“Charlotte,” he said curtly. “William.”
“Your Grace,” Charlotte answered, unbothered.
The Duke’s gaze flicked toward his son. “Will you be home tonight?”
William, standing stiffly beside the footman who held his gloves and cane, did not hesitate. “No. I have a personal matter to attend to in the morning as you very well know.” His tone was even. “And you’re welcome to join, of course.”
There was a pause. Then the Duke turned to Jane again. “I daresay the Archbishop of Canterbury must have had few requests more ruinous than this one.” He gave a brittle smile, just enough to register as civility to the watching staff.
Charlotte’s voice cut in smoothly. “Well, Father, I shall accompany Miss Ansley to her appointment myself on the morrow, so you should not expect me either.”
William’s head snapped toward his sister. Their eyes met, and for a moment, he looked annoyed. But he said nothing.
The Duke stepped closer to them, voice low so the servants wouldn’t overhear. “It is always a shame, when old and proud lines are diluted. But I suppose the blood will settle in time.” He glanced at Jane again, as one might study a blot on an otherwise fine ledger. “The child, at least, may yet surprise us.”
William stepped forward. “That will be enough, Your Grace. We’re expected.”
“Indeed.” The Duke gave a cold smile. “Then by all means, don’t let me delay your… procession.”
The great doors swung open. The street beyond was quiet, the carriage lanterns glowing dully in the mist. Jane moved without a word, William steadying her as she climbed into the carriage. Charlotte followed, settling beside her, while he climbed in last, taking the place opposite.
The door shut. The horses clopped forward. Inside, the carriage was dim and muffled. Jane’s posture was perfectly straight, her face turned to the window. William sat with legs rigid, arms crossed. Charlotte, a bundle of arrangements in her lap and a stubborn smile fixed in place, looked between them as if sheer optimism might force civility into the space.
Charlotte adjusted her gloves. “So, the wedding is at noon tomorrow. I’ve arranged for everything to be delivered by morning.”
Jane remained silent.
“I selected lilies and laurel—don’t look at me like that, I know it’s not a proper wedding. But you’ll have flowers. And a supper, even if it’s modest.” She tilted her head. “Mrs. Scott is already in Bloomsbury. You remember her, don’t you? The cook from Westford Castle?”
Jane blinked. “The one who made Margaret carrot cakes shaped like horses?”
“The very one. She was in tears when William asked her to come take care of you and the baby—and be a witness at the wedding.”
“You can’t know that,” William said stiffly, shifting uncomfortably.
“She wrote to me that she did, and I believe her. She was always partial to William, you see. Said she’d be making something nourishing for ‘the mother and bairn,’ and I’m sure she packed the entire herb pantry.” Jane’s expression wavered—caught between gratitude and disbelief.
A beat passed. Then Charlotte added, as if by afterthought, “Oh, and thank God your gown’s nearly done. Perhaps if someone had been more thoughtful, he might have called in a proper modiste.”
William’s mouth curled with disdain. “A proper modiste would have announced the wedding to all of London within a week.”
“At the very least,” Charlotte retorted, “you might have bought her something new. She would’ve married you in her governess dress, if not for me.”
“I wouldn’t care if she married me naked,” William muttered under his breath. But Jane heard him and blushed to her roots.
“Yes, well, at least Mary can alter a gown. And she’s more discreet than any modiste, I’ll grant you. Though quite dramatic,” Charlotte added wryly. “She refused to touch white silk. Said it would be a sin to alter it for a bride so near her time.”
“She believes it would be lying before Christ,” Jane said quietly. “In her eyes, white is a vow of purity.”
“I don’t see why you aren’t pure,” Charlotte said, indignant. “Purity is in the soul. I could see you in white.”
William exhaled. “No one will care what color the dress is. No one will see it. The only witnesses are you, Mrs. Scott, and the chaplain. That’s enough.”
Charlotte ignored him. “The gown is beautiful. Golden muslin from two seasons ago. Empire waist, pearl trim—you remember it, Jane?”
Jane turned her head slightly toward her. “Yes, my lady. It’s one of your best.”
“And all that,” William said dryly, “for a wedding with no guests.”
