As the clergyman carried on with words Hudson knew sealed his fate forever, the undeniable drone of a snore rattled through the hushed quiet of the marble nave. Or perhaps that particular architectural marvel was fashioned of alabaster, as Lady Elysande had corrected him on the day she had agreed to become his wife. It hardly mattered what the bloody hell the cool stone was called. Hudson found himself dearly longing to press his overheated skull to it.
Apparently, his assessment of Royston had not been wrong. But then, he had become an expert at taking stock of every man in the room. As a detective, it had been a necessity, and his instincts had never led him astray. Just as he suspected they were not misguiding him now.
No one in Lady Elysande’s family wanted this marriage, to say nothing of the lady herself. There was a dearth of joyfulness in the chapel. Reasonably, one may have expected some small measure of levity from a wedding ceremony, aside from the solemnity of the vows.
A question, directed to him, suddenly jarred Hudson from his thoughts.
“Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
Here was the moment where he sold his soul for the sake of a dukedom.
I should say no. Run. It is not too late. London awaits. I could sell Brinton Manor and to the devil with anyone but myself.
But alas, he possessed a conscience, and the conscience told him he must carry on with his duty.
Perspiration trickled down the back of his neck. “I will.”
The clergyman turned next to Lady Elysande. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy Estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
Her gaze briefly flitted to Hudson’s. In the sparkling sunlight, he fancied they had taken on the color of sherry somewhere in their depths.
“I will,” she answered so quietly she may not have spoken the words at all.
Next, Leydon came forward in his role of officially giving his daughter away. Hudson felt the weight of a boulder on his chest as the minister joined Lady Elysande’s hand with his own.
He repeated the remainder of his vows in a rushed blur. The heat of the sun and the warmth of the day and the length of the ceremony blended together into one interminable purgatory. Lady Elysande offered her vows as well, her pleasant voice scarcely a whisper of sound. There was no reassurance in her words.
He placed a ring on her finger. Nothing fine or fancy. Just a simple, unadorned band of gold which had once belonged to his mother. Thankfully, it slid over his new wife’s delicate finger with ease, sparing him the embarrassment of a ring which did not properly fit.
“Let us pray,” announced the clergyman, suitably dour as one expected of clergymen.
Hudson and Lady Elysande bowed their heads. More words poured forth. Behind them, in the area of her seated family, another long snore rang through the chapel. The rustling of fabric could be heard, then what he could only suppose was the sound of someone’s elbow connecting with Royston’s side. The lord’soofof surprise was punctuated by frantic whispering. Although he could not discern the conversation, there was a definite hiss of anger punctuating the tone.
If the occasion were not so funereal, Hudson might have laughed. But then, he could not recall the last time he had experienced mirth. A long time ago, to be sure. Perhaps when he’d been a lad. The atrocities he had witnessed in his position at Scotland Yard had leached him of most forms of emotion. His life had become an endless string of duty, and this—his marriage—was just one more.
More words flowed over him, around him.Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.And finally, a blessing. Followed by anamen.
It was done.
Almost lightheaded, Hudson finally escaped the sun and escorted his new wife from the chapel to the dining hall where the wedding breakfast was being held. The formidable room was decorated with a startling array of fresh flowers, which he could only guess had been harvested from the Talleyrand Park orangery. The massive table was draped in cloth and laden with fine porcelain and silverware in preparation of the celebration.
Somehow, through the haze clouding his mind, he realized he was still holding Lady Elysande’s hand, their fingers entwined. Hers was small in his and clammy. He wondered if she was as overheated as he was. The lack of air in the chapel had been stifling, as had the occasion—a sentence for the rest of their lives. How much easier the prospect had seemed before the vows had been spoken. Before the signatures had been placed upon the register. He extricated his fingers from hers when they reached her chair.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked, attempting to be solicitous as he helped her to seat herself.
Belatedly, he recalled that she was a duchess now.Hisduchess. How ought he to refer to her?
Your Grace? Duchess?Wife?
And bloody blast, why had a rule book not been inherited along with this cursed title and all the mountains of cousinly debt?
“I am, quite,” she answered, not making mention of his faux pas if she had taken note. “Thank you.”
“It was warm in the chapel,” he said stupidly.
Of course it had been. It was yet summer. He was still sweating. He extracted a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He felt as if he had been holding his breath underwater and had only just come to the surface for air.
“The day is quite unusually boiling for the time of year,” she returned politely, adjusting the drapery of her silk skirts.
