“So it is,” he agreed with equal civility.
For the first time since she had entered the chapel earlier, he allowed himself the luxury of admiring her, of looking and truly seeing. There were no stains upon her gown as there had been on the last occasion their paths had crossed. Her dark hair had been swept into a Grecian braid, then knotted on her crown. Her cream silk gown hugged her ample curves and was pinned strategically on the bodice and skirts to reveal waterfalls of lace bedecked with seed pearls. A diamond and emerald parure glittered from her throat, ears, and wrist.
She was the picture of an aristocratic bride. Infallibly lovely. And yet, he could not help but to look upon her and experience the acute threads of resentment and desire tangling and twisting up inside himself.
“Will you not sit?” she asked him softly.
Belatedly, he began to extract the chair alongside her from beneath the table, but then it occurred to him that he had no notion of where he belonged. He had never attended a wedding before, and most certainly not a wedding breakfast. Or if he had, he’d been a lad far too young to recall the niceties.
“Where am I meant to sit?” he returned, voice low.
Her family was pouring into the dining room from the chapel now, joined by the minister and Hudson’s sole guest, his steward, Saunders. He had not bothered to invite any of his friends to the wedding ceremony. What was the point in requiring them to rusticate in the wilds of Buckinghamshire at a house that was scarcely habitable? All for a marriage he was entering into so that he could forget it and return to the life he longed to live. No sense at all. Saunders had been diligent and helpful. He was already located nearby. His presence sufficed.
“Next to me, Hudson,” Lady Elysande said.
Her use of his given name both startled and pleased him. He folded himself into the chair at her side, finding the sudden warmth in his chest a curious thing. In the weeks that had followed the signing of their marriage contract, many preparations for the wedding had been made. He and his bride had corresponded through notes sent between their estates. That she should recall he had asked her to call him Hudson was a small victory.
Their every other interaction had been aloof and polite, conducted in ink and paper alone. No more portico or garden chats. No more talk of children. No more touching her, for she was obligingly out of reach at Talleyrand Park. It was for the best, he had told himself. He had not wanted the complications she would inevitably bring along with her. Instead, he had devoted himself to working with Saunders, to visiting his tenants, to learning more about the land, the people.
But now, that convenience no longer existed. She was hiswife, impossible though it was to believe he was married. He, a man who had never wanted to be anything other than a Scotland Yard detective. Certainly not a husband or a father. Never a duke.
The assemblage found themselves settled, and Lady Isolde, acting as bridesmaid, cut the wedding cake. Saunders stood and proposed a toast to the Duchess of Wycombe’s health. Another toast went round for the health of Lord and Lady Leydon. Hudson poured the wine down his gullet as if it were manna from heaven. An hour could have passed, or mayhap a lifetime.
He could not bear to take a bite of the cake.
Elysande—for that was how he must think of her now, hiswife—glanced at him, her expression unreadable. Her shoulders were tense, drawn in a tight line that emphasized the delicate protraction of her clavicle.
“You do not care for the cake?” she queried,sotto voce.
The cake itself had been an immense, sculptural masterpiece he suspected had been crafted more for spectacle than for taste. However, he had never cared for sweets, and he did not intend to begin indulging now.
“I do not care foranycake,” he explained.
“Oh,” was all she said.
A lone word that felt something akin to a reprimand. And a sudden need—ridiculous though it was—to please her struck him. He forked up a bite of the dessert and found it to be plum cake. Pleasant enough, if one liked cake, which Hudson decidedly did not. The texture of it—spongy and odd—never failed to make him want to gag. Sternly, he suppressed all such rude urges.
His attempt won him an approving smile from Elysande, and damn it, but she was beautiful when she smiled. An inconvenient thing to notice, the attractions of one’s wife when one had sworn not to touch her for the next three months. Returning to London had never seemed more alluring. Grimly, he reached for his wine.
* * *
In her newchamber at Brinton Manor, Elysande paced the threadbare carpet, feeling dizzied and anxious and…oh dear!She lost her balance and caught herself on a writing desk, which was as badly in need of attention as the Axminster. The heavy drapery of her wedding gown was not helping matters. Nor was the undeniable fact that she was in her cups.
Yes indeed. She had consumed far more wine at the wedding breakfast than she ought to have done. But her glass had been magically replenished, and like the duke, she had not been in the mood to consume much of the feast Mama had seen prepared in dubious celebration of her nuptials. Her pretense had been noted by New Wycombe, of course. He had frowned at her, brooding as he did, and asked why she had not eaten a bite of her own cake when she had insisted upon his consuming it.
The truth was, she had never cared for plum cake, though she did like sweets just fine. Still, for reasons she could not explain, she had wanted his approval. He was such a different man. Unlike any other she had met. He was far more guarded, harsher, less inclined to smile or engage in frivolity.
The plum cake had been Mama’s idea, and she had hated to intrude, for the duke’s absence and her mother’s dedication to the wedding had left Elysande with time aplenty to devote to her design. Mama had taken such joy in plotting and planning the details of the wedding, even if she had been somewhat disappointed by Elysande’s insistence upon marrying the new Wycombe. It had proven most beneficial.
Indeed, she had enjoyed unparalleled freedom in the last three weeks. Father and Mama had always been relaxed with their rules, of course. But with Father increasingly occupied with his latest prototype and Mama, with flower cuttings and the alterations to Elysande’s previous wedding gown, the one she had obtained in Paris for the purpose of marrying Old Wycombe, why, Elysande had been as free as a bird.
And now?
Now, she was as free as a bird whose wings had been abruptly clipped.
No more flying for her.
Had marrying the duke been a mistake?
