A Basket of Wishes

by Rebecca Paisley

  Emil started down the staircase, but stopped when a sudden thought occurred to him. Reverend Shrewsbury… In light of all that had happened, surely Jourdian did not still plan to send Splendor to live with the Shrewsburys! “Jourdian, what need have you of the vicar?”

  “He was the first to sow the seeds of scandal. Now he can damn well put it to an end.”

  “Do you mean you want him to deny the truth of his own gossip?”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Then what would you have the man do?”

  Jourdian looked up the staircase at Splendor.

  She grinned at him.

  The look he returned could have dried up the ocean.

  “Jourdian?” Emil pressed. “What is it you want me to tell Reverend Shrewsbury?”

  Stiffly, Jourdian turned away from Splendor. “Tell him he has a wedding to perform, and I want it done before nightfall.”

  Chapter Eight

  His mood as black as his suit, Jourdian stood beside his bed and opened the large wooden box he’d had a servant bring to him. He dumped the contents onto the mattress.

  Lamp glow and firelight shimmered over a mound of priceless jewelry, all of which had belonged to the Amberville women throughout the centuries. Knowing he had to give Splendor a ring during the wedding ceremony, Jourdian retrieved the first one he saw, a plain silver band with one tiny pearl as its setting.

  And then another ring caught his attention, a solid gold creation set with three rows of amethysts. Picking it up, he saw how brilliantly the lavender stones gleamed, and then he compared the ring with the silver and pearl one.

  What difference did it make? he asked himself. As long as Splendor had something wrapped around her finger, it didn’t matter if the ring was made out of a damned horseshoe nail.

  He slipped one of the rings into his pocket and headed downstairs.

  Once in the drawing room, he felt as though he were attending a funeral service. What seemed like thousands of candles were lit, and the room overflowed with flowers brought from the conservatory. Even the ambiance of the room suggested a somber, rather doleful mood. The only thing missing was a casket.

  But gloomy though the room felt and looked, it suited Jourdian’s temper. In only moments, he would be married to Splendor, a woman he barely knew. He could not deny her loveliness, nor could he dismiss her innate sweetness, but her eccentricities did not sit well with him.

  Nor did the fact that he was being forced to marry her.

  “I was exceedingly happy to assist you in arranging this expeditious ceremony, Your Grace,” Reverend Shrewsbury declared, clutching his prayer book to his chest. “Ordinarily, I would have insisted that banns be posted and all other customary procedures be followed; however, these are exceptional circumstances.”

  Jourdian did not reply.

  “You are doing the right thing, Your Grace,” the vicar continued. “This wedding not only frees you from the bonds of the sins you have committed, but it will effectively stop all tongues from wagging, and I… You…”

  His voice trailed away when he saw the thunderous expression in the duke’s eyes. That hard silver gaze crucified him to the wall as if with nails, knives, swords, and every other sharp and lethal thing in existence.

  “I suggest, Reverend,” Jourdian said, “that when you say your prayers tonight, you pray for your own black soul.”

  Reverend Shrewsbury was saved from having to reply when Mrs. Frawley scurried into the room as fast as her plump legs could carry her. “Your Grace,” she panted, “Miss Splendor is coming down with Mr. Tate now, but I thought I should warn you that she refused to wear the gown that the Mallencroft seamstress delivered. The lace did not meet with her approval, your lordship, and try as I did, I could not persuade her to put the dress on.”

  “She’s not naked, is she?” Jourdian asked, ignoring the fact that such a question was not at all decent.

  Mrs. Frawley felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “No, Your Grace, but she… Well, she…”

  “Is she wearing the purple robe?”

  The housekeeper wrung her hands. “Oh, Your Grace, she wanted to wear the purple robe, but I’m afraid it’s being laundered. You see, she’s worn it for nearly two days straight, and I had Tessie take it to the laundress—”

  “What is she wearing?” Jourdian demanded.

  Mrs. Frawley did not have to answer. At that moment, Emil led Splendor into the room.

  Jourdian could not believe what he was seeing.

  Splendor was wearing one of his white silk shirts, and nothing else. Tall as she was, the hem of the garment barely reached mid-thigh, thus exposing her long, slender legs. She wore naught beneath the shirt, and he could see the dusky flesh of her nipples and the dark shadow between her legs.

