“You had ruby earrings years ago.”
“But not like this!” Hers had been modest, a gift from her grandmother.
“Here,” he said, offering her another box.
And so it went, each item of jewelry more magnificent than the last until she had a queen’s ransom in jewels spread out on the table before her.
“You were much too extravagant, Simon. I feel guilty.”
“Nonsense. My duchess should have her own jewels. The Hargreave lot is an old-fashioned jumble. And I doubt you’d want to fight my mother for them.”
“So Isabella hasn’t relinquished control of the property?”
“Not if she can help it. She feels that she earned every hectare of land and every scrap of plate after living with my father for a quarter century.”
“Is she still at Monkshood then?”
He shook his head. “I drove her out with my disreputable friends arriving day and night. But I fear she took the plate and jewels and anything else she fancied. The dowager house is crammed to the rafters. I hope you don’t mind?”
“You saw what I had. A satchel, no more. I don’t require much.”
He smiled. “Only me.”
“Exclusively if you please.”
“I still have three hands of cards between me and the shackles of matrimony.”
“Do I have that option as well?”
“I don’t want to fight,” he murmured.
“Ah.”
“Don’t say ah like that. You know what the world’s like.”
“I do. Once I’ve given you an heir, I’m free to take a lover.”
He scowled, but he held his tongue. He wanted to be married before he took issue with that statement. Quickly coming to his feet, he said, “I’ll have a maid help you dress.” He put a hand to his cheek and rubbed his stubble. “I’ll wash up and meet you in the chapel.”
Biting her bottom lip, she looked at him dubiously. “Are you sure?”
He’d never been so sure in his life. “Yes,” he said, but on some other level-one that didn’t take into account insatiable sexual desire-his certainty was less intelligible. Aware his tone recorded that constraint, he quickly smiled. “I’m very sure. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
Chapter 23
The small chapel was decorated with garlands and festoons of evergreen boughs and holly. Since the Viscount Manley had been unable to heat his conservatory, his flowering plants had succumbed to the cold, but in place of their color, the servants had lit great masses of candles-on Gore’s suggestion and thanks to the generosity of the duke’s bank draft. A wedding banquet, fit for a king had been prepared as well… on very short notice, the chef had bewailed. But with his reputation at stake, he’d come up to the mark with aplomb and the help of several bottles of the duke’s brandy that had arrived to supplement the viscount’s depleted cellar.
The chef was very drunk at the moment, but his sous chef-Viscount Manley had lived well beyond his means-was still able to function semicoherendy. When he ceased to perform his duties, Mrs. Hopper would step in and take charge. Had she not for years, before the viscount had come into the title and begun to put on airs?
In the meantime, Mrs. Hopper and Eaton were hovering in the chapel wings, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The duke had specifically detailed the order of the events and Mrs. Hopper was to play the organ for the processional. The duke hadn’t charged her personally, but he had sent directions to hire an organist, and she was better than the choir director at Ainsley who played for all the local occasions and charged too much for his rather mediocre skills.
She’d worn her best lavender silk for the occasion.
The duke arrived first, looking so handsome she found herself dazzled at an age when she should have been much beyond such foolishness. She stammered rather awkwardly, particularly when he complimented her on her gown. He was really astonishingly amiable for a man of such consequence. He thanked both her husband and her for all they’d done on such short notice. And with a bow-imagine a bow from a duke-he’d taken his leave and was now at the altar speaking to the parson he’d brought with him.
Suddenly a maid came running up and Mrs. Hopper knew it was time. While the maid spoke to the duke, she moved to the organ, seated herself and glanced back to the chapel entrance.
While the duke waited and Mrs. Hopper kept her eyes trained on the entrance, Caroline was standing utterly still midway down the corridor leading to the chapel, frightened to death.
Wasn’t it the groom who was supposed to be indecisive and wavering? she reflected.
Wasn’t the bride the one looking forward to the thrill of wedded bliss?
Didn’t she care for Simon? Hadn’t she always? All right, all right… Hadn’t she loved him even when she didn’t want to love him?
So what was the problem?
Why did it seem as though her feet were glued to the floor?
She touched the rubies at her ears and throat and wrist, smoothed her palms over her gown of priceless lace and cloth of gold. The veil itself would have kept her in funds for a decade. Why wasn’t she mercenary enough to move forward for the prospect of her ducal wardrobe and jewelry alone?
Mrs. Hopper finally twisted around completely on the organ bench and sent her husband a searching glance. He only shrugged, as ignorant as she of the reason for the delay.
Not a patient man, very shortly, the duke strode back down the aisle, shoved open the chapel doors and disappeared into the hallway.
He found Caroline fixed in place, unable to move, racked with fear and doubt.
He bent low. “What’s wrong?” He spoke very softly because she was ashen.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you ill?”
She shook her head.
“Does something hurt?”
She shook her head again.
“The gown is fine?”
A mute nod this time.
“Do you want to keep the rubies?”
Her eyes flared wide at the oddity of his question.
“Because I come with the rubies,” he asserted, his smile roguish.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” she whispered.
“But I’m bigger than you.”
She smiled at the familiar phrase, felt the tenseness drain from her body. He’d always been bigger and stronger and… curiously protective of the little girl who had tagged after him in all his boyhood games. Until suddenly, he became the one waiting for her-like now. “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to marry,” she said softly.
Not any worse than your last one, he wanted to say, but he was in excellent humor and grinned instead. “Darling, admit, ours is a match made in heaven or perhaps more likely on some pagan Elysian Fields, knowing us. And if I’m bigger than you, you can scream louder than me, so we’re even there.” Taking her hand, he placed it on his forearm. “Everything’s going to be fine, darling,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone soothing. She still looked skittish. “Why don’t we walk down the aisle together? Or I could carry you?”
She shook her head vigorously. “You’ll wrinkle my gown.”
He supposed this wasn’t the time to mention her gown would be in a heap on the floor before long. “I wouldn’t want to do that,” he said, gently patting her hand. “Did I tell you Mrs. Hopper will be playing the organ?”
He spoke of ordinary things as they moved down the corridor to the chapel, wishing to distract her thoughts from whatever was alarming her. When they reached the chapel doors, he shoved them open without hesitating, and walked in before she had an opportunity to balk.
Catching sight of the duke and his bride, Mrs. Hopper spun around on the organ bench and struck the keys with a flourish. The powerful, full-toned chords burst forth, thundering through the small chapel, rising up into the soaring cupola in crashing waves, charming the nervous bride who found Mrs. Hopper’s rustic fervor enchanting.