Hundreds of events had taken place here—hundreds of weddings, baptisms, and funerals. More than a dozen generations of Basingstoke dukes and their families had marked the most important occasions of their lives in this chapel. If all the bridegrooms that came before him could make it through their own wedding ceremonies without bolting or casting up their accounts, then he could do the same.
The chapel was quiet as they all waited for the bride to arrive. Jasper looked over the small party of his dearest friends gathered in the pews, and an unexpected pang gripped his chest. His grandfather was right in the front, his gloved hands folded over the handle of his walking stick. He smiled as his gaze met Jasper’s, and he was so clearly bursting with joy it was impossible for Jasper to look at him and believe marrying Prudence Thorne could be a mistake.
Soon enough, there was a stir at the door of the chapel. Prue entered, one hand on Franny’s arm and the other on her father’s. They paused on the other side of one of the columns so Prue might receive her father’s blessing, but he couldn’t see her face, only the flutter of a white skirt as a soft breeze drifted through the door.
But in the next instant, everything—the columns, the gilded ceiling, the light pouring in through the half-moon window above the altar, and even his grandfather’s encouraging smile faded at the edges of his vision.
The chapel went still, everyone holding their breath as Prue emerged from behind the column and began to walk down the aisle.
He’d imagined he’d be stoic as she came toward him, unmoved, but his heart was beating in a wild tattoo against his ribs, his palms were damp, and his eyes . . . good God, why were his eyes stinging?
He caught his breath when she stopped in front of him at last. He’d always admired her, had always thought her uncommonly lovely, but when he gazed at her now there was something else there, pressing under his breastbone, something more than admiration. He couldn’t have said what it was, but it felt like . . . wonder, almost, as if he’d just seen her for the first time.
She was breathtaking, and despite all her finery, somehow still utterly herself. This was the same Prudence Thorne who scolded him for reading her private letters; the same Prudence Thorne who’d stolen his earrings, blackmailed him, and then begged his pardon so sweetly when she’d returned them to him.
She was the same Prudence Thorne he’d kissed, who’d kissed him back without reservation, her cheeks flushed pink in the firelight.
She wore a simple white gown of a linen so soft and fine it looked as if she were wrapped in a cloud. She wore no veil, and no jewels—no ornamentation of any kind, aside from a few creamy white roses in her hair that put him in mind of the pearls he’d slipped into the pocket of her cloak, and since then, had seemingly disappeared.
Butshewas here, standing before him, and without thinking, he reached for her, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and tilted her face up to his. “Beautiful,” he whispered, and was rewarded when a wash of color climbed into her cheeks and the corners of her lips turned up in a shy smile.
He didn’t remember much after that. He must have repeated his vows, and he recalled hearing the same vows spoken back to him in her soft voice, her lips moving, the morning sun from the window above them caressing the white rose petals in her hair.
CHAPTER17
Aman’s wedding night was, as it turned out, rather trickier than Jasper had anticipated it would be. A deflowering was a straightforward business, after all, with only one objective, and thus it should have been as easy as sneezing, or snapping his fingers.
It was the solemn duty of every conscientious bridegroom to perform a thousand different tender services on behalf of his innocent bride on their wedding night, but downing three tumblers of brandy before venturing into her virginal bedchamber wasn’t one of them.
To be fair, they were small tumblers, but that was due to Loftus’s judiciousness rather than to any restraint on Jasper’s part.
Even so, one could argue it was two glasses too many.
Perhaps two and a half.
It wasn’t as if he’dmeantto drink three tumblers of brandy. He’d been in good spirits when they left Basingstoke’s estate early in the afternoon. He’d acquitted himself rather well at the wedding, and he had every reason to believe he’d do himself credit in the marital bed. One of the few advantages of being a rake was an intimate familiarity with a lady’s needs, and it didn’t go amiss that his blushing bride had already seen the most startling part of his anatomy.
Or a painting of it at least, but it was quite a good likeness.
But as their carriage rolled along the dusty roads between Kent and London, the daylight slipping by degrees into a deep violet twilight, he was assailed by an unexpected twinge of doubt. By the time the carriage came to a stop at his townhouse in Berkeley Square, the twinge had turned into such a riot of nerves it felt as if he’d swallowed a swarm of bees.
It was the “virginal” part of the business that did him in, though it must be acknowledged the “wife” bit didn’t help.
“May I assist you into your banyan, Your Grace?”
“Banyan?” Jasper forced his forlorn gaze from the bottom of his empty brandy glass to Loftus, who was standing beside him with the banyan in his hands, wearing the familiar, infinitely patient expression that indicated he’d been waiting for some time. “Oh, yes. I suppose so.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Loftus pried the empty glass from Jasper’s fingers, set it on the tray and slid the heavy silk banyan over his arms. “There. May I assist you with anything else, Your Grace?”
“Er . . .” Surely, there was something else? “Is, ah, is the duchess in her bedchamber?” For God’s sake, what an absurd question. Of course, she was. Where else would she be? Why, she was likely laid out in the bed with the coverlet pulled up to her chin, quivering with fear.
“Yes, Your Grace, I believe so. Shall I go and have a word with Mrs. Stritch, just to be certain?”
“Mrs. Stritch?” Jasper blinked. “Who the devil is Mrs. Stritch?”
“She’s the duchess’s lady’s maid, Your Grace. You sent word to Mr. Keating from Basingstoke House, ordering him to appoint a lady’s maid for Her Grace.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot.” He’d asked Keating to hire an older, stern sort of lady, someone who could be relied upon to keep an eye on his duchess, and from the quick glimpse he’d gotten of Mrs. Stritch, it looked as if Keating had done as he’d asked. The woman was gaunt and bony, steely gray from head to toe, and properly terrifying. “Please do ask Mrs. Stritch if . . . if the duchess is prepared to receive me.”