  Dammit, she might as well have been naked! “Mrs. Frawley,” he whispered hotly, “was it not possible to at least persuade her to put something on under my shirt?”

  Mrs. Frawley shook her head. “We tried, Your Grace, but she… Miss Splendor is quite the most resolute young woman I have ever known. When her mind is made up, there is simply no undoing it.”

  Jourdian looked at the vicar and saw that the reverend’s gaze was level with Splendor’s chest. Three male servants at the back of the room were watching her derrière, and Emil, damn the man to hell and back, was standing so close to Splendor that the two of them looked as if they’d been glued together. Indeed, Splendor’s breast smoothed across Emil’s arm with each step they took.

  Ulmstead was the only male in the room who was not—in some way—enjoying her charms. The butler was much too busy trying to coax a rooster out from under a table.

  Jourdian did a double take. What in God’s name was a rooster doing at his wedding?

  “Don’t be cross, Jourdian,” Emil said when he reached his cousin. “From what I gather, Splendor’s robe was soiled, and the dress from the seamstress—”

  “Get away from her,” Jourdian commanded, pulling Splendor’s hand out from the crook of Emil’s elbow.

  “My Grace,” Splendor murmured. Tenderly, she kissed his shoulder. How right she’d been to sneak into his room last night and sleep with him! She’d given him joy. At last, she’d truly enchanted him. Proof of that was that he was marrying her.

  No longer would she have to hide her identity. The wedding would free her from keeping her origins a secret. After all, in a short while Jourdian would be her husband, and as such he had every right to know that he’d married a pixie.

  She wondered how to tell him.

  “My Grace, I am a fairy,” she might say.

  Or…

  “My Grace, the beds in your house are all quite nice, but I am supremely fond of napping inside the cup of a bluebell.”

  Or…

  “Splendor!” Jourdian hissed.

  Pulled from her intense deliberation, she realized he’d been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard a word he said.

  “You are wearing my shirt,” Jourdian said, speaking down to the top of her head.

  “Aye, that is what I am wearing.” Rubbing her cheek on his shoulder, she moved her bouquet of yellow daffodils away from him lest the delicate flowers be crushed. “And ’tis supremely soft, your shirt. Every speck as soft as the piece of satin. You see, the dress the kind lady brought had a stiff substance on it that would have given me prickles. ’Twas a pretty shade of pink, the dress, but I could nay endure the stiff substance—”

  “The lace,” Mrs. Frawley supplied.

  Jourdian started to take off his coat.

  “I shall not wear your coat, My Grace,” Splendor informed him softly, but firmly. “This is my wedding day, and I shall wear this pretty shirt.”

  “Splendor—”

  “Do not be angry.” Finally, Splendor lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him.

  Jourdian’s breath caught in his throat. Angry, frustrated, and bewildered as he was by the sheer outrageousness of his wedding, her beauty sto
le his every thought. He’d attended countless weddings and had seen countless brides and countless wedding gowns.

  But he’d never seen a more gorgeous bride than Splendor.

  No wedding creation of satin, pearls, lace, or velvet could have accentuated her loveliness the way his shirt did.

  Radiant was the only word he could think of to describe her.

  Her nearness…her warmth and beauty…her intoxicating scent of wildflowers…

  Jourdian almost groaned with desire.

  “Jourdian, get hold of yourself, man,” Emil whispered, nudging his cousin forcefully. “There’s time for that later. First you must concern yourself with marrying her.”

  Instantly, Jourdian drew away from Splendor and turned to face the vicar. “The vows,” he snapped.

  Reverend Shrewsbury pulled his gaze away from Splendor’s bare legs and looked blankly at the duke. “The vows? Oh, but Your Grace, I must perform the entire ceremony from the beginning—”

  “We will speak our vows and be done with this.”

  Reverend Shrewsbury nodded so quickly that Splendor thought his head might come off his neck and bounce across the floor.

  “I shall speak my vows first,” she said. Turning to Jourdian, she smiled up at him. “I promise to—”

  “Splendor,” Jourdian cut her off, waving away a buzzing insect that began flying around his face, “you will speak the vows that Reverend Shrewsbury puts to you.”

