Page 112 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off her all evening,” sighed one happily married matron. “He makes no secret of his love for her.”

Jane found herself surrounded by a crowd of female well-wishers, with Cecily at the front of the crush.

“It seems I was wrong about him after all,” Cecily whispered sheepishly. “He isn’t the scoundrel everyone thought he was.”

Jane hugged her friend in a celebration of their mutual happiness. Cecily’s bridal wreath was a little lopsided from dancing, and her beautiful white satin gown lacked a silk knot here and there. “Well, he certainly is no saint, although heaven knows, neither am I.”

Cecily did not even pretend to disagree. “At least your papa looked very happy about the engagement. He was acting as if he had arranged the match himself.”

“Speaking of arranging matches,” Jane said, lowering her tone, “I don’t suppose you know what happened between Chloe, her brothers, and Brentford earlier today?”

Cecily frowned. “My maid said Brentford left the house shortly after their meeting, looking shaken but still alive. Chloe is playing cards with Drake.”

“Grayson probably scared everyone to death again.” Jane glanced around the cluster of elegant figures in the candlelit room. “Where did he and my father go anyway?”

The two men had slipped away to the billiard room, where Lord Belshire puffed away on a cigar and congratulated his future son-in-law on his engagement.

“Well, you did it, Sedgecroft.” He practically had to restrain himself from dancing a little jig around the table.

Grayson positioned his queue stick. “I still have to get her to the altar.”

“She’ll be there, believe me, or I’ll marry you myself. You’ll be there, won’t you? History will not repeat itself. . . .”

Grayson glanced up, grinning, before he took a shot. “I was there the first time, sir, remember?”

Chapter 29

There was such a flurry of activity in the days preceding the wedding that Grayson and Jane barely found time to exchange a few words, let alone succumb to temptation. For one thing Grayson’s widowed sister, Emma Boscastle, the Viscountess Lyons, had arrived from Scotland. An energetic sprite of a woman, Emma took charge of the arrangements with a snap of her graceful fingers.

Known for her flawless deportment, her genius at hosting a party, she also served as a veritable fountain of advice for the socially unaware. Which, in her educated opinion, unfortunately included her own undisciplined family.

As Drake said on the day of her arrival, “Well, there goes the end of uncivilized life as we know it. The Dainty Dictator has arrived. Fall in everyone. She’s liable to inspect behind our ears.”

With the Boscastle reputation for scandal, the crème de la crème of the nobility waited in anticipation for the ceremony. Which, judging by the bride’s last attempt at matrimony, promised to provide an unforgettable entertainment if nothing else.

And then the day arrived. Jane awoke with her heart pounding all through her body and wondered if Grayson felt the same way. Goodness, what if he decided to trick her and not show up at his own chapel for the wedding?

Except that Emma would be there to keep Grayson in line. Beautiful blue-eyed Emma, in whom the Boscastle penchant for wildness seemed to have gotten itself reversed into a penchant for propriety.

In his Park Lane residence, the marquess’s valet cheerfully sharpened his razor on the leather strop and lathered the handsome face of his master. “Well, today’s the day, my lord, and if I may be so bold as to say, I never thought I’d live to see it.”

Grayson nodded, his square jaw smothered in shaving soap. “Nor did I. In fact, I can hardly believe it will happen.”

It did happen, though, exactly three hours later. In a poignant echo of the previous ceremony, Grayson Boscastle, the fifth Marquess of Sedgecroft, turned to openly admire the bride walking the nave of his private chapel. He knew for a fact that she had a beautiful derriere. And the rest of her was something else altogether.

Not that he made a point of lusting after young women in wedding dresses, but this particular bride happened to belong to him.

Or shortly would. After all, both of them had managed to put in an appearance. He straightened his shoulders as her father bore her to the altar, his arm securing hers in an until-death-do-us-part grip.

“Done,” Belshire said in a terse voice.

Grayson stared down at her veiled face, took her hand, and said, “Thank you, from the depths of my heart. I will cherish her forever.”

A buzz of appreciation rose from the guests seated in the pews. The bride, everyone agreed, could not have been more beautiful. She wore a cap of embroidered silk with seed pearls threaded through her honey-colored hair. A cream white satin dress, with a fitted bodice in the palest pink and a sash of pink rosettes that dropped to the flounced hem, draped her graceful curves beneath a long train of Valenciennes lace.

Grayson felt his throat tighten. This was it. No ending here. A beginning. So he would stand beside her for the rest of their lives. At births, at baptisms, at balls, until his dying breath. He stared down at her in adoration. He did not regret his past, except the times he had neglected his family and taken their existence for granted. He wouldn’t repeat that mistake as he embraced the future. Perhaps he wasn’t as good as he should be, but he’d learned he wasn’t all bad either.

He glanced up from his wife’s face at his brothers and sisters, those handsome, heartbreaking siblings of his. Unbelievable as it was, he loved the whole aggravating lot of them. . . .