Lord Donald’s brows furrowed. “How many people saw you kiss my daughter?” he asked.
Instead of dropping his head in shame, Jasper lifted his chin. “Three, my lord,” he stated with a nod in Devonville’s direction. “Lord and Lady Devonville, and your sister, Lady Torrington.”
Donald guffawed again. “Most of the family then. I wish I could have been there,” he said when he finally sobered. “Well, Devonville, I do believe it’s time we hit a gaming hell,” he added as he turned to the marquess.
Devonville gave him a look of surprise. “You don’t wish to see your daughter?” He turned to Jasper and Alistair. “He just arrived in town a couple of hours ago.”
“I’ll see her in the morning,” Donald stated. “But first, I have to win some blunt for a dowry.”
With that, the older gentlemen took their leave of White’s while Alistair was left to regard Jasper with an amused expression. “I don’t envy you one bit,” he said.
His eyes still on the backs of his soon-to-be-wife’s relatives, Jasper gave a shake of his head. “Perhaps I will have another drink.”
Chapter 8
A Wedding is All a Blur
The following morning
Devonville House, situated near the end of a series of mansions in Park Lane, was usually rather quiet and calm in the morning. Servants went about their daily routines well before the Devonvilles were out of their bedchambers. The housekeeper would be reviewing that night’s dinner menu and writing up a shopping list for the cook’s morning trip to market. The butler would be inspecting the silver and seeing to it a footman had the breakfast parlor ready for that day’s morning meal.
Not so on this day.
Hatfield, the butler, had opened the back door no less than five times before the clock struck eight. Food, flowers, and even furniture paraded by as he stepped aside and did his best with directions. By nine o’clock, the front door had been answered even more often, given a modiste and her contingent of seamstresses were armed with what appeared to be a wardrobe for an entire Season. Why, he barely had a chance to see to it the dining room was properly set for that morning’s wedding breakfast. He was about to do so when the lady of the house descended the stairs in a rush.
“Is the parlor ready?”
Doing his best to maintain an impassive expression despite his desire to growl, Hatfield gave her a bow. “I wasn’t sure where you wished the florals to be placed, my lady,” he replied, deciding it was safest to leave it in her hands. Had he directed the florist’s men in that regard, he was sure Cherice, Marchioness of Devonville, would simply rearrange it all anyway.
“Of course not. I’ll see to the flowers right away. What about the dining room?”
“I have a footman reviewing the place settