Prue glanced toward the window, thinking of the creamy white roses, so lovely in the silver moonlight, then turned back to Franny and said decisively, “No veil at all, but just a few of the white roses from the garden. Will that do?”
Franny smiled. “I think that will be perfect.”
* * *
“Alright there, Montford?” Grantham was lounging against Basingstoke’s desk, his narrowed gaze fixed on Jasper as if he were ready to leap up at any moment and tackle him around the knees.
“Here, Montford.” Basingstoke handed him a small glass of brandy. “A bit of courage for you, just in case.”
Jasper took the glass and set it on the desk without tasting it. “There’s no need to get me sotted, Basingstoke. As for you, Grantham, do stop hovering over me, if you please. I promise you both I’m not going anywhere.”
Though perhaps they might be forgiven for thinking he’d bolt, as he’d once declared he’d sooner seek his coffin than he would the next Duchess of Montford.
“You’re taking this all rather well, Montford,” Grantham said, swallowing his own brandy. “I expected a great deal more wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
“And at least one escape attempt,” Basingstoke added.
“If I didn’t intend to go through with marrying Miss Thorne, I wouldn’t have offered her my hand at all.” As it was, he’d made rather a mess of the proposal. A gentleman did not, in the best of circumstances, bully and threaten a lady into marrying him.
If anyone should flee, it was Miss Thorne, but he hadn’t seen her running down the drive, so presumably she hadn’t crept out a window yet.
“It’s nearly time.” Basingstoke snapped his watch closed, replaced it in his coat pocket, and took up the discarded glass of brandy, which he once again offered to Jasper. “You’re quite sure, Montford?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” It wouldn’t do for Miss Thorne to catch a whiff of brandy on his breath while he was speaking his wedding vows.
“I’ll have it.” Grantham took the glass and downed the contents in one swallow. “All this talk of weddings and brides and marriage is rattling my nerves.”
“It’ll be you next, Grantham,” Basingstoke warned. “When the time comes, do try and do it with a bit more grace than Montford or I, won’t you? At least one of us should get through it with our dignity intact.”
Grantham snorted. “I may never do it at all, and certainly not anytime soon. I’m in no rush to marry, I assure you.”
Basingstoke pointed at him with his brandy glass. “You’ve just cursed yourself, Grantham. Make no mistake, you’ll be married by this time next year.”
Grantham thumped his glass back down on the desk. “Bollocks.”
“Basingstoke’s right, Grantham. I said the same, and look at me now.” Jasper gave his jacket a tug and straightened his top hat. “The ladies have their way in the end.” Though to be fair, it washimwho’d insisted upon marrying Prue, not the other way around. If it had been left up to her, he’d have been back in London more than a week ago, and very much an unmarried scoundrel still.
It was a strangely disconcerting thought.
“It’s not the lady you need to worry about, Montford. It’s her father.” Grantham grimaced. “I half expected him to challenge you to a duel when he arrived yesterday.”
“He didn’t look particularly pleased, did he?” God knew what Major Thorne must be thinking. Likely that Jasper had compromised his daughter, and his grandfather was forcing him to marry her.
“Eh, Thorne will come around, Montford.” Basingstoke slapped him on the back. “You’re making his daughter a duchess, after all.”
“Thorne doesn’t care for titles any more than his daughter does.” The fact that he was a duke wouldn’t have saved his skin, but his grandfather had had a word with Thorne, and the man had arrived at the dinner table last night in a better humor. Still not pleased, mind you, but no longer on the verge of doing Jasper an injury.
So, that was one crisis averted. Lucky thing, too, as nothing cast a pall over a wedding so much as a dead groom.
But despite all the chaos, things appeared to be well underway this morning. Loftus, who lived for such occasions of sartorial splendor, had outfitted him in black breeches—notpantaloons, no, indeed—and a black coat and top hat, then in a frenzy of creative inspiration had decided on a pale gold embroidered waistcoat, finished with a double row of gold buttons.
“Right, then, shall we, gentlemen?” Basingstoke straightened his cuffs and turned toward the door, adding over his shoulder, “If you get the urge to bolt, Montford, just say so. Grantham and I will subdue you.”
But Jasper was perfectly calm as they made their way to the small, private chapel in the western corner of the estate grounds. Perhaps he was like one of those birds who remained in their gilded cage even after the door was thrown open, suddenly paralyzed by the freedom they’d longed for.
Or perhaps he was just reconciled to his fate. Whatever the reason, there was no need for any unbecoming violence on either Basingstoke or Grantham’s part, because he passed over the threshold of the chapel without as much as a murmur of defiance.
It was a beautiful place, with a pair of white marble columns flanking the doorway, and another set of columns on either side of the recessed altar. The wall behind it was done in elaborate gilt scrollwork, the pattern repeating on the high-domed ceiling above.
