, the more her courage seemed likely to drain away. But she was determined to start as she meant to go on.
The carriage pulled up in Hanover Square at the foot of the steps leading up to St. George’s church. George took a deep breath and shrugged the domino off. With a whisper of silk, it pooled softly around her.
Cal, who had exited first to help her down, turned to assist her and froze. “Good God, George, what the hell do you think you’re wearing?”
She tossed her head. “It’s a new fashion.”
He snorted in patent disbelief and shook his head. “Everingham has no idea what he’s taken on, does he?”
He assisted her from the carriage. A small hopeful crowd had gathered; a society wedding was always of interest to the hoi polloi, and grooms were known to share the largesse on happy occasions. People stared at George and made audible comments: “Red for a wedding?” “Never heard of such a thing.” “Looks a right jezebel, she does.”
Rose and Lily hurried forward, looking shocked and dismayed. “George, what on earth—”
Too late now. George hurried up the steps. “Now I know why you refused our help dressing,” Rose muttered as she and Lily arranged the skirt into graceful folds. “You look gorgeous—but you have to know what a stir it’s going to cause. What on earth were you thinking, George?” Rose was thinking about the duke’s last wedding, which had ended in disaster. She probably still felt a bit guilty about that. Well, that wasn’t George’s problem.
Lily just looked at her and shook her head. “I hope the duke won’t be too angry.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” George said. “Come on, Cal, let’s get this over with.”
“Says the blushing bride,” Cal said sardonically.
“Oh, she’s not blushing,” Rose pointed out dryly. “It’s just the reflection of that dress.”
* * *
* * *
The church was cold. High summer and yet the chill sank into Hart’s bones. His cravat was too tight. He ran his finger around it, hoping to loosen it. It didn’t help.
His stomach felt hollow. Had he eaten? He couldn’t remember.
The bishop, in his magnificently embroidered crimson and gold robes, moved around the altar. It was the same fellow who’d presided over the debacle that had been Hart’s last wedding. The man’s frequent darting glances at Hart showed he remembered.
Hart was just as restless. He took a deep breath and eased a finger once more between his throat and his collar.
“For goodness’ sake, if you fiddle with that one more time, you’ll ruin the so beautiful arrangement of your cravat,” Sinc said. “Stop worrying. She’ll be here soon enough.”
“I know that. I’m not the least bit worried,” Hart said stiffly. He’d pushed her into this marriage. Would she panic at the last minute and bolt? “She’ll be here,” he said, as much to reassure himself as Sinc.
Sinc laughed softly. “Can’t fool me. You’re as nervous as a cat on a sinking ship. Understandable, given what happened last t—”
“I. Am. Not. Nervous,” Hart said in a low, vehement voice.
“Of course you’re not,” his friend said in a tone that was intended to be soothing but instead made Hart want to throttle him. “If it helps, I made another bet on her.”
Hart turned wrathfully toward him. “You what?”
Sinc held up his hands peaceably. “Don’t look at me like that—I only bet that she’d turn up on time. Just thought that you’d want to know how much faith I have in her.”
It was not done to strangle your best man before the wedding, Hart reminded himself. He took a few deep breaths, forcing himself back to an appearance of calm before saying coldly, “If you ever—I mean ever!—make a public bet on my wife again, so help me, Sinc, friend or not, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“No, no, of course, not. Don’t know what got into me. Sorry, Hart. Meant no disrespect, just can’t seem to help m—”
The organ sounded an emphatic chord. The congregation hushed. Slowly Hart turned toward the entrance . . .
She stepped through the doorway and paused at the head of the aisle. There was an audible gasp, followed by a ripple of murmurs and whispers.
Hart’s mother gave a loud moan and swooned dramatically over the nearest man. Only he and her companion reacted, the companion fluttering forward with smelling salts.
Hart ignored it. He only had eyes for his bride. She stood motionless, a pale, slender sprite wrapped in flaming scarlet. No demure pastel or ivory bride this. The dress screamed defiance, flamboyance and a warning. It was utterly outrageous.
