“It’s important!” Rupert yelled.
Thankfully, Demon put him down. Regrettably, he put him down in front of Barnes.
Demon jerked his thumb at Barnes. “Do you know this man?”
Barnes gave an unctuous smile. “That is the duke’s cousin.”
“Oh.” For a moment, disappointment passed over Demon’s face. Clearly, ducal cousins did not seem like colossal threats. “He wanted to speak with the princess.”
Barnes’s gaze narrowed. “That would be a mistake.”
“This duke’s cousin is dangerous?” Demon asked hopefully.
Barnes nodded solemnly. “I believe so.”
“Barnes!” Rupert yelled.
“Shall I kill him for you?” Demon asked. “I am excellent at killing.”
Rupert drew back.
Barnes gave a benign smile. “That won’t be necessary.”
Demon continued to stare at Rupert as if he were ranking the most brutal manner in which to murder him.
“I’ll have the duke speak with him,” Barnes said. “After the wedding.”
“If they’re cousins, he’s likely to be merciful.”
“You can discourage him from that,” Barnes said lightly.
“Barnes! You musn’t say such things!” Rupert hollered.
Barnes only gave a smug smile, as if confident his position would remain intact and that soon he would no longer be forced to answer the door when Rupert called.
“What should I do with him?” Demon asked, his green eyes glinting dangerously.
Barnes jerked his thumb. “Stick him in an empty room.”
Demon sneered, pushed the door open, and thrust Rupert into a small, dark room.
Blast.
“Stop!” Rupert called and banged on the door. “I must warn you about the duke! He intends to kill the princess!”
His heart pounded. Would Demon open the door?
Unfortunately, the door didn’t swing open abruptly. Instead, voices murmured outside, then there was silence.
The chapel bells rang, and Rupert blinked. The wedding must be starting.
Damnation.
He needed to tell Princess Aria her fiancé intended to murder her sometime after the wedding. That was the sort of information a bride wanted to know before walking down the aisle.
He banged on the door. “Open the door! Open!”
No one came.
He rushed to the window and stared at the church.
His cousin strolled into the chapel. At least Dudley had the foresight not to have Miss van Konigsberg draped over him. His top hat gleamed appropriately.
Rupert banged on the window. “Let me out! Let me out!”
Rupert doubted his cousin had heard him, but Dudley tilted his head up and shot him a smug smile.
Blast.
Rupert fiddled with the window latch.
Princess Aria moved to the church.
“Princess! Princess!” Rupert shouted and waved his hands, but she didn’t turn her head toward him. Heavens, she probably didn’t even hear him.
His heart toppled down.
She was going to marry his cousin, and then his cousin was going to murder her.
Rupert needed to warn her. He cursed that he’d not managed to warn her before. He cursed that he’d ever been involved in his cousin’s courtship of her.
He struggled with the clasp of the window, then finally opened it. The courtyard below was empty. He shouted, but no one came.
Rupert needed them to see him. He yanked the ugly green velvet coverlet off the bed. No one was going to miss the wedding of a princess and duke. He clambered out of the window and landed in the medieval battlements. Muddy water pooled there, and he scowled. He waved the coverlet, flapping the fabric over the jagged parapet.
A few birds squawked, perhaps bewildered to be joined by a man carrying a gigantic blanket.
Unfortunately, no one came. No one even saw him.
Blast.
He tossed the coverlet back into the room, then crawled through the battlement.
Again.
If only there was a convenient staircase that led to the chapel. Even a slightly less comfortable, albeit equally convenient ladder, would do.
How many minutes had passed? Three? Four? Would they already be married?
He hoped not and tried the windows of the adjoining rooms. Finally, one opened, and he hurried inside. The room was decorated equally outrageously. The walls were painted red, and a pink four-poster bed took up one side of the room. French paintings of muscular Grecian gods dotted the walls. Blast. This used to be his great-aunt’s room. He padded quietly through it, half-expecting her to rise up from under the bedsheets.
No specter appeared, and he exited the room. Finally.
His moment of joy was soon halted by his need to get to the chapel. He sprinted through the hallway, toward the enormous swooping staircase. He reached the banister, then hurried down the wooden steps. His footsteps thundered, but no maid with upraised eyebrows appeared, just as no open-mouthed footman ducked his head into the foyer.
The place was silent, save for Rupert’s frantic running.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
At last, Rupert reached the landing. He sprinted over the old tile stones, conscious he was dripping water from his time in the castle’s gutters.
He sped down the stairs, over the black-and-white marble floor in the foyer, past portraits of grim-faced former Dukes of Framingham. Perhaps they’d anticipated the horrors of having a murderous descendent.
Finally, he exited the castle. Birds sang, and a pleasant breeze fluttered through the trees. The weather was perfect—an anomaly in Britain, a day which was not too cold or too hot, and not drenched by rain. Fluffy clouds flitted languidly over the crisp blue sky, bereft of any unwanted haze, changing shapes as if they’d decided to do a performance in honor of the wedding.
Even though the princess and her entourage had only arrived the previous day, large bows were festooned to various parts of the chapel and castle.