  “But he knows not what promises I wish to make to you.”

  “You will promise what he tells you to promise.”

  “I shall do no such thing. I have my own vows to make.”

  Jourdian did not reply immediately; he was too busy trying to blow away the persistent insect that continued to whiz about his face.

  “I promise, My Grace,” Splendor began, “to sleep in your bed every night. There, I shall give you the joy that I gave you last night. I shall—”

  Instantly, Jourdian clapped his hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, my!” Reverend Shrewsbury exclaimed, dropping his mortified gaze back to Splendor’s shapely legs.

  “Get to the ceremony,” Jourdian ordered, his hand still pressed over Splendor’s mouth. “And you,” he whispered down to the outlandish woman he was about to marry, “will repeat every word he says, do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  He dropped his hand from her mouth.

  “I understand, My Grace, but I will not comply. He cannot put my promises to you on my lips, for he cannot possibly know what vows I wish to—”

  “Splendor,” Jourdian interrupted, “there are specific vows you must make, and you are bound by law to— Damn it all, someone get rid of this insect!” Swishing his hands around his face, he tried to catch the buzzing bug.

  Splendor caught sight of the insect then. It was a hornet, its stinger out and ready to wound.

  Only it wasn’t a hornet.

  It was Harmony, and Jourdian was about to smash her. “Nay, don’t hurt her! Sweet everlasting, you’re going to kill her!”

  Jourdian was caught off guard when Splendor pushed at his chest. Slight though she was, she managed to get enough strength behind her shove to propel him toward the small footstool behind him.

  “Jourdian!” Emil shouted when he saw his cousin topple over the stool.

  Jourdian landed flat on his back. And he was still trying to catch his breath and understand what had happened to him when the hornet delivered a vicious sting right to the tip of his nose.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Oh, My Grace!” Dropping her flowers, Splendor rushed to his side and knelt beside his shoulder. “Did she hurt you?”

  “She?”

  “Harmony!”

  “Who the hell is Harmony?”

  “The hornet!”

  “The hornet’s name is Harmony?”

  “She wounded you, didn’t she?”

  “She stung me!”

  Emil moved to assist his cousin off the floor. “Nasty fell, old boy. Nasty sting, too,” he added, looking at the red swelling on Jourdian’s nose.

  “Shame on you!” Splendor shouted at Harmony. Deftly, she cupped her hand around the hornet, and deposited her mischievous sister into the pocket of the silk shirt.

  Harmony vanished, leaving only a few twinkles in Splendor’s pocket.

  “You put a hornet in your pocket,” Emil said, frowning.

  “Aye, that is what I did, Emil. And a naughty thing she is, too.”

  Emil smiled, more taken with the whimsical girl with every passing moment.

  “May we wed now, My Grace?” Splendor asked.

  Jourdian took her hand. “Why did you push me?”

  Emil laughed again. “For pity’s sake, Jourdian, you were about to kill Harmony Hornet! What else could Splendor have done but push you?”

  “Never mind.” Jourdian faced the vicar again. “Five seconds,” he fumed. “You have five seconds to marry us, and not a second more.”

  “Wait!” Mrs. Frawley shouted. “Miss Splendor doesn’t have her flowers!” Quickly, the housekeeper swiped the bouquet off the floor. But before she handed them to Splendor, she frowned. “Silk,” she whispered. “The daffodils... I saw her remove the flowers from the vase in her room with my own eyes. Silk.”

  “Yes, yes, they’re silk,” Jourdian snapped. “Give them to her so that we may proceed with this mockery of a wedding.”

  “But… But… But, Your Grace, they’re not silk! Not anymore, they’re not! They’re…they’re…real!”

  When Mrs. Frawley’s knees buckled and she began to crumple to the floor, Jourdian responded instantly and scooped the heavy woman into his arms. His arms straining with the housekeeper’s weight, he carried her to a nearby sofa and gently laid her down.

  “The lady who swooned was to be one of the witnesses,” the vicar reminded him. “I have already written her name upon the marriage documents.”

