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Radnor gave a quiet laugh.

Arthur surveyed the chapel once more. Nine pews lined each side of the aisle. Every one was occupied except the front row, which was reserved for his bride's family. Beyond them sat a handful of earls, viscounts, neighbouring landowners, officers he had served beside and people whose names he had long since forgotten. More guests occupied Winworth this morning than had crossed its threshold in the previous fifteen years combined.

He estimated eighty-seven.

Eighty-eight if his mother insisted upon counting the bishop's dog.

"What precisely did you imagine would happen after informing your mother you intended to marry?" Laurence asked.

"I rather hoped the short notice would limit her interference," Arthur confessed.

Instead, the Dowager Duchess had travelled north within forty-eight hours.

There was not a single soul in the world the Duke had yet to control, except his mother.

"I've seen considerably worse." Laurence glanced around the chapel with an appreciative whistle.

Arthur followed his gaze.

White ribbons adorned each pew. An overbearing organist postured in the background, whilst twin arrangements of lilies and roses framed the altar. The afternoon sun greeted them through the stained-glass windows, bathing the stone floor in vivid shades of yellow and crimson.

By his mother's standards, she had shown remarkable restraint.

"It could have been worse," Radnor agreed, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. "You've survived the hell of cannon fire, treacherous storms at sea and the French cavalry."

Arthur looked at him.

"A few ribbons ought not defeat you,” Radnor concluded.

"Remind me again why you're here?" Arthur bit out.

Radnor grinned.

"Two weeks ago you declined my wife's invitation to the opera because, and I quote, 'I shall be marrying that day.'"

Laurence chuckled as Radnor pushed on.

"I've known you eleven years, Buck. Naturally, I abandoned London the moment I realised you intended to wed without warning, and I summoned the rake"—he nodded to Laurence—"who made haste to Winworth to determine whether you were on death's door or whether my postman had simply become confused."

Arthur had thought the explanation of why he could not attend some theatrical disaster was preferable to another curt refusal. Apparently not. He had explained the basic mechanics of the wedding arrangement to his two friends over a bottle of whisky in his office when they arrived last night.

"Though if it eases your suffering..." Laurence said as he leaned closer.

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"...the ceremony is, regrettably, the easiest part of your day."

Arthur closed his eyes.

"The reception," Laurence confirmed cheerfully. "A house full of people. Music. Dancing. That will be considerably worse."

Laurence was joking. Arthur knew as much. That knowledge did little to quell the urge to seize him by the windpipe and squeeze until he found something else to talk about.

Arthur's thoughts of draining the life from his oldest friend were cut short by the first commanding notes of Handel's Wedding March. The worn oak doors at the rear of the chapel swung open, and the congregation rose as one.

Arthur felt Radnor and Laurence shift subtly closer beside him.

The procession had begun.