Thirty-Eight
H
is grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had come through this very morning on Brock’s request for a special license, and Brock wasted no time in assembling the wedding party. The most difficult part had been approaching the Duke of Addis, his father. They hadn’t spoken in ten years.
He sat behind his massive desk, his elbows on the shiny surface, fingers steepled. “She’s a baron’s daughter. And she’s a widow.”
“Yes.”
“You intend on marrying her regardless of any objection I might raise?”
Every word was a chafe on an open wound. “Yes.”
“She has two children. Girls.” The disgust in his tone set Brock’s teeth on edge.
Brock had no intention of groveling. His father either accepted his choice of bride or he didn’t. Brock cared not. “Yes.” A long silence ensued with the duke staring down his autocratic nose. But there were things that needed saying. “I’m not here to obtain your permission, sir.”
His father’s lips tipped slightly. “I didn’t expect you were.”
“About Rachel.”
His father flinched.
Brock pushed on. “I failed spectacularly in saving Rachel. I can never explain my regret. Or excuse my downfall.”
The duke rose from behind his desk. He came around and laid one hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Rachel’s demise was not your misstep, son. She was targeted because of who she was. My daughter, your sister. Painful as it is to accept, we did all we could. You sacrificed a woman you adored to try and save her. For that, you’ll always have my undying love and gratitude. I shall happily welcome your new family into our fold.”
Overwhelming emotion swamped Brock at this pronouncement. He had no words, swallowing hard. He’d been a fool to stay away so long. Such a fool. He took his father’s hand and squeezed.
The small, intimate wedding took place in the home of the Duke of Addis, and consisted of Ginny’s parents, Lady Alymer, and His Grace, with both Kimptons standing up for Brock and Ginny. The formal parlor was large enough to hold one hundred more.
Brock didn’t care, all he needed stood with him. Virginia Victoria Wimbley Ninnis, Irene Elizabeth Ninnis, and Cecilia Madelina Ninnis. He didn’t even mind James No-Last-Name’s attendance. He was clean, his hair trimmed fashionably and his clothes immaculate, though he couldn’t seem to utter anything other than “blimey.”
Brock was certain that James would soon end up in the schoolroom alongside Celia at Irene’s request. If broached, Brock intended to give his wholehearted approval.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Irene walked alongside Brock’s father, her hands clasped at her lower back; their stances identical.
“My lady. I take it you’re thrilled with the outcome of this wedding?” Brock saw his father’s whiskers twitch, but somehow he kept his voice in tone with hers in seriousness.
“Oh, yes, Your Grace. Lord Brockway is a hero. I suspect a book will be written in his honor in the future.”
“Is that so? Hmm. A hero. Yes, yes. I can see it now. Would you be the author of this future book?”
Irene’s brows furrowed in complete and grave contemplation. “I am not a writer. Of course, I am only nine. I shall consider the possibility as I pursue my studies.”
Brock enfolded his bride’s hand and looked at her. His grin surely matched hers.
“Well,” Ginny said. “Perhaps if she doesn’t write the story on your heroism, I shall.”
He pulled her in for a quick, hard, possessive kiss. The feel of her mouth beneath his had him tempted to drag her up to the wing in the duke’s residence where he’d recently installed his new family.
“Enough of that for now,” Kimpton said.
Lady Kimpton drew Ginny in a hug. “I knew he would be perfect for you.”
The baroness and baron joined them. “Yes. I did as well,” Ginny’s mother said with a wink.
Brock had sense enough not to roll his eyes; his wife, however, did not. “Of course you did, Mother.” She turned to Lady Kimpton. “How is Lord Harlowe? I’m sorry he was unable to attend.”
