The duchess strode into the room. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re having a wedding this morning! Speaking of which, the archbishop is ready to begin. Let’s not keep him waiting.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room.
Lucian peered down at Rosalie. “Are we having a wedding, then?” He tried to keep his voice light, as if his future happiness did not hinge on her answer.
Rosalie was studying him intently. The silence that probably stretched for no more than three seconds felt like an agonizing eternity.
Finally, she exhaled. “You know, I think we are.”
Lucian wasn’t about to give her the chance to change her mind. He grabbed her hand and tugged her out the door and toward the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The ceremony that took place in the cream parlor was elegant, if small in scale.
Rosalie’s parents attended, as well as Robin and Howard. Lucian did not have any family, leastwise, not any with whom he was on speaking terms. But his friends Evander Beauclerk and Viscount Trundley stood up with him, and Vander’s mother announced that she would act as mother of the groom.
Rosalie’s heart raced as she spoke her vows. She could not help but fear that she was making a terrible mistake. She could still hear every cruel word Lucian had hurled at her on that balcony two years ago. He seemed sincere in his affections, but he had seemed sincere back then, too, and it had all turned out to be a joke.
Would this turn out to be a joke, too?
At the same time, he hadn’t turned out to be the villain where his grandfather was concerned. He had gone to great effort to save her from what would have been a miserable marriage with Lysander. And his servants seemed to regard him as a good anddecent man. Which was in contrast to the prevailing opinion of society.
But it occurred to Rosalie that the servants might be in a better position to know.
If not for that one conversation in the orangery, the one in which he had broken her heart, she would have been thrilled to be marrying this man.
But she could not erase that memory from her mind.
In spite of Rosalie’s inner turmoil, the ceremony marched on. It seemed she scarcely had time to blink before Lucian was reaching into his pocket to pull out the ring. He flipped open the black leather box, and Rosalie’s heart stuttered. The ring he presented to her was a delicate Giardinetti ring depicting three roses formed from tiny pink stones—topaz, perhaps? Rose quartz? Rosalie didn’t know enough about gemstones to say what they were, but they were stunning, they were in her favorite shade of pink, and they were flanked by sparkling emerald leaves.
As a general rule, Rosalie didn’t give jewelry a second thought. But she loved this ring. It was precisely what she would have chosen for herself, had she known that it existed.
She chanced a glance at Lucian, and her reaction must have shown on her face, because he was smiling softly. She tried to remind herself that Mrs. Beauclerk had been the one to design the ring.
Yes,an irksome voice in her head interjected,but Lucian cared enough to consult Mrs. Beauclerk. He could have pulled an ancient ring designed for another woman from the family vault. Instead, he went to the trouble of procuring somethingyouwould like.
His fingers were warm as he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit.
“You may kiss the bride,” the archbishop intoned.
And just like that, she found herself transformed from Lady Rosalie de Lacy to Lady Valentine.
Lucian gently framed her face, then placed a very proper, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. When he drew back, his grey eyes were intense.
Rosalie felt tears pricking. Well, this was perfect! Even when he scarcely touched her, he somehow managed to render her a trembling mess.
Her mother’s smile was smug because she, at least, had met her goal. Her mulish daughter was finally married to a lord.
The duchess gestured toward the door. “A wedding breakfast has been laid out in the dining room.”
One by one, their guests began to file out of the room. Rosalie hung back, taking a moment to gather herself.
When she and Lucian were the only ones left in the room, she turned and gave him a tremulous smile, thinking that he would offer his arm, or perhaps take her hand.
Instead, he seized her upper arm and pulled her deeper into the room.
“Lucian!” she squawked. “What are you doing?” She gestured helplessly toward the door. “The wedding breakfast is that way.”
They had reached the corner. Lucian laid his hand on another doorknob, one Rosalie had all but forgotten was there, so seldom did anyone use it. It was a hidden door, built to blend into the wall, that led to an old powder room—a little closet that guests used to duck into so they could apply fresh powder to their hair without getting it all over the furniture, back when powdered hair had been fashionable.
