“Ah. You had better not let your bride hear that, old chap,” Bertie advised. “Weddings are the breath of life to females. M’mother bought a new hat. M’father will have to sit three feet away from her on the church pew so that he don’t get clipped over the ear every time she turns her head.”
Gabriel chuckled, though he was feeling a bit too bilious for proper amusement. Who could have predicted that he would be nervous on his wedding day? He was horribly afraid that he was doing the wrong thing. All night he had been remembering snippets of what Jessica had said to him in that rather impassioned outburst at Richmond Park. She was really two persons, was what she had been saying—the very aristocratic Lady Jessica Archer, sister of the Duke of Netherby, and the person who lived within that aristocratic outer shell. She had wanted him to find that person, to romance that person. She had wanted him to fall in love with her, even if she had not used that term and had even, in fact, denied it.
She had wanted to fall in love herself, as her cousin had done, the one who had been more like a sister to her, the one for whom she had sacrificed her own expectations of happiness. And good God, it had seemed to Gabriel during the past few weeks that that family of hers on her mother’s side, the Westcotts, set great store by romantic love. They were a family of what looked like closely bonded couples. A goodly number of them had been out on the ballroom floor last night, waltzing. With each other. It must be almost unheard of. Husbands did not often dance with their wives. Husbands did not often dance. At least, not in his experience.
Yet despite what she had said to him there at Richmond, he was marrying her—in rather a hurry—because of her outer self. Because she was a duke’s daughter and as aristocratic as it was possible for a lady to be. Her natural public demeanor was hauteur itself. She was not the sort of woman who was likely to crumble before anyone who tried to intimidate her. Rather, she would draw herself to her full height, peer at her assailant along the length of her nose, and reduce that person to the size of a worm about to be trodden upon. He would feel comfortable going back to Brierley with Jessica as his wife and countess. No. Comfortable was not the right word. There was no comfort to expect from what was facing him. She gave him courage, then. Not that he had the smallest intention of leaning upon her.
It was time to go and get married. He shook out the lace that covered his hands to the knuckles and looked around for his hat and gloves and cane, which Horbath had of course set out neatly by the door.
He did like her, he thought. And he certainly wanted to bed her. She was a beautiful and appealing woman. The prospect of making love to her tonight, in fact—here in his hotel suite—quickened his breathing. He just wished there had been more time to romance her, to give her more of what she had wanted. He was cheating her of that. Perhaps after they were married . . .
“Oh, I say,” Bertie said. “I almost forgot. Message from m’mother, and m’father told me to be sure not to forget to tell you, though he can do so himself later, at the wedding breakfast, of course. Rochford arrived in town last night.”
Gabriel stood very still, one kid glove half on his hand, as he looked back at Bertie. “Anthony Rochford?” he said. “Did he go somewhere?” Now that he thought about it, the man had not been at the ball last night. That was unusual for him.
“No, no,” Bertie said. “His father. And his mother too. Come to celebrate being the new earl, I daresay. You will be missing all the fun, Gabe, if you insist upon leaving town tomorrow. Can’t think what your hurry is with the Season in full swing. I don’t know why m’mother was so particular about that message. Perhaps she hopes you will change your mind and stay a while longer.”
“Manley Rochford,” Gabriel said.
“That’s the name,” Bertie said. “Makes one hope he is not small and puny with a name like that, don’t it? He would have been ragged mercilessly at school. Slipped my mind to tell you. M’mother would not have been pleased. She already thinks there is no one on this earth more shatter-brained than I am. Are you going to finish putting that glove on, Gabe? A lot of young women are going to go into mourning after today, you know.”
Gabriel pulled on his gloves and adjusted the lace over them. Horbath had appeared from nowhere to hand him his hat and cane and to hold the door of the suite open for them and bow them on their way.
So, Gabriel thought as they made their way downstairs. This news was going to change a few things.
