“Men like Selridge can do as they please. Their wives, however, are not afforded such freedom.” Dylan set his jaw in what she recognized as his “I am two years older, a man, and I, therefore, know better than you.” face. “You, Your Grace, have stolen your last dog.”
“We’ll just see about that, Dylan Crosby,” she said. She wanted desperately to stamp her foot for emphasis. As little as she knew about being a duchess, stamping one’s foot just did not seem the thing to do. “You are not my father. You are not my husband. I will—”
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear you say that, my dear. Dare I hope you know who your husband is?”
He was standing right behind her. She had no doubt, when she turned around, he would hold in his hand, her forsaken shoes. It was simply how her luck fell. Dylan’s expression was no help at all. His smirk alerted her immediately. He enjoyed her discomfort immensely, and he intended to expand on it, if possible. She must keep her wits about her, if this was to go well at all. Meaning, if it was to rise above an unmitigated disaster.
“Marcus.” Her voice took on an over-bright brittleness reminiscent of her mother. Dear Lord. Her smile must have matched it, for when she turned and beamed up at her husband, he raised his eyebrow in surprise. Very well, perhaps it was irritation. They were only married an hour ago. She would learn to decipher the blasted eyebrow eventually. Her shoes dangled from his fingertips. Rather like his patience, she hazarded to guess.
“Your Grace,” he said. He inclined his head slightly to her, but did not move it at all when he greeted her companion. “Crosby. Nice of you to attend.” His words were so dry, Adelaide wanted to suggest using them to start a fire in the unused hearth a few feet away. The iciness of the stone floor was beginning to creep through the carpets, and her toes were chilled. Cold feet after the wedding. She’d laugh, save for her husband and her best friend were staring at each other like two large bulls in a pasture with only one cow. Not her most flattering description, to be sure.
“You should probably refrain from calling him by his given name in public, brat,” Dylan observed. “Consequence and all that.” He gave Marcus a smile sick with insincerity. “Don’t you mean, nice of me to attend without an invitation, Selridge?”
“You are my wife’s dearest friend. Your lack of an invitation was an oversight. Perhaps it was lost in the mails.” To Adelaide’s utter amazement, Marcus struggled to go down on his good knee. He then lifted her foot onto his twisted leg and slid it into her slipper. “And my wife may call me whatever she damned well pleases.” Dylan appeared so nonplussed by his actions, Marcus’s words appeared not to register at all.
Adelaide murmured her thanks as he replaced her other shoe and slowly rose to his feet. The urge to help him was strong, but the knowledge of what it would cost him, especially in Dylan’s presence, stayed her hand. His quick glance, the recognition in his green eyes, was all the reward she needed.
“Whilst I would appreciate it if you refrained from calling her ‘brat’ in public or in private. She is the Duchess of Selridge, and has a consequence all her own.” Oh now, Marcus was simply being rude. What on earth was the matter with him?
“Selridge, really,” she said. “He has been calling me that, and much worse, since we were in leading strings. I’ve only been a duchess for an hour.”
“And a duke’s betrothed for less than a fortnight,” Dylan added. “Exactly what day did you become engaged, Your Grace?” Adelaide itched to give her friend’s shin a kick. This was her wedding day. Why was he being such an arse?
“I hardly think it matters, Dylan,” she said quickly. “What matters is we are married now. Won’t you wish us happy?” And then hurry yourself back down to Sussex was the unspoken end of that question.
For a moment, she thought he might refuse, or worse say something stupid. Like, “By the way, Your Grace, did you know your duchess and I have been stealing bear baiting dogs from their masters, and the night you were betrothed, she helped me to steal your neighbor’s son’s three starving dogs?”
“Of course, I wish you happy, brat. I always do.” He gave her cheek a quick peck. The pulse in Marcus’s temple vied with Dylan’s triumphant grin. He, who had never kissed her, had done so deliberately today. “As for you, Selridge. You cannot help but be happy. How an old sod like you landed a prize like Addy, escapes me. I guess there is hope for the worst of us, after all.”
