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***
Do you wish to die, ma’am?
No, she did not.
Beatrice had spent the last night into the early morning considering her options and come to the natural conclusion she had none. Or one: marry the excessively robust Duke of Osborn, retire to wherever they were being sent, and count herself lucky she was allowed to keep control of the Castleton coffers. Not that there was anyone to dispute her claim. She had famously failed to produce an heir; he must have been the last of his line, else there would have been petitioners for the title. How little she had known of her first husband. How little she knew of her second.
Beatrice dressed in marked contrast to that long-ago farce in St. George’s, pews overflowing with the spitefully curious, the heavy scent of lilies in the air more suited to a funeral. She had been supplied with a heavy veil, masking the truth of her soon-to-be spouse whom she had not met until she joined him at the altar. At the very least, this go-round she had clapped eyes on her husband-to-be, all twenty feet tall of him, with his immoderate hair and a voice that seemed to originate in the soles of his feet and reverberate through his chest.
Her carriage dress was of sober hue and two years out of fashion. The dark-blue cloth was high quality but serviceable, suitable for a journey of long duration; it buttoned up to her throat and ended in a deep, frilly collar. The skirt’s voluminous ruffle, trimmed with a darker-blue satin, was a frippery the modiste insisted upon and Beatrice had not argued, as she had won the battle for a plain straight sleeve and a modest cuff.
Her one indulgence, on this day and in her life, was her hat. Anything that added to her meager height was to be embraced, and today’s high-crowned Imperial bonnet answered. Of dove-gray satin embellished with ivory-colored French trim, three rows of ribbon each tied in an enormous flat bow, one atop the other. Its ribbons were wide and exceedingly long, fluttering all the way down to her knees, and edged with the same ivory; the entire confection was lined with an unexpected splash of violet.
Eschewing a reticule, she clutched a miser purse in her right hand.
She would begin as she intended to go on.
There was residual cheer in the corridor from Felicity’s wedding, which she had been barred from attending. By contrast, there was an atmosphere of aggression in the antechamber in which her second round of vows were to be made, and it had all the hallmarks that often preceded Castleton’s giving way to his beast. She stiffened her spine and stood as still as a held breath in the doorway until the tension dissipated. Georgie—she vowed to call him Georgie from now on; he deserved nothing less—looked at her with regret.
That would not do.
She began her curtsy, as fluid as water off a duck’s back—
“No, ma’am, I forbid it.” Georgie tugged on the hem of his riotously embroidered waistcoat. He had dressed with more ceremony than the bride. “By royal decree, the Duchess of Osborn is not to show such obeisance to any.” He offered her his arm, which she could not refuse, and walked her the three steps to the groom’s side. Standing next to Osborn was like standing beside a cliff face or a venerable oak. Was he as great in age as Castleton had been? He looked to be no more than thirty, but one could not tell with those of his kind. Would he remain youthful and imposing even as she aged and withered?
The prelate had taken his place and opened his little book, the prince looked at her beneath lowered lids, and the duke stared straight ahead. In addition to the famous Lord Brody, Lowell’s steward, an eccentrically dressed person stood at her back. Something about his placement gave her a frisson of unease she smothered. “Do carry on,” she prompted. There was no profit in drawing this out.
“Yes, Cornelius, do,” Georgie said. And Cornelius did.
The ceremony did not earn the name; it was a transaction much as she used to have with the butler and cook in her childhood home. Near the end of the ordeal, His Highness handed a ring to the duke, who scowled at the prince and looked to rebel, but quickly gave in and slid it onto her finger. She received it with surprise, not having expected such a tribute. A golden stone set in silver glowed brightly; how it did so when there was no window to shed light upon it she did not know.
And then it was done.
“Alfred nearly bussed his new duchess in front of Cornelius,” Georgie remarked, his playful salaciousness reasserting itself after having successfully seen to the ruination of the lives of two of his subjects.
The duke looked at Beatrice, and she turned away, pulling on her gloves. Bates bowed, as did the strange person; now that she got a good look at him, it was clear he was one of the animal-people. He scowled at all assembled and left without a word.
“As promised, here is Mr. Todd,” the prince said, a small, gingery person at his side, yet another creature if his canny, bright gaze was anything to go by. He was little over a head taller than she, and the best term she could furnish to describe him was “pointy.” Georgie went on: “You will be pleased to know he is at your disposal and well able for whatever he is called upon to do.”
Beatrice nodded and accepted the aid of the footman who had taken charge of her pelisse. She buttoned its frogs and hoped the sharp eyes of those in attendance would not see her fingers tremble.
Georgie took his leave of them in a great rush of words and footmen and tailoring. She accepted the duke’s elbow, duly offered, and called upon every year, every day, every hour of her hard-won composure as they followed Mr. Todd through Carlton House.
It was done. She was married again.
To a wild creature, again.
***
Unlike Lowell, who no doubt departed with pomp out the North Front Gate and onto Pall Mall, Arthur and his bride were escorted to a nondescript portal and into a side yard.
“Why are you at my, er, our disposal, Todd?” Arthur inquired.
He received a small smile that betrayed sharp little teeth. “I am a general factotum and well able to supply any aid required,” he said, without truly answering, and led them to a large carriage. Six heavy horses stood in the traces in front of a traveling chariot of unusual size, a nod to Arthur’s comfort and the lady’s by extension.
“Mr. Todd, I do not recognize the escutcheon,” Lady Castleton—Her Grace—said.
“I leave that to your husband to relate,” he murmured as a footman let down the steps.