Rupert inhaled and pushed open the thick wooden door to the chapel.
This was the perfect idyllic wedding, and Rupert was going to destroy it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You are now officially married.” The pastor bestowed a tight smile on Aria and her new husband. He glanced at Dudley, then glanced down at his notes. “Er—you may kiss the bride.”
If Aria didn’t know any better, she would have thought the pastor seemed new to all of this. Doubtless, he was simply distracted by their obvious happiness.
The duke leaned toward Aria. Her heart fluttered happily. He looked both ways, then gave her a peck on her lips.
As first kisses went, this didn’t precisely cause her knees to quiver, her heart to squeeze, and the temperature to rise dangerously, as if the duke controlled the very weather. Her friend Daisy had told her to expect that.
Still, the man was a gentleman. Evidently, he’d simply been conscious of her father’s presence. The man thought of everything, even the things that would never have occurred to her.
“Sweetheart,” she breathed. “You may truly kiss me.”
His eyes widened, and he shot a look at the congregation again. “We—er—needn’t worry about that.”
He held out his hand, and she took it. She smiled, and pretended that disappointment wasn’t moving through her. They could kiss later, in private, for the rest of their lives.
She glanced at the audience. Most of the people were servants from the household that she didn’t know, but her father was present, as well as Lucy and her family. She beamed at them. Her bodyguard shot dubious looks at the surroundings, as if he were comparing the flower-festooned pews and perfectly maintained Roman arches that indicated that nothing much had happened here for the past seven centuries with the battles he’d fought.
“We’re going to be very happy, Dudley,” Aria murmured.
“Er—yes.” Her hus
band’s gaze floated through the room toward a pretty blonde woman who seemed a decade older than Aria and possessed a larger bosom.
Her chest tightened oddly.
Dudley turned to her. “Shall we eat?”
Aria nodded. “Eating is always good.”
It wasn’t the most romantic proposition, but the duke had confessed his shyness in his letters, and it was possible he was wary of displaying too much emotion in the presence of others.
She took his arm, and they proceeded from the altar, stepping over ancient tile stones. Heavens. She was going to become the Duchess of Framingham. She was the Duchess of Framingham. She had joined a long line of women who’d helped their husbands maintain their estate.
Her father approached her and took her hands in his. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You look radiant.”
“I am,” she breathed.
Lucy popped up from her pew and gave Aria a hug. Happiness moved through Aria.
Then, the door to the chapel swung open violently, and a tall man rushed in. Mud clung to his rumpled attire, as did a few leaves. His gray eyes darted in a wild manner, the fact obvious even though he wore spectacles. He was only a few years older than her. His hair was untroubled by either a receding hairline or the advancement of gray. He would have looked at home in a university, perhaps as a tutor, though his focus now clearly wasn’t on tomes and the avoidance of ink stains. Something about him made her stare.
Aria turned to her husband. “Who’s he?”
Her husband frowned, and deep creases formed on his forehead. “That is my cousin.”
She blinked. She vaguely remembered this man from when she’d arrived yesterday, though she’d assumed he was a servant.
Her husband raised his voice. “The princess and I are already married. You’re too late.”
Horror moved through the man’s gaze. Clearly, he was devastated he was late. It was nice of the man to be so worried. He looked like he crawled his way to the wedding, and she gave him an encouraging smile.
“You’re not too late for the celebration dinner,” she said.
The man blinked. He glanced at the duke, as if he half-expected the duke to negate her invitation.
“Er—thank you,” the man muttered in a hoarse voice.
Instead of waiting, he fled from the chapel. His footsteps pounded over the tile stones. Despite his creased clothing and general scholarly manner, he moved quickly, betraying a definite athleticism.
Aria blinked and turned to Dudley. “I don’t understand.”
“And you needn’t,” her husband replied grimly.
Aria wanted to ask Dudley more questions, but Lucy and her father distracted her. Evidently, Dudley’s cousin was simply inordinately fond of weddings and unenthusiastic about dining. Perhaps he was embarrassed at his tardiness.
The man lingered in her thoughts, but she strolled toward the castle, her husband at her side.
The servants had prepared a feast. Stuffed ducks and geese dotted the dining room table. In the center was a pig’s head. An apple poked through its mouth. Handsome footmen moved quickly, replacing each dish with elegant flourishes. The food smelled delicious, but when Aria attempted to eat, the food seemed to linger in her throat, despite the butler’s speed at refilling her glass.
The others chatted merrily, remarking on English wedding traditions, but Aria found herself silent.
Dudley spoke about hunting with relish and banged on his table with open glee. Still, every spouse must come with peculiarities. Certainly, Aria possessed her own eccentricities. It was only recently that Aria managed to amble about her family’s palace without clutching a book in her hand.
She smiled, musing over her early instincts toward unladylike behavior. She’d been so young. And now she was a married woman.
“You seem pleased, my dear,” Dudley remarked.
“I am.” She beamed at him, but he withdrew his gaze and nibbled on a duck leg instead.
Well.
She nudged his shoulder. “Perhaps we’ll have to continue to send letters together.”