“Dylan.” Adelaide’s punch was delivered to the air where his arm had been. He sauntered off, with his hands in his pockets.
“If you break her heart, I will cut yours out of your chest, Your Grace. Do think about that.” He made the threat as he walked away, tossed casually over his shoulder. Thank God, the majority of the guests had adjourned to the formal dining room for the breakfast. Those who had not, gasped to a shocked silence, but immediately returned to their conversations when Marcus turned his scarred scowl on them.
Adelaide laid her hand on his arm and smiled. “Shall we go in to breakfast, darling? I’m starving.”
Chapter Fourteen
From the dining room doorway, Anne Deleford watched the heated conversation between her cousin and Dylan Crosby, and the duke’s subsequent intervention, with no little interest. She might have questioned Crosby’s presence at the wedding had the Earl of Creighton not been in attendance. Lord Creighton was an inveterate troublemaker. He was no doubt delighted to bring someone to the wedding who had not been invited. Especially if he considered the uninvited guest might be a rival for Addy’s affections. He was the sort who would do it, just on the possibility sparks might fly.
The man had wasted his machinations. Whilst Crosby and Addy were very close, their closeness was born of a sibling-like affection, nothing more. Her headstrong cousin had never shown an interest in any man, until she met Major Marcus Winfield. After that, there was no other. Anne knew better than anyone what that instantaneous eternal bonding felt like. Whatever misadventure had brought them together, Addy would not rest until her scarred husband loved her as she loved him. Anne’s money was on her cousin, but it would not hurt to clear an obstacle or two when she saw one. With a slight smile, she watched her prey wander into the crowded dining room, and then followed him.
Had they been capable of it, the long mahogany tables would have groaned at the load of food and accoutrements they were asked to bear. Expense had been spared in neither the food nor the table settings for the wedding breakfast. The cake alone was a monument to the confectioner’s skill, not to mention the Winfield coffers. Covered in orange blossoms and candied comfits, it sat on a pedestal table all its own. The finest china, crystal, and silver the butler’s pantry could produce bedecked the other tables. Anne knew the diligently polished wood was covered in cloths of the finest Irish linen and Belgian lace. Aunt Henrietta was in high alt, wherever she was. Now, to locate the fly in all this ointment. A nearly impossible task, with all of the people crowded into this room to graze on Selridge’s bounty.
“Looking for me, Miss Deleford?” Anne was grateful she had not yet begun to fill her plate. If she had, someone would be wearing it at this point.
“Crosby, you rotter,” she said as she turned to address the man who had crept so silently to her side. “We are no longer children. Why is it you are forever sneaking up on me?”
“Are you surprised to see me because of my stealth, or because your dear cousin told you I was not invited?” He offered her one of the plates he held. It bothered her immensely, as it was filled with lobster salad, brandied pears, and several other tidbits, all her favorites.
“Not invited?” She took the plate and accompanying fork and followed him through the open doors onto the terrace. Tables for one or two were scattered across the terrace to take advantage of the view of the gardens. “I have no idea what you mean. Of course, you were invited.” She took a large bite of the lobster salad and closed her eyes to savor it. Or at least that is what she hoped it looked like. He pulled out a chair and she sat down a
cross the table from where he seated himself.
“My invitation must have been lost in the mail.” She knew that tone and that look. In his present mood, it was best to take a direct approach.
“Don’t muck this up for her, Dylan.” He started to grin. Her intensity of purpose must have shown on her face. The grin turned to a look of surprise. “She loves him. No matter how it happened, she has the husband she wants. Stay out of it.”
They ate in silence. People passed by the table with a polite nod here and there. Once the milling of guests thinned, he addressed her again.
“Addy never struck me as the type to go after a title. She is—”
“She loves him, Dylan. She has since she met him.” Anne found his expression both comical and sad. He did not know it, but his friendship with Addy was about to change, forever. Then again, perhaps he did.
