To Marry The Duke (14 page)

After the honeymoon, they would return to England and travel north to his house in the country, where his mother was now, where the reality of his life existed. He would curtail what was left of his passions and settle into a more tranquil life with a beautiful duchess at his side. They would produce an heir or two or three.

Feeling his shoulders relax somewhat, James swallowed the last of his champagne.
This shall pass
, he told himself. For the good of everyone, this madness— as enjoyable as it was—was only temporary.

Chapter 11

August closed in and London cleared out. The lords and ladies and sirs and honorable misses skipped off to their country estates, for everyone knew that it was better to be seen in one’s underclothes than wandering about the streets of London in August.

Unless, of course, you were planning a wedding and you were marrying the Duke of Wentworth. Or any duke for that matter. Then you could set your own rules and do whatever you liked—anything short of wandering about in your underclothes, of course.

August passed, the wedding day arrived, and that very morning a package arrived from New York—a wedding gift from
the
Mrs. Astor—the matriarch of the Knickerbockers, who before that day had refused to acknowledge the Wilsons’ existence. She had sent an exquisite string of pearls for England’s newest duchess, and Sophia’s mother wept with perfect joy as she ripped and tore at the tissue paper. “Now,” she said between deep, resounding sobs, “Clara’s and Adele’s futures will be assured.”

Shortly after that, a gift arrived from Buckingham Palace—a magnificent gilded clock, and her mother wept again.

The horses that were hired to bring the bridal carriage to the church were matched grays—a time-honored tradition—and the streets were lined with crowds of enthusiastic spectators wanting to get a look at the famed American heiress. Held back by rows of uniformed London constables, the throng cheered and waved and threw flowers. Sophia squeezed her father’s hand as they rode in an open carriage behind another carrying her bridesmaids, Clara, Adele, and Lily. She raised the other gloved hand to wave nervously to the crushing mob.

The carriage arrived at St. George’s Church in Hanover Square, and with a trembling heart, Sophia stepped out of the carriage. She followed her bridesmaids up to the door of the church. She heard the peal of the pipe organ and caught a glance of the guests seated inside. There were over a thousand of them, from both sides of the Atlantic.

The bridesmaids—dressed in gowns of white satin with pink sashes—embarked upon the long walk up the aisle to the music of Mendelssohn, then at last Sophia reached the altar. The bishop, with a deep, resounding voice, asked, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

Her father replied in his deep American accent, “I do,” then the bishop took Sophia’s hand and placed it in James’s. She gazed up at him and saw the man of all her dreams. Handsome, strong, intelligent, and professedly enamored with her.

He smiled with encouragement—his blue eyes warm and true—and all the madness of the morning melted away inside her body. There was only herself and her elegant groom, here to pledge their undying love to one another.

God. He hoped he would not become like his father.

James and Sophia spoke their vows, then knelt on the red velvet cushions for the blessing. The bishop prayed.

What would happen when the novelty of their new life together was no longer novel? James wondered suddenly, feeling a sense of panic he was wholly unaccustomed to. When expectations were not met by one or the other? What if Sophia took a lover, as James’s own grandmother had done all those years ago? Would he be able to restrain himself from becoming the man his grandfather had become, full of jealousy and rage?

“What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

James and Sophia rose from their cushions. He studied his bride’s face and saw the exuberance in her eyes. She was born to be a duchess, there was no doubt about that. Her portrait would hang in the gallery, and no one would ever think she did not fit the part. Life as an aristocrat was what she had come to London seeking, after all.

A deeper tension found its way into his gut. He hoped she would conceive on their honeymoon, so the initial obligation would be fulfilled sooner rather than later. Then they could each settle into their individual roles as duke and duchess. She would make a home for herself in her own private rooms—as all the duchesses had before her—and he would continue as he always had in his. Dinner each evening would be a pleasant time for conversation. He would hear about her undertakings for that day, and she would hear about his.

He slid the ring onto her slender finger, and tried to assure himself that everything would work out—that his self-control would not be lost.

James and Sophia rushed out to the carriage that was waiting to take them to their private wedding breakfast at James’s London residence. First, however, they were driven ceremonially through the streets of London, lined with crowds of screaming onlookers.

Sophia waved at the people on her side of the street, and James did the same for those on his. Here they were, alone for the first time as man and wife, and they were too busy waving to strangers in opposite directions even to look at each other. Sophia tried to remind herself to be patient. Life would settle down soon enough.

