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“Hush, Alfie,” she whispered, and it was all he could do not to set the bishop on his ear and kiss her before all the world.
“And thus falls another fine lord,” the prince sighed. “It is almost too, too much to be borne. Is it not, Jemmikins? Unbearable?”
“Stuff it, Georgie.” Jemima looked piqued beyond measure. The prince reached out and pinched her side, causing her to flap about like a mad thing.
“Shall we, my dear?” Alfred consulted his wife—his mate. “I thought to forego a wedding breakfast and make for the Hall. I intend that we make Sussex well before moonrise.”
“I would prefer to celebrate there.” Felicity looked down and exuded shyness and trepidation and eagerness. The tiara sparkled but was no match for the radiance of her aspect.
“I do hope you’ve a bottle of something nice in the coach, Lowell,” said the prince. “How very beastly of you, should you have nothing to hand to while away the miles to Sussex. Whatever shall you do otherwise?” And with that cheekybon mot, he turned to leave, then paused. “Osborn, Bates, if you would.” Matthias left them with a bow to his new duchess and an arched brow for Alfred. Osborn followed without so much as a word of congratulations as Georgie bellowed for his secretaries and his valet, the wedding party bowing and curtseying in his wake.
* * *
“‘Having achieved your masterpiece, it is time to create elsewhere.’ If I could embroider with any expertise, I’d stitch that on a cushion,” Felicity said.
Alfred lifted her hand to his lips. “Your body shall be my canvas,” he said and bit her knuckles, “a masterpiece from which I shall never move on.”
“Oh, goodness.” She blushed.
“You seem rather…” Alfred tilted his head and let Alfie show in his eyes. “You are shy.”
“It all went so fast.” Felicity turned to look out the window of the coach; Alfred grabbed her chin to prevent it. “I have never been to a wedding before, and I supposed it would take longer.”
“Thank the Godd—thank goodness it did not.”
“You needn’t censor yourself any longer.”
“It will take time,” he replied. “Nor should you. Censor yourself.”
“To what do you refer?”
“Felicity.” He growled, low and long, and ran a finger along the top of her dress.
She batted it away. “O’Mara said His Highness is a very close friend of the family.”
“I do not wish to speak of Wales at this precise moment.”
“I am nervous,” she blurted.
“This from the hoyden who would have relieved me of my virtue in Portman Square?”
“Alfred!” Goddess, how that thrilled him. “I…Iamfeeling shy.”
“Then let me be gentle with you,” he whispered and pulled her onto his lap. “Let me take my time.”
He removed the tiara and tossed it onto the opposite bench and ignored her gasp of dismay. “Trappings,” he said, “when all you need to be a duchess is to be yourself. Your gracious, warm, welcoming self.”
“I thought St. George’s would be daunting, but to be married in Carlton House…” She sighed as he removed a glove and massaged her palm before placing a kiss on it.
“That tedious pile? Not the slightest bit intimidating.” He slid the other glove down her arm, kissed that palm, kissed the rings on her finger, pressed his open mouth against the pulse throbbing in her wrist. He heard her heartbeat stutter and scented her blossoming arousal. What was it with themselves and coaches? It was a long way to Sussex, and several bottles of champagne notwithstanding, he had no desire to go too far.
Perhaps halfway would do?
Felicity fussed with the dress. “Do take care, I love this garment and would not have it ruined,” she said. “It has pockets.”
“How shocking.” His eyes smiled, then heated as he took in her coiffure. “I believe there is something I shall ruin,” he murmured and removed the first pin from her hair.
“Oh,” she breathed. “That first morning—” She blushed again.