It clung to her upper body like a second skin, every slight curve faithfully outlined until it flared out at her hips. Her small breasts were framed by the scooped neckline, like a delectable dish to be served.
He would taste that dish very soon.
She stood straight, her head flung back as if daring him—or anyone—to criticize.
Th
e congregation stared and muttered and whispered and looked to him for a reaction. Hart didn’t move. She would come to him.
Sinc leaned forward and murmured, “Told you she’d lead you a merry dance.”
And what a dance it would be, Hart thought. She was glorious. Magnificent. Unique. And she was his.
The music swelled and, one hand on her uncle’s arm, she strode down the aisle with that long leggy gait that purely drove him wild. Her eyes were locked on his. Here I am, she was saying. I belong to myself. Marry me if you dare.
Hart dared, all right. He couldn’t wait.
She came to the end of the aisle. Ashendon removed her hand from his arm and offered it to Hart. Every eye was on them. Everyone was waiting to see what Hart would do.
Her skin, so pale and perfect in the dim light of the church, was like a pearl. Her lips were rich, dark and moist; her eyes met his with a mix of defiance and uncertainty.
Slowly Hart pulled off her scarlet satin glove and stuffed it in his pocket. Her hand was cold. Her fingers were trembling. So, she was not as certain as she appeared. His bold, contrary girl . . .
He raised her hand and kissed it formally, ostentatiously—there was a ripple of comment in the congregation. Then, his eyes locked with hers, he turned her hand over and placed a warm kiss in the center of her cold palm.
The whispers turned to a furious buzzing.
The bishop cleared his throat portentously. Hands clasped, they turned to face him. “Dearly beloved . . .” The bishop’s rich, fruity tones washed over them.
Hart barely took in the words. He waited, her cold hand still trembling in his grasp. Her tension seemed to be rising. His, now she was here and things were underway, was dropping. He just had to get past the speak-now-or-forever-hold-your-peace part. Ah, here it came. He braced himself.
“Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace,” the bishop intoned.
There was a long, endless pause. The bishop scanned the congregation. Hart was aware of people looking around the church, as if hoping for someone to leap out from the shadows and forbid the wedding. Again. He stood stiffly and waited.
But nobody spoke. The service continued. Hart felt his tension draining away. It was going to be all right.
His bride, however, seemed to be getting more tense by the minute. He slid a sideways glance at her. She was pale, rigid, staring straight ahead. Her fingers shook. He squeezed them gently in reassurance, but she didn’t shift her gaze.
The bishop listed the promises they would make to each other. “I will,” Hart said in a clear voice. His bride mumbled something unintelligible. The bishop frowned, and glanced at Hart. Hart nodded to him to continue.
Then came the vows.
In a clear, firm voice, Hart repeated, “I, Redmond Jasper Hartley, take thee Georgiana Mary Rutherford, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Then it was Georgiana’s turn. She repeated her vows in a low, almost inaudible voice. “I, Georgiana Mary Rutherford, take thee Redmond Jasper Hartley to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to rub, cherish, and to olé, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
Hart frowned. Had he heard her aright? To rub, cherish, and to olé?
He looked at her. She stared straight ahead, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the stained glass window above the altar.
The bishop hesitated, frowned and gave Hart a hard questioning look. From his expression he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. He wasn’t a young bishop; likely he was a bit deaf.
“Continue,” Hart said.
And so the ceremony rolled on until “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” They signed the registry and Hart quietly released a long sigh of relief. The bishop had a lot more to say, and there were more prayers, but Hart took very little notice. It was done. She was his.
As they came out of the church, the duke dug in his pockets and produced several handfuls of coins, which he flung over the heads of the crowd of onlookers. While they scrambled for the money, he helped George into the waiting carriage and they drove away.
He leaned back against the leather seat and eyed her quizzically. “So, rub, cherish, and olé, eh?”
George braced herself for the argument. At least he hadn’t reacted in the church, though she had half expected it. “I only said that because—”
“I know. Because you weren’t prepared to make a promise you weren’t sure you could honor.”
She blinked. “Yes. That’s right.” He’d understood. Without any need for explanation or justification on her part. She could happily promise to cherish him, but love? When she wasn’t sure whether she loved him or not? You couldn’t order love.