  “There are plenty of other witnesses here, and you can write their names on the documents instead,” Jourdian said. He glanced at Ulmstead and the three servants who remained in the back of the room.

  God, he could see the newspaper headlines now:

  JOURDIAN TRINITY AMBERVILLE, TWELFTH DUKE OF HEATHCOURTE, WEDS SPLENDOR. THE BRIDE WORE A SILK SHIRT AND CARRIED A HORNET IN HER POCKET. THE WEDDING WAS WITNESSED BY A BUTLER, THREE FOOTMEN, AND A ROOSTER.

  “I’m still here to witness,” Emil said, reading Jourdian’s dismal thoughts. “Let’s get you married, shall we?”

  “Just pronounce us man and wife,” Jourdian told the vicar. “But, Your Grace, I must follow the ceremonial—”

  “Splendor, do you take me for your husband?” Jourdian demanded.

  “What? Oh, aye, My Grace! I do take you for my husband!”

  “In sickness and health?”

  She gasped. “Are you sick? If you are, you must tell me so I can quickly cure—”

  “No, I’m not sick! I just want to know if you’ll remain my wife if I become sick!”

  “But why would I nay be your wife if you were sick, My Grace? You would need me more than ever then, would you not?”

  Her answer melted the frown from his face.

  “I take you for my husband,” Splendor continued softly, smiling into his beautiful silver eyes. “I desire you for my own, and I shall endeavor to gift you with laughter and joy every day that I am with you. I shall fill your house with flowers, My Grace, and all that you desire to be blue, red, or green, will be blue, red, or green. Your wishes…you’ve but to tell me what they are, and I shall grant them. And in return I ask only for your child. Will you give me a child, My Grace?”

  Her question reached inside him and took hold of his heart. He’d offered her elegant clothes, jewels, and fabulous journeys around the world. She’d rejected everything, leaving him to wonder if there was anything at all she really wanted. And now she’d made her request of him.

  A child. She wanted his child.

  “Jour
dian,” Emil prodded, “Say ‘I do’ and ‘I will.’”

  “I do and I will,” Jourdian responded promptly.

  “When?” Splendor asked.

  “When?” Jourdian echoed. “When what?”

  “When will you give me a child?”

  “I…” He leaned down to her and whispered into her ear. “Splendor, now is the not the time to discuss such things.”

  “Oh? Well, when shall we discuss them?”

  “Tonight,” he murmured.

  “Your Grace?” the vicar prompted him. “You must speak your own vows now.”

  “Do you take me for your wife, My Grace?” Splendor asked.

  “In sickness and in health?” Emil added, thoroughly enjoying the outrageous ceremony. “For richer or for poorer? For better, for worse, for happy times and sad times, through obnoxious days and peaceful days, with hogs, donkeys, roosters, and hornets, forever and ever and ever, Amen?”

  Jourdian gave a nod of assent.

  “Marry them,” Emil told Reverend Shrewsbury. “Hurry up.”

  The vicar shook his head. “Marriage is a solemn commitment, Mr. Tate. A sacred union not to be entered into lightly, but with love. A sharing of two lifetimes together as one!” he exclaimed, raising his hands high in the air. “His Grace and Miss Splendor must swear eternal devotion. Only then will I pronounce them man and wife.”

  Reverend Shrewsbury’s ultimatum broke the spell that held Jourdian’s gaze riveted to Splendor’s. He would not make this wedding more of a farce than it already was by promising to love Splendor.

  He had no intention of loving her.

  And as for the child she wanted him to give her… As well she should want his child! Her duty as his duchess was to provide him with an heir! Imagine his becoming all sentimental over her request for the child she was obligated to give him! Damn the woman for making him feel such sappy emotions.

  He wouldn’t let her do it again.

  “Reverend,” he whispered hotly, moving closer to the preacher so no one else would hear what he was about to say. “Might I remind you that this ceremony involves nothing remotely related to love? Your wagging tongue is one of the reasons I am standing before you tonight, and if you deny that charge, may God strike you dead. Now, I suggest that you make the final pronouncement of this ceremony without further delay. If you do not comply, you will soon be searching for another church, for the parish of Heathcourte will have a new—and more discreet—vicar.”