When the Duchess Said Yes (18 page)

He wondered if she was smiling still, if her eyes were as bright and eager as when she’d first seen him waiting for her at the end of the aisle. He’d done his best to dress to be worthy of her—he’d worn the somber dark gray suit of Brecon’s recommendation, but Hawke had chosen a waistcoat embroidered with a flamboyant silver and gold leopard pattern because he’d known it would
make Lizzie laugh—but all of that was nothing compared to how she had appeared to him.

He’d been blinded, dazzled, thunderstruck. What man wouldn’t have been? She’d looked like an angel with the sun streaming behind her, a flesh-and-blood angel and not the stone ones over his head, so beautiful that it had almost hurt to look at her. Then she’d smiled, and she became again his Lizzie, and all he’d been able to do was grin like an idiot since then.

As Brecon had explained it, Hawk had to at least pretend to be listening to the bishop. He screwed up his face to look solemn and grave, then counted to five before he stole another peek at her.

She was staring straight ahead, her eyes wide and her mouth very tight. He’d never seen her—his brave, bold, wall-climbing Lizzie—look so thoroughly intimidated, and he gave her hand a little squeeze of reassurance, a little reminder to trust him. Swiftly she glanced up at him and smiled, a smile that dimmed the jewels he’d given her, and without a thought he raised her hand to his lips to kiss just the tips.

He heard Brecon clear his throat behind him, an ominous warning if ever there was one, and reluctantly Hawke forced himself back to staring at the front of the bishop’s vestments.

Blast, how much longer must they kneel here? He’d lost all track of the time and the service. He had already slipped the ruby and diamond ring onto Lizzie’s finger, they’d pledged their vows, knelt, and the bishop had said the part about no one putting them asunder. How many more prayers and psalms and admonitions remained to be said before she was well and truly his?

Suddenly the bishop’s words seemed as clear as day, as if his sonorous voice was speaking to Hawke alone:

Almighty God, who at the beginning did create our first parents, Adam and Eve, and did sanctify and join them together in marriage; pour upon you the riches of His grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives’ end
.

Now
that
was solemn, and daunting, too, especially the part about living together in holy love unto their lives’ end. It made him … uneasy, especially since he’d just vowed something quite similar to that here beneath the stone angels of St. Barnabas. He intended to love Lizzie quite thoroughly tonight—she was his wife and his duchess, after all, and this was to be their wedding night—and he doubted he’d tire of her anytime soon. He liked her too much for that. In fact, he liked her very much, far more than he’d expected from a match arranged by his father, and was perhaps even halfway to being in love with her.

He knew what that meant, too. If there was one thing Italy could teach a young Englishman, it was how to fall in love, and Hawke had been routinely falling in love for many years now.

But in Italy he’d also learned the other side of the coin, and he understood how it was just as easy to fall out of love as it was into it. Attraction lessened, passion grew cold, charm was replaced by indifference, and the thing was done. It was, to him, as natural a progress as the seasons, and about as permanent, too. In a year or two or perhaps three, what he felt for Lizzie would fade from love to friendship and regard, as was proper for the mother of his children. Such an arrangement had worked out well enough for his own parents, hadn’t it? Bella Collina was waiting for him. He’d never expected fidelity that lasted a lifetime, nor was he sure it was even in his blood. How could it be otherwise, when his own
dukedom was founded on a long-ago philandering king taking a courtier’s wife as his mistress?

Not that any such unromantic thoughts belonged here today, not with Lizzie at his side. He turned to find her smiling up at him, grinning, really, so widely that she might even be trying not to laugh.

“It is customary at this time to rise, Your Grace,” the bishop said in a generous whisper. “Afterward, if it pleases you, you may offer your new wife an affectionate salute.”

Mortified, Hawke wondered exactly how long he’d been kneeling there, his thoughts a thousand miles away. He scrambled to his feet, then helped Lizzie rise from her cushion, too, struggling to keep from tangling his feet in the billowing sea of her skirts and hoops. She
was
laughing now, that same delicious, droll chuckle that she often made while he kissed her. He’d take that as an unabashed invitation to kiss her again, here, now, and at once he bent down toward her.

