Sophie sighed. “I do hope the duke will treat you gently. I like him tremendously, but he can be more than a little…”
Aideen’s head nodded but her thoughts disagreed. She didn’t want the duke gentle. She wanted his hard, demanding body and searching rough hands, his raw knuckles skimmi–
“Erm,” interrupted Cordelia, “if I could just ask, but…would anyone care to enlighten me?”
Aideen and Sophie stared at one another, then down at their champagne glasses.
“Does it have anything to do with nightcaps?” prompted Cordelia desperately. “I’ve noticed my father wears a nightcap if he wishes to join my mother in her bedchamber.”
Opening her mouth, Sophie then closed it again.
“Or curtain tie-backs? I know all about those,” Cordelia tried again, face frantic. “My aunt told me that matching curtain colours to their tie-backs is a pleasant subject to dwell upon when a husband visits you.”
Opening her mouth, Aideen instead glugged champagne.
Sophie stepped bravely into the breach. “I don’t believe I can imagine your Lord Oakdean in a nightcap. And that’s a good thing,” she reassured Cordelia, patting her hand. “You’ll just have to trust him and not listen to anything your mother or aunt says. At all. In any way. Ever.”
“But…but…”
“Have you not seen animals?” asked Aideen. “In the fields?” Surely her friend had noticed some strange behaviour in spring.
Cordelia’s brow furrowed. “Playing?”
Saint Ninnidh help her.
“More…jumping on each other.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened to their limits but then lowered, shoulders easing. “You’re always teasing, Aideen. Honestly, a sip of champagne and you come out with the most ridiculous ideas.”
Aideen smiled. She loved Cordelia immensely, but her friend’s mother had instilled a strange incorruptibility about her.
“Well,” said Sophie, raising the remnants of her champagne. “I say we toast Aideen’s marriage. May it forever endure without nightcaps or curtain ties.”
Chapter Nine
Wrth gicio a brathu, mae cariad yn magu.
Whilst kicking and biting, love develops. (Welsh Proverb)
The one downside to Rakecombe’s wedding day morning was the sight of a sotted marquess and snoring earl in his normally immaculate study. The loiter-sacks slobbered over his furniture and had noticeably scuffed the silk.
Had the twosome really been so deeply cut that they couldn’t find the guest chambers?
He himself had awoken snug in bed, but perhaps Rawlins had lent a hand, in part earning his exorbitant wage.
Considering the quantity of hashed goose, claret and brandy he’d consumed, Rakecombe felt rather well. No doubt, skipping chef’s breakfast had aided his agreeable constitution. A selection of pastries had been sent up but they’d wept with butter and he’d pushed them to one side.
He shook Winterbourne’s shoulders as the chap drooled over his chaise, feet bare.
“Gerroff, darling,” the rogue slurred. “Maybe later.”
“Get your hairy arse,darling,off my furniture.You have one hour to return home, scrub yourself clean and attend my wedding.”
Blood-shot eyes opened. “It’s a nightmare.” They closed again.
Slightly easier to awaken was Kelmarsh, who guiltily realised he’d sent no message to his wife about the impromptu nightcap.
The two wastrels sluggishly gathered their thoughts and strewn waistcoats, and Rakecombe bustled them with indecent haste to the hall, denying them breakfast – in truth doing them a favour.
