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For a heartbeat, he thought she might, her brown eyes glittering behind her spectacles, riveted to his. And then she looked away, to her father. To the rooftops. Up the grimy lane. And instead of replying, she turned and made for the church door, leaving Henry standing on the steps, frustrated and furious.
He looked to her father. “I hope you have a team of brutes in there, Trumbull.”
“I’ve one or two,” Trumbull said. “Why?”
Henry clenched a fist at his side. “Because I’m spoiling for a fight.”
Alfie watched him for a long moment, then said, “All this time, I thought she’d fallen for you, Duke... and here we are... you’re absolutely sick for her, ain’t you?”
“I am, in fact. Sick enough to welcome you into the family.”
Alfie grinned wide. “That’s a priceless value, that. Ain’t enough money in the Havistock coffers to compete. Think of it! Alfie Trumbull’s blood in a ducal line!”
And standing there, as one of London’s most hardened criminals crowed his delight at his daughter marrying a duke, it occurred to Henry that his own father, a duke who never thought twice about choosing love over the bloodline, would have found this entire afternoon thoroughly entertaining.
And he would have been very proud of his son for following in his footsteps.
Climbing the steps, Henry followed the woman he loved into the church where he fully intended to marry her, dispatch a few of Alfie’s bruisers, extract his brother and sister-in-law from a hole, apparently, and take his new bride home to bed for a solid week—or however long it would take to convince her that he’d married herbecause he loved her, despite her superior skill at driving him mad.
A week might not be enough, but Henry was nothing if not persevering, and his plan was flexible.
Inside the church, Jack and Helene were no longer in a hole. Instead, they were seated on the steps leading to the altar, Lady Helene—Lady Carrington, Henry corrected himself—tucked beneath his brother’s arm as Jack fussed over her adoringly. Relief at seeing his brother well was quickly replaced with a pang of envy. Jack, at least, had found a woman willing to marry him.
The pair was guarded by two Bully Boys, each one big and broad and with fists the size of hams. Jack looked up as Henry entered and stood. “Henry!”
Henry scowled down the aisle at Jack’s black eye. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m grand!” Jack said with a bright smile. “Barely feel it!” He pointed to the pretty girl next to him. “My wife!”
Lady Helene offered him a little wave and a curtsy. “Hello, Your Grace!”
It was an odd sequence of events, but Henry’s training took over, and he offered the young woman a little bow. “Congratulations, my lady,” he said before returning his attention to his brother. “Jack, we’re not quite out of the woods yet, so...”
“That’s fine!” Jack pronounced, turning to settle Helene back on the steps before he fisted his hands at his sides.
That sorted, Henry turned his attention to the rest of the church. To Adelaide, paused halfway up the aisle, again refusing to look at him. And to the rest of those assembled—the women who refused to let him come for her alone.
Distributed quite casually throughout the small chapel were the Duchess of Trevescan, Imogen Loveless, and Sesily Calhoun, each seated in a different pew, bright,jewel-tone skirts shining in the candlelight, as though they were at a musicale and not lingering with villains on the South Bank.
“Oy!” Alfie said, from behind him, marching up the aisle. “Where did you lot come from?”
“I’m curious about that, too, honestly,” Adelaide said. “Why can’t you people stay where I leave you?”
“We’ve no intention of leaving you on your own, Adelaide. I do believe I made that clear. Where one of us goes, the others follow. So...” Duchess picked at an invisible piece of lint on her skirts and turned to Trumbull. “Here we are. There’s a back entrance to this church, Alfred. Surely you know of it.”
“’Course I know about it! But how’d you get through it? There was a guard posted there.”
“I’m sure that he is ordinarily a very good guard,” Her Grace continued. “But the truth is, men often become flummoxed when women turn up.”
Trumbull turned on her. “Are you telling me that you got the better of my bruiser?”
“Not me, in fact,” The Duchess said, pointing to Imogen Loveless. “Lady Imogen.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” the woman in question reported. “He’ll only be unconscious for an hour or so.”
Trumbull was flummoxed for a beat, until he seemed to remember why they were all there. “Alright. While I would ordinarily be proper unhappy about somethin’ like this, it’s my Addie’s wedding day, so I’m willing to let this slide.”
“Wedding!” Sesily Calhoun exclaimed.