But even before he’d leaned down to her, she’d stood up on her toes to take his face in her hands and reached up to kiss him first. It was a true kiss, too, not some polite small peck. Her lips moved eagerly and her mouth opened, coaxing his to do the same. Brazen little baggage, he thought with delight, and swiftly showed her how a husband should properly kiss his wife. He threaded his fingers into her elaborately dressed hair and deepened the kiss further. The bishop had told him to salute her, and before them all, he gave Lizzie a full twenty-one guns.

But apparently by that the bishop had intended only a tiny popgun of a salute, a decorous peck. In addition to Brecon’s throat-clearing, Hawke realized the bishop had added his own, too, a sonorous rumbling that even he couldn’t ignore. Reluctantly he broke away, smiling down at Lizzie. Her lips were rosy and wet, and as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes, she nibbled
her plump lower lip between her front teeth. She reached up to smooth a lock of hair that he’d mussed out of place, the new ruby wedding ring sparkling on her finger. He suspected they were supposed to now turn and walk back to their families for well-wishing and congratulations, but instead he lingered, unable to look away from her just yet. He wanted to remember her like this, her joy making her beauty all the more exquisite.

Then, with another little chuckle, she grabbed her skirts in her hands and ran down the aisle, her high heels clicking on the stone floor and her lace veil drifting out behind her.

He’d no choice but to follow, running past their appalled families.

Even with a brisk start, she was slowed by her shoes and her skirts, and he caught her easily in the entry. She was too breathless for chuckling now, and with his hands around her waist, he pushed her back against a wide stone column.

“What the devil has possessed you?” he demanded.

“You must not swear,” she whispered, her voice ragged from running and excitement. “We’re in church.”

“Answer me,” he said gruffly, watching how the rubies were rising and falling on her chest.

“What has possessed me?” She laughed softly, tipping her head back. “You, Hawke. Only you.”

He couldn’t help kissing her again, and at once she curled her arms around the back of his neck, arching up against him. He half thought of something clever about how he hadn’t possessed her yet, that that would come later, but kissing her seemed more important than cleverness, and he concentrated on that instead.

“Hawke,” said Brecon sharply, suddenly beside them. “Duchess. May I be the first to congratulate you on your marriage?”

Swiftly Hawke unwrapped himself from Lizzie, though
he held tightly to her hand just to be sure she wouldn’t bolt again. One look at Brecon’s face as he shook his hand told Hawke exactly how bad his behavior—no, theirs, for Lizzie’s behavior had been no better—had been. St. Barnabas was a church and marriage was a sacrament, not a frolic, and though only family were supposed to be present, he’d wager a hundred guineas that the papers would be filled with the first scandal of the newly wed Duke and Duchess of Hawkesworth. On most days, Hawke cared very little about what was whispered or written about himself, but somehow it seemed to be courting bad luck to begin their marriage on such a note.

He stole another glance at Lizzie, who appeared likewise struck with guilty contrition. Her conspirator’s grin had been replaced by a much more proper half smile as she curtseyed and accepted Brecon’s good wishes. Only a single unpinned curl, trailing awkwardly behind her ear, betrayed her earlier mischief.

And yet, if Hawke had it to do again, beginning with her smiling up at him that way before the bishop, he wouldn’t have changed a thing.

“Your Grace,” murmured Lady Hervey with her head bowed, curtseying before her daughter for the first time. An hour ago they had been merely mother and daughter. Now Lizzie was a duchess, while her mother remained only a countess, far below her in rank. “May I offer my heartfelt wishes for your happiness to you and His Grace.”

“Oh, Mama, please,” Lizzie said with a little catch to her voice as she sank down to embrace her mother. “You needn’t do this, not with me.”

Slowly her mother rose. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, a crackle of admonition in her voice, “but pray recall your new station, and attend to His Grace’s wishes before mine.”

Lizzie drew back, obviously startled by her mother’s response. “Mama, I am sorry if I—”

“If you please, ma’am,” her mother interrupted, more sternly this time. “If His Grace is content with you and your decorum, then so must I be.”