“Even when he was betrothed to Clementine?”
“Even then.” She watched as the words settled in his mind.
“I suppose there are things one does not tell a man,” he said. “Even if he is your best friend.” His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I want to muck it up?”
She shrugged. “We were children together. Just because I never have, doesn’t mean I cannot read you, Mr. Crosby. What were you and Addy arguing about when Selridge came upon you?”
This time he shrugged. “This and that.”“Hmm.” She knew there were things only he and Addy shared. She had been involved in many of their childhood adventures, but they had not been children for a very long time.
“He has a vicious streak, Anne.” The words were so vehement, her forkful of brandied pears sank back onto her plate. “I have seen it. I would not want him to loose it on her.”
“What do you mean?” The duke had been a bit inattentive the two days Anne had been in residence, but his behavior was anything but vicious. She remembered the way he looked at Addy in the church. “You are mistaken. I think he is half-besotted with her already.”
“I hope you are right, Anne. For Addy’s sake. I would hate to have to skewer the bastard.”
She threw her napkin at him. “Watch your language, you fiend. There is a lady present.”
“Where?” He arched his eyebrows and grinned before popping a prawn into his mouth.
“I take it you came up with Creighton?” He stopped chewing at her question and then shook his head.
“You knew I wasn’t invited you duplicitous—” She shook her finger in warning. “Yes, I came up with Creighton and the Tildenbury brothers.”
“Both of them?” Anne retrieved her napkin and covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. “How on earth did you and Creighton manage that?”
“So much for the elegant and kind Miss Anne Deleford.” He pointed his silver fork at her. “You are a fraud, miss. Poor Hubert cannot help his girth. He has a condition.”
“You are the fraud, sirrah,” Anne said. “You have made a great deal of fun of Hubert Tildenbury in the past. I happen to be quite fond of him. He is betrothed to one of nicest young ladies I know. Thank God.”
“Thank the late Duke of Selridge, you mean. He is the one who arranged it.”
“Indeed. Pity His Grace is dead. He might have been able to find a woman desperate enough to take you on even if you lack Hubert’s abundant charms.”
Crosby roared with laughter.
“Drat you, Dylan, that is not what I meant.” Anne, however, was forced to join him. Several people looked up from their plates and shook their heads. When they were quiet again, she opened her mouth to speak, and just as quickly closed it. She found the question could not go unasked, much to her chagrin.
“How is your brother?” The change of subject was abrupt, like a sudden bump in an otherwise smooth road. He appeared not to notice.
“Wessex is Wessex, Anne. He never changes.” She knew this to be his standard answer to any inquiry of the earl. She was, therefore, startled when he continued. “They tell me he grows more reclusive every day, Anne.”
“I am sure he has his reasons.” She measured her response carefully. “But, he is well?”
“As well as I can tell from his letters,” he said with another of his careless shrugs. “I never visit him. I daresay you know better than I. Do you still write to him?”
“I?” There was no fireplace on the terrace, so there could be only one explanation for the warmth that suddenly bathed her cheeks. “Yes, but only to ask about his research.” She failed miserably at sounding casual. “And to tell him that Percival is well.”
“Percival?”
“My rabbit. Your brother knows Percival rather well.” She clutched her own napkin beneath the little terrace table.
“Of course.” Dylan snapped his fingers. “That’s what Sullivan is talking about. He says the only time he sees my brother smile is when he reads one of your letters. Says Wessex mumbles something or other about Percy and then smiles and wanders off to his laboratory.”
“Does he really?” The pleasure of that knowledge suffused her in a warm rosy glow. “I shall certainly have to write him of Percival’s latest adventure.”
“Oh?” Dylan filched a strawberry tart from Anne’s plate and stuffed it into his mouth.
“He stole one of Addy’s wedding shoes this morning. Aunt Henrietta was certain we would have to cancel the wedding over it.”
“Now that would have been a pity.” Dylan’s face was wreathed in a sarcastic smile, but something about his eyes made Anne wonder.