There had been a dress at the back of Jessica’s wardrobe for two years. It had never been worn, though it had gone back to the country with her each summer and returned here with her each spring. She had always loved it, but she had never been able to decide what occasion was suitable for it. It was not quite an evening gown, but it was a bit too fussy for afternoon visits or even garden parties. It was, she sometimes feared when she looked at it—and she often drew it out to hold it against herself and admire it—too young for her. It was white, a color she had avoided since her first Season, when white had been almost obligatory. But it also had pink rosebuds embroidered all over it, spaced widely over most of the dress, clustered in greater profusion about the scalloped hem and the edges of the short sleeves. A silk sash to tie beneath her bosom added a splash of color. It was pink, one shade deeper than the rosebuds.
This week she had understood why she had never worn it before. She had been unconsciously saving it for her wedding day. Not that it would have been suited to just any wedding day, it was true. But for this one? It was more perfect than perfect. Oh dear, her former governess would wince if she heard that logical impossibility spoken aloud. She had held the dress against herself the night their wedding day had been set, after Ruth had left her dressing room, and she had twirled before the full-length mirror and known that nothing else would do.
She was wearing it now, and she felt like a bride. How was a bride supposed to feel? She did not know about other brides, but she felt—euphoric. Was she being foolish? There was after all nothing truly romantic about her proposed marriage with Gabriel. She must not make the mistake of believing that a daily rose, the touch of his little finger to hers on the keys of a pianoforte, a light kiss in a rose arbor, a deeper kiss at Vauxhall, equated romance. Or, if they did in a way, they did not equate love. This was not a love match on either side. It would be unwise of her to deceive herself into thinking that perhaps it was.
She felt euphoric anyway. Because she liked him and found him knee-weakeningly attractive. She felt quite breathless when she thought about tonight. She was a virgin, of course, but she was not going to be a shrinking virgin. She wanted it, whatever it turned out to be. She wanted it very badly. With him. Not with anyone else. There could be no one else. Not after Gabriel.
She did not stop to analyze that thought. She wanted to go to Brierley with him and help him sort out whatever mess was awaiting him there. She could do that. It was the sort of thing she had been raised to do with ease. She could be very lady-of-the-manorish when she chose. Goodness, was there such a term? She had learned the effectiveness of a remote sort of haughtiness from Avery and, to a lesser degree, from her mother.
Her mother came into her dressing room now, looking very elegant in deep blue—not quite royal and not quite navy but something of both. Ruth was placing Jessica’s new straw bonnet over the coiffure she had been working on for almost an hour, and then tying the wide pink ribbons to one side of her chin before taking a step back to look critically at her handiwork. She made one adjustment.
“You will do, my lady,” she said—a lengthy speech for Ruth.
“Oh, you will do very nicely indeed,” Jessica’s mother said, a bit teary eyed as she held her arms wide to hug her daughter. “I wish your father could see you now.”
Jessica had often wondered if her mother had loved her father. She rarely spoke of him. Yet she had never shown any interest in remarrying.
“I must not crush you,” she said after a brief, warm hug. “Jessica, you are doing the right thing, are you, dearest? You are not marrying Mr. Thorne just because he is the Earl of Lyndale? You do love him? Love is so important in marriage. I loved your father, you know. Very dearly. Even though he was a duke and I was an earl’s daughter and love ought not to have mattered. And he loved me.” She brushed at a tear that threatened to spill over onto her cheek.
Ah.
“I am doing the right thing, Mama,” Jessica assured her, and she felt that surely, surely she was speaking the truth. Liking could be love too, could it not? A certain kind of love?
“Well,” her mother said. “We must not keep Avery waiting. He is downstairs now. So are Anna and Josephine.”
The younger children were to remain at home. But Josephine had learned to sit still, even for an hour-long Sunday service.
Jessica suddenly felt a pang of regret that Abby would not be at the church. Or Camille. Or Harry. She had written a long letter to Abby, a shorter one to each of the other two. She did not know when she would see them again—a melancholy thought. But such was life, she supposed, when one grew up. Today, however, was not for melancholy. Today was for her and Gabriel. Today was their wedding day.
She pulled on her long white gloves, hesitated a moment, and then drew the single rose from the vase on her dressing table and dried it off with a napkin. It was yellow today, as it had been the morning after the garden party, where he had kissed her for the first time. She had worn primrose yellow on that occasion, and in the rose arbor she had stood for a few moments, cupping though not quite touching a yellow rose between her hands.