Hawke’s estimation of Lady Hervey rose. When first they’d met several days ago, he’d dismissed Lizzie’s mother as a handsome but insubstantial woman, blue eyes and golden hair and not much more. Now he could see that she’d a strength of will he hadn’t expected, and further, that she was determined to make Lizzie act as she should for her new role.

Strange how he hadn’t considered that himself. As her husband, he could by rights expect—even demand—things of Lizzie that he couldn’t have if she’d been only his mistress, but he’d only gone so far as to think of Lizzie as a woman he desired. Obedience, deference, devotion: he hadn’t thought of any of that at all.

Who would have dreamed being married would be so complicated?

Nor was Lizzie finding it any less difficult, either.

“You would know if Hawke is content with me, Mama?” she asked, glancing uncertainly from her mother to him and back again. “So soon?”

“Pray recall our conversations, ma’am, and you’ll understand,” her mother said with weighty significance before she turned to curtsey swiftly before Hawke.

“Your Grace,” she said softly, her hands pressed together in supplication, “I pray that you will honor us with your presence and Her Grace’s for a small celebration at Marchbourne House.”

Hawke frowned, even more confused. Both Lizzie and her mother were waiting in breathless expectation, and so, too, was her younger sister, Diana, standing to one side between March and Charlotte. Even Brecon for once was silent.

Did they really believe he’d deprive Lizzie of that celebration with her family? What manner of ogre did they judge him to be, anyway?

He smiled as warmly as he could, determined to prove them wrong.

“Of course we shall come,” he said, linking his fingers into Lizzie’s. “My wife and I shall be most honored.”

At once they seemed to relax, smiling and laughing and chatting and kissing Lizzie and shaking his hand. The harpies (meaning her Aunt Sophronia and his mother) and the general had finally joined them as well, and just like that, their little gathering had become a proper, respectable wedding party, with everything exactly as a wedding should be.

He shook the bishop’s hand, and they stepped into the vestry to sign the registry, Lizzie’s signature small and neat, his bold and slashing. There was more congratulating and cheek-kissing as Lizzie took the posy of flowers from Diana, and then, at last, he could lead Lizzie through the chapel door and to the porch, where his carriage was waiting.

Hawke had been anticipating this moment not only because he’d finally be alone with her, but also because he wanted to see her reaction to the carriage itself. He’d ordered his father’s staid old carriage bedecked for a bride, with white flowers tied along the windows and ribbon streamers floating from the top. Even the horses wore white ribbon rosettes on their harnesses, and the coachman and footmen all sported more flowers pinned to their breasts and in their hats.

Her reaction was worth it, too.

“Oh, my, Hawke, look what you’ve done!” she exclaimed, adding a little hop of delight. “I shall be as proud as a princess, riding in that!”

“You’re the Duchess of Hawkesworth,” he said as he
led her down the chapel steps. “That’s better than any princess.”

She laughed. “Is it?”

“It is,” he assured her, “because you’re wed not to any mere prince, but to me.”

That made her laugh again, the sunshine warm on her face, and she was laughing still when he handed her into the carriage, her veil and skirts fluttering around her in the breeze. He liked how she laughed, even though there wasn’t anything particularly amusing, and he flattered himself that mostly it came from her being so happy to be married to him that it rose up into her wonderful, merry laughter, like the bubbles in champagne.

She tried to make room for him on the seat beside her, but her hoops and petticoats seemed to nigh fill the carriage with white silk and lace, and he settled across from her instead. It was likely just as well. This way he could admire her delicious splendor, and keep himself more properly in check while doing so, too. Their drive to Marchbourne House was not long, and he’d resolved to deliver her there in the same state in which she’d left St. Barnabas.

More or less, anyway. And once they left March’s house for good, all bets would be off.

She was still fussing with her skirts when the driver cracked the reins and the carriage rolled into the street. As it did, a hearty cheer rose from the crowd on the pavement, and quickly Lizzie looked from the window.

“Goodness! Who are all those people?” she asked, her eyes widening with wonder.

“Well-wishers and curiosity seekers,” he said. “Wave if you like, though you needn’t if you don’t wish to.”