The wind had gained force while they were inside the church, and though it was warm, it blew hard against her veil and loosened the Greek twist in her hair. She raised a hand to keep the veil in place, which caught James’s attention. He finally turned toward her.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

She gazed appreciatively into his eyes. “Thank you, James.”

“You’re a duchess now.”

Sophia smiled. “Funny, I don’t feel any different.”

“You will. Just wait until you arrive at Wentworth. Life will be very different from what it is here.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he was referring to, exactly, but she did know one thing. They would be man and wife, and sharing a bed. Making love.

A ripple of anticipation—both frightening and exciting—shimmied up her spine. She remembered their singular night in the conservatory and gloried in the fact that no one would interrupt them next time, when they were alone in their bedchamber. Whatever desires they experienced together, they would be free to explore.

There was so much she did not know about that side of marriage—what took place in the bed at night. So many wondrous moments lay ahead of her…

“Will we be leaving for our honeymoon first thing in the morning?” she asked.

Like a wolf picking up a scent, he seemed to detect her meaning. He smiled. “Are you anxious to see Rome? Or just anxious to be a wife, my dear?”

Sophia met his gaze boldly, her eyes glimmering with heat and daring. Here they were, in an open carriage, rolling through London on parade for all the world to see, and she wanted to put her hands on him.

She glanced up at their driver in front. Steering the team of grays, he was oblivious to what was going on anywhere but in front of him.

They were on a wide street now; the people waving at them were a distance away.

Sophia felt a rush of impatience where her husband was concerned. Her heart pounded a wild rhythm. Intimacy with the man beside her was all that mattered, so absorbed in his gaze was she.

Her world seemed like a fairy tale all of a sudden— full of magic and grandeur. The magic seeped through her gown and tingled over her skin. Her wedding day had been as enchanting as she’d ever imagined it would be, and she wanted to leap with all her heart and soul into this glorious marriage.

She slid her fingers along the crimson leather seat and let them find their way to James’s muscular thigh beside her. All the while, she smiled and waved at the crowd with her other hand.

“I suppose we could begin the honeymoon, now,” he said, still waving at the crowd on his side, “even though we don’t leave for Rome until tomorrow.”

“Perhaps a kiss would give everyone something to talk about,” Sophia suggested.

With a lazy grin, he leaned into her. “I’m eager, if a little shocked.”

Sophia’s heart trembled at his nearness. She wanted all of him. More than just his mouth.

The kiss was neither tentative nor sweet—it was wet and open and deep, and her blood quickened as his lips brushed hers. The crowd cheered even louder, then seemed to disappear. Sophia let her hand slide over his thigh and down between his legs, discreetly feeling the arousal that was pressing against his trousers.

“Do you think anyone can see this?” she whispered into his mouth.

He cupped her head in his hand. “No one would believe it if they did.” He deepened the kiss, while she stroked the firm proof of his arousal.

“You are a very naughty duchess,” he said, and she gloried in the sound of his approval and the lusty glint in his eye. “But you best be careful, or you’ll find yourself flat on your back in a moment, and I don’t think your mother would appreciate a photograph of your legs in the air as the carriage passed by, on the front page of the
New York Times.”

Sophia laughed and turned to the crowd. She couldn’t wait for darkness to fall.

“I’m looking forward to spending the days alone with you, James, so we may get to know each other better.”

“You don’t feel you know me?” He faced the other direction.

“Well, as much as a person can know another person, having spent so little time together,” she replied.

“A good point with much validity.” For a long time he was quiet, and when he finally spoke, the flirtatious tone was gone. Sophia gazed curiously at him.

“It’s only natural,” he said, “that as the years go by, there will be an increased sense of… familiarity.”

“Familiarity?” Something tensed inside of her. Had James just cooled toward her? A second ago he was on fire, now he wouldn’t look at her. It seemed strange.

She watched him for another moment, then swept the foolish notion away. She was just nervous because it was her wedding day. She was imagining things. He wasn’t cooling toward her. He was playing with her.

She laughed and spoke with amusement. “James, sometimes you are so very British. It’s why I love you.”

James turned back toward her again, just as she turned the opposite way to resume waving at the Londoners. Her words resounded in his brain.
Why I love you? Love
?

Feeling numb all of a sudden, James watched his wife. Good God, she was his wife, wasn’t she, and she was laughing at his heritage and tossing the word
love
around like it was something commonplace.

No one had ever used the word with him before, and he wondered if it was an American thing—to say it so lightly, with such innocuous ease.