Gwen shut the door and made her way downstairs, then entered into the small drawing room, where she had met Aidan’s parents, and discovered that their guests had arrived. Aidan quickly stepped forward, bowing before offering her his arm. He was sartorial perfection, wearing a coat of navy wool that fit over his broad shoulders.
“You are ravishing this morning, Miss Smythe.” Aidan’s deep voice sent a thrill of pleasure chasing through her veins. Gwen accepted his arm and took in the group, which was larger than she had expected.
By the window stood a very large gentleman, many inches over six feet. He had the appearance of a marauder from the shores of Norway, with his blond hair and gray eyes. Gwen thought she might recognize him from the social events she had attended, but she did not think he had been introduced. By his side stood an elegant young woman with a pile of dark chestnut curls. Aidan led her toward the couple, which suggested that the imposing gentleman was the highest-ranking peer present.
Coming to a halt, Aidan introduced him with deference. “Miss Smythe, I present to you His Grace, the Duke of Halmesbury.”
Gwen’s eyebrows shot up. She had indeed recognized him. The duke bowed before speaking in a deep baritone. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Smythe. Felicitations on your wedding.”
She curtsied, mumbling a reply while surreptitiously glancing around to see who else she would be meeting this morning. Her father was at the fireplace, bouncing on his toes with his grin in place. Clearly, he was ecstatic at the new connections Aidan was bringing to their lowly family.
Aidan turned to the lady next to the duke. “Your Grace, I present Miss Smythe.”
Gwen realized that this must be the duke’s wife. She quickly curtsied. The duchess was taller than the average woman, just two or three inches shorter than Gwen herself. Her Grace also had a rounded belly, obviously increasing, and her brandy eyes reflected warmth when she smiled in greeting. “Miss Smythe, welcome to the family.”
“F-family?” Gwen shot a questioning look at her betrothed, but it was the duchess who responded.
“My brother, Lord Filminster, is married to Abbott’s sister. His Grace insisted we return to London when we were informed of the nuptials.”
“Oh.” It was not an adequate reply, but Gwen was thinking she was going to have words with Octavia later this morning. Why had her confidante not informed her of the connection to Halmesbury, one of the most lauded peers in the realm? It seemed such news would be notable.
Aidan proceeded to introduce her to Lord and Lady Saunton. Despite Octavia’son ditabout Lord Saunton’s proclivities, Gwen found him to be pleasant and quite amusing. The emerald-eyed lord was seemingly obsessed with his wife, who was an attractive and thoughtful young woman with reddish-blonde hair. The countess did not appear beleaguered by a roguish husband. She seemed calm and confident, her arm linked with the earl’s the entire time they spoke.
Gwen was startled when Lady Saunton’s skirts seemed to take on a life of their own, before a small boy erupted from behind her. He was a miniature of Lord Saunton with matching eyes and sable hair.
“Hallo.”
Not quite understanding, she responded, “How do you do?”
“Are you Cousin Aidan’s new wife?”
Lady Saunton chuckled. “They have not yet wed, Ethan.”
His sweet little face fell in disappointment. “Does she play chess, Mama?”
“I do not know. Perhaps you should ask her.”
Ethan’s little face grew pensive, peering at Gwen with a touch of shyness. “Do you play chess?” he finally asked.
“I do.”
“After you marry, will you play with me?”
“We will have to enjoy the wedding breakfast first.”
“And then we can play?”
Gwen grinned at the lad’s persistence. “Then we can play.”
“Good.”
Ethan disappeared back behind the countess’s skirts, the tails of his green coat the last she saw of him. Gwen was bemused that Lady Saunton and the boy, who must be the illegitimate child Octavia had mentioned, seemed as close as any mother and child. There were no signs of domestic strife between the trio.
Next, Gwen greeted their local vicar, a cheery and cherubic man with long white side-whiskers and a bald pate.
“I appreciate your presence this morning, vicar.”
“Not at all, Miss Smythe. Lord Moreland made a generous donation to our parish to secure my presence. Our church is quite grateful.”