“Why is that?” He continued to gnaw on the duck leg, unperturbed by the fatty grease that spilled onto his hands.
Aria supposed there was nothing wrong with a man determined not to waste a single shred of meat, though she withdrew her gaze from him all the same.
“Only that you were so romantic in your letters,” she said.
His gaze narrowed, and he set the duck leg on his plate abruptly. “I’m romantic now.”
“Certainly,” she said.
The man’s eyes flashed. “I mean it.”
Her eyebrows raised. The duke seemed awfully serious.
“Naturally.”
“Naturally, Your Grace,” the duke corrected. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean that you can stop addressing me with proper respect. What will the servants think?”
Her eyes widened. “Naturally, Your Grace.”
Only later did it occur to her that he’d never used the same respect when speaking with her.
The night proceeded quickly, spurred on by the happy expressions of her father and the Banks family, if not precisely by that of her husband.
Finally, her father rose and picked up his champagne flute. “I want to wish my wonderful daughter and her husband all the happiness in the world. A father knows not to spend the first wedding days living under his son-in-law’s roof. I’ll let you have your privacy and will be departing for London with the Banks.”
“Oh.” Disappointment moved through Aria. She was vaguely conscious that her father was right. Newlyweds weren’t supposed to spend their time discovering each other with a father tucked away further down the corridor. Heavens, Mama had arrived in Sweden alone. Her family had never seen Mama again.
Her father smiled and kissed her forehead. “It’s for the best, my dear. I’ll leave Galileo here to keep you company. I expect he’ll appreciate the estate more than another ship journey anyway.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Aria said.
Her father stroked her hair. “That means I’ll have two reasons to visit soon. I wish your mother were here. She would be so very proud of you.”
“Thank you.” Aria’s chest ached. Perhaps her general discomfort had simply been because she was missing her mother.
“You’re so much like her,” Aria’s father said. “She was brave too, coming to live in a new country.”
“Is it foolish of me to do this?”
“Never,” her father said. “If one can follow one’s dream, one must do so.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
She hadn’t expected her father to leave so soon, but there was no reason for them to stay. The Banks wouldn’t want to linger—not when they’d all arrived in one carriage. And everyone said a wedding couple desired privacy.
Dudley grinned, and something in his smile made a knot form in her stomach, even though she should be happy her husband was content. This was the man she loved most in the world, after all. This was the man whom she’d changed her entire life to marry.
Perhaps her father had been correct. Perhaps she should have simply returned to Sweden as planned. She swallowed hard.
“My dear, you needn’t look so concerned,” her father said. “I’m certain your husband will take good care of you.”
“Oh, indeed.” Dudley shot her father a wide grin. “Soon, she’ll have no worries.”
“You truly don’t want to spend the night?” Aria asked softly.
Father shook his head. “The carriage is already being prepared, and as you know, I am in a hurry to return.” He glanced at Dudley. “I appreciate you took the time to get a special license.”
Dudley gave a modest shrug. “One of the benefits of my status.”
Aria continued to sip her champagne, but the bubbles no longer seemed playful as they bounced in her flute. Rather, they seemed hard, and they burned her throat as she swallowed the liquid down, as if telling her to prolong the ev
ent. Mrs. Simpson’s earlier insinuation that the duke was not a nice man ran through her mind.
Nerves.
The late wedding guest never reappeared, but his evident horror at having missed the ceremony lingered. One would think a man so desperate to attend the wedding would have joined them for the celebratory meal. One would think he would at least have congratulated them.
This was the night when she would truly become Dudley’s wife. This was the night when they would make love, when she would no longer be a virgin. Heavens, this might be the night she conceived their first child.
Her heart pitter-pattered uncertainly, but she forced herself to smile. She wasn’t going to become nervous for no reason. She was happy, she reminded herself. Terribly, terribly happy. She pasted a smile on her face.
When she said goodbye to her father, Demon, Lucy, and Lucy’s parents, Aria resisted the sudden urge to insist they stay longer. She stared as the wheels crunched over the gravel, pulling them farther and farther away.
“I suppose we’re alone now,” Aria said to Dudley.
Her husband rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
The conversation stilled. The silence seemed thick and awkward, and the back of Aria’s neck prickled with sweat, even though the door had just been open to the cool night air.
Aria yawned.
Dudley stared at her.
Perhaps the man truly was far more gifted at writing than speaking.
“I’m a bit tired,” Aria said, even though her heart was speeding with great rapidity, and even though sleep hardly seemed something she could achieve soon. “I’ll retire to my bedroom.”
“Very well,” Dudley said.
She waited a moment, half expecting for him to reaffirm his love for her, just as he’d done in his letters. She waited for him to tell her he was happy they were married and that he looked forward to living the rest of his life with her.
Finally, he turned. “Was there anything else?”
“No, Your Grace,” she said hastily. Then she curtsied uncertainly and headed up the steps toward her room.
Every woman must feel nervous before her wedding night; the energy swirling about her heart simply proved that she was not devoid of emotions. It would be wrong to speculate further on whether she was right to be nervous.
The Truth About Princesses and Dukes (The Duke Hunters Club) Page 5