As for promising to obey him, that was never in question.
He nodded. “Thought so. Just one question. What does olé mean?”
“Olé? I believe Spanish bullfighters say it to bulls.”
“So . . I’m a bull, am I?” There was a glint in his eyes that she didn’t trust.
“No, it’s just a word expressing excitement.” It was the only word she could think of that rhymed with obey. And rub rhymed with love. Sort of.
“You’re excited?”
She said in a dampening tone, “Not particularly.”
“Then I’ll have to work a little harder, won’t I?” He glanced at her and added, “Not here, of course. Later.”
“Olé is more of a celebratory thing,” she said firmly. She wasn’t going to think about later. That would come soon enough. She didn’t know whether she was looking forward to discovering what it was all about—or dreading it.
“I see. So you’ve promised to rub, cherish and celebrate me. Sounds delightful.”
She eyed him cautiously. He couldn’t possibly be accepting her alteration of the sacred wedding vows so calmly, could he?
She’d braced herself for a quarrel. But if he wasn’t going to argue, she had no complaint. Quite the contrary. But she did feel a little deflated.
His gaze ran over her slowly, like a warm caress. “And that dress . . .” Her mouth dried. Her skin felt suddenly hot and tight.
“Y-yes?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. How could a look affect her as potently as a touch?
“It’s stunning. You look glorious.”
Glorious? “You don’t mind the color?”
“I gather it was in the nature of a statement.” For whom, he didn’t specify.
Dumbfounded by his calm acceptance—and his understanding of her reasons—and distracted by the confusion of her feelings—she just nodded.
“The color suits you wonderfully. Much better than those whites and pastels you usually wear.”
“I hate wearing white, but Aunt Agatha insisted.” She mimicked the old lady’s dry pedantic tone. “Do not argue with me, Georgiana. All young unmarried gels—decent, highborn gels, I mean—wear white.”
He laughed. “I can imagine it.” He actually laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before. Who was this man?
She’d almost bolted at the church door, not because she had second thoughts about marrying him but because she didn’t want him to think the dress was aimed at him.
Her anger with him had drained away long ago. The duke wasn’t responsible for all the nasty gossip. He might have caused it—some of it; she was also responsible. But though the spite and vitriol had been directed solely at her, he had stepped up to support her.
But she’d ordered the d
ress in a fury, and even afterward, she’d wanted to make a stand. And so she had. And had been prepared for the backlash.
His face as she’d walked down the aisle—she’d never forget the expression. That light in his eyes. And that moment when he’d kissed her hand—in front of the entire disapproving congregation. And then placed that kiss in the center of her palm.
Her heart had given a great big thump then and cracked wide open. It had taken all her self-control not to cry.
He’d understood, he’d actually understood what she’d been trying to say. And he’d given society the clear message that he would support her, even honor her.
She’d given him every chance to reject her and he hadn’t. Instead, he’d made a push to understand her. How rare was that? It was as if the duke saw who she really was—not simply Aunt Agatha’s conveniently unmarried great-niece, an earl’s daughter, but George, plain and simple, with all her many faults. And accepted her.
Married her.
The carriage turned a corner and for the first time George noticed where they were. “Where are we going?”
“To my house.”
“But what about the wedding breakfast?” It was to be held at Ashendon House. The servants and Emm had been working for days to arrange it all.
“We have time,” he said tranquilly.
Time for what? she wondered. Was this what he meant by “later”? But she wasn’t game to ask; it seemed she’d used up all her boldness for the moment. And the duke had—apparently—taken it all in stride.
Butterflies danced in her stomach. Was he taking her inside to consummate the marriage? To make sure of her? Now? In the daylight? Before the wedding breakfast?
Her palms were damp.
The carriage pulled up outside Everingham House and the front door opened. The duke ushered her inside. The hallway was filled with people: his servants, she realized, waiting to congratulate the happy couple. George’s next few minutes were filled with a confusing series of introductions and congratulations. She would never remember all of them, but their warmth and welcome were unmistakable.