“Dylan,” she started.
“Do write to him, Anne. I…” He cleared his throat. “I would consider it a great favor. He has so few friends.”
“You could go home, Dylan. A brother is even better than a friend.”
“Not always, Anne.” He made a great show of brushing crumbs from his clothing. She’d make no more headway with him on the subject of his brother. Not today at least.
“I’ll write and tell him you ask after him. I quite enjoy our correspondence.” She stood and handed her plate to a footman. The guests were beginning to congregate inside for the cutting of the cake and the toasts. She took the arm he offered her and leaned in to whisper.
“Do try to look happy for Addy, Dylan. She finally has the man of her dreams.”
“That is all very well, old girl. What happens when she wakes up? Ouch. That was my foot.”
“Behave, or next time I shall aim higher.”
“You Formsby-Smythe cousins are a brutal lot. I have the scars to prove it.”
She was hiding something from him. His dainty bride had evaded the subject of her childhood friend with the precision of a cavalry regiment’s flanking maneuver. It was probably nothing. At twenty, Addy could hardly have that many secrets to keep. Or at least that is what he told himself. Crosby, on the other hand, had more secrets than a Vauxhall magician. Whatever they were, Addy would no longer be a party to them. Marcus would make certain of it. She was the Duchess of Selridge now. Duchesses did not have friends like Dylan Crosby. Actually, many of them did, but he would be damned if his wife would. Married less than an hour, and she already had him tied in knots. He sighed and shook his head. Where was she, his innocent little wife?
They’d done the pretty, cut the cake, drank all the appropriate toasts. Her father reduced the ladies to tears with his toast to old friends and families united. Creighton, of course, had referred to Marcus’s incredible luck in capturing such a lovely lady. Marcus, himself, caused Addy’s female cousins to blush and giggle. The four Formsby-Smythe brothers each gave a jovial toast, with a thinly veiled threat to his health should their sister cry a single tear tacked onto the end. Marcus, at least, had the privilege of seeing them reduced to mumbled apologies after one look from their none-to-pleased mama. Poor Tillie nearly dropped his plate when he saw it.
For someone who’d declared herself hungry, Addy had eaten very little. To be fair, she’d had few opportunities. Every guest the staff managed to stuff into the various formal rooms wanted to me
et the new duchess. He was reduced to the role of well-dressed footman as he held her plate and wineglass and followed her about the rooms. She would stop from time to time to pluck a tidbit from the plate or take a sip from the glass. Each time she smiled at him so sweetly, he completely forgot it was his wedding day as well. Which was probably as it should be.
Weddings and the subsequent falderal were primarily for women. Wedding nights, were for men.
She stood several feet away, yet suddenly, a heat radiated from her, a heat and an awareness he’d never before felt. It was late April and a mild day. The house was full of people, so full, if the doors had not been opened onto the terraces, Winfield Abbey might have popped like a wineskin stretched in the sun. All of those things combined, did not produce the warmth he felt when he looked at his bride.
Through all the scents of the day—the food, the wine, enough perfume and cologne to fill half the shops on Bond Street, and the distinct aroma of too many people in too little space—through it all a gentle breath of fresh moor air and wildflowers found him in the crowd and whispered her name. It had to be the allure of his wedding night. If he felt this way every time he looked at her, he would be dead in six months. She turned and fixed him with those inquisitive soft brown eyes. Make that three months. His eyes followed her, a starving man in a cornucopia of wedding foods, as she took her leave of a young couple and came to him.
“What is it, Marcus?” she asked. Her soft voice and the concerned touch of her hand only served to increase his hunger. “Are you in pain? Is it your leg?” A frown creased her heart-shaped face. “Oh dear. I should have called you Selridge, shouldn’t I? I am—”
Marcus foisted the plate and glass onto a surprised footman and took her by the hand. “You can call me whatever you like, if you do so in the carriage.” He pulled her along behind him as he went in search of his mother.
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