Lady Rose Timmons was simply exquisite, a magnificent queen in indigo and silver. Backlit by the sun streaming through one of the stained glass windows, her reddish gold hair, upswept high, seemed to float round her head like a cloud, adorned with silver gray feathers and indigo ribbons, two of which dangled and curled around her shoulders. She carried a bouquet of English bluebells and blue anemones tied with silver ribbons.
As she began her journey toward him, Robert poked Thomas in the side and hissed, “Breathe!”
He did, gasping a quick inhale, unable to take his eyes off Rose. Apparently, she felt the same, as her gaze never wavered from his face as she walked beside her father. As she grew closer, a shy smile flitted across her face, then vanished beneath pressed lips and an attempt to stand straighter. The blooms of her bouquet quivered, the trailing ribbons trembling as they brushed against her silk skirt.
He was obviously not the only bundle of nerves at this wedding. The urge to protect her, comfort her, love her consumed him, and as he turned to face the priest, standing at her side, Thomas realized with a slight jolt of panic that he had not heard anything the reverend—or Rose’s father—had said. His awareness did return before the vows started, however, the familiar words from theBook of Common Prayerresonating throughout the chapel. But much of the ceremony remained a haze, his attention caught primarily by the look of pure adoration on Rose’s face.
Robert pressed Rose’s ring into Thomas’s hand with the soft reminder, “Don’t drop it,” although he almost did as he removed the glove from her left hand. He heard her soft gasp as she registered the blue sapphires and diamonds set into the gold band he slid it onto her finger. As he pushed it into place, he closed his hand around hers, trying to calm both of them—and warm hers, as Rose’s fingers were like tendrils of ice.
Their sealing kiss was a bare brush of the lips—as was proper—but Rose winked at him, which almost made him laugh and managed to ease his nerves at the same time. They followed the priest—along with Robert and Michael as witnesses—to record the marriage lines as everyone else began to retreat to the wedding breakfast, which was hosted at Huntingdale House.
Breakfast in name only, Thomas thought, as it was after noon before the food finally began to reach the tables. He looked over the vast spread—and increasing number of people flowing through the doors of the Huntingdale ballroom—his nerves turning into a spear of impatience. He wanted to be done with this, to have Rose to himself, to go to her bedchamber at Ashton House and claim her fully as his wife. From the looks she gave him from the other side of the room, she fought the same urges to flee.
Robert’s smooth voice sounded behind him. “Just consider it your final respite before the work of marriage begins. Oh, that’s right. You’ve been released from that particular duty.”
Thomas growled, turning to his brother. “This new bitterness does not become you.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what becomes me, sir. You never did.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving Thomas staring after him, eyes wide.
He started to follow his brother, but a gentle tug on his arm drew his gaze down to his mother. “Let him go. His heart is broken. It will take some time.”
“Ah. Then Lady Lydia has rejected him?”
Emalyn tilted her head to peer at Thomas, a curious look in her eyes. “No. This has nothing to do with the duke’s daughter. As far as we know, that is still an ongoing concern. And that lady could not break his heart with a hammer and chisel.”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Emalyn patted his arm. “Just as well. We will talk some day when you have fewer issues on your mind.” She turned him back toward the gathering crowd. “You need to greet your guests. Although the Huntingdales are hosting, this isyourwedding breakfast. If you want to be with Rose, then follow her around the room. She is doing her duty.”
“With Lady Dorothea on her heels.”
“As usual, Dottie lives on the edge of fear. It’s as potent as her ratafia. Now, play the groom, snag your bride for the head table, feast, and escape when you can. I have it on good authority that a Kennet carriage will be waiting in the alley behind the mews when the time is right.”
Thomas looked immediately to his father, standing with a group of his peers. Philip saluted him with a glass of champagne, then resumed his conversation. “Still looking out for me?” he murmured.
“Always.” Emalyn slipped her hand inside his elbow and urged him toward the head table, where Rose was bent over an elderly couple Thomas did not recognize. His mother slipped away as he approached them. Rose made the introductions—a duke and duchess of a previous generation whose names he promptly forgot—then excused themselves as they took their seats.
Thomas had only been to one wedding breakfast before, a small affair that had done nothing to prepare him for what lay before them. The U-shaped table arrangement seated at least seventy people, each place carefully denoted with gold-printed cards. Breads, rolls, buttered toast, and sweets were piled high before the plates, and footmen circulated with trays of ham, beef, and tongue, as well as dishes of kedgeree and eggs. Other footmen offered up glasses of wine, ratafia, champagne, and juice while others poured tea and coffee.
Thomas leaned toward his bride. “I thought we were going to have a small affair.”
She grinned at him. “Thisissmall, in my mother’s eyes. Cecily’s was twice as big. And Mother wanted to invite all these people to the wedding.”
“I’m grateful you refrained from matricide.”
Rose squeezed his arm, her eyes gleaming.
In the center of the head table, on a pedestal in front of Thomas and Rose, sat a substantial wedding cake, which had been stuffed with fruit, marinated in what smelled like brandy, and covered in a brilliant white sugar icing. No expense spared, he thought, for the daughter they never thought would marry.
My spinster.The thought made him smile, although he knew Rose would probably not appreciate it as a term of affection.
“If you do not stop grinning like a cat in cream, everyone will know what you’re thinking.”
He covered her hand with his own, squeezing her fingers. “Trust me,” he saidsotto voce.“Every man in this room already knows what I’m thinking.”
He watched with bemusement as the blush crept up her neck and spread up into her hairline.
“For one thing,” he went on, “I’m thinking this breakfast is taking far too much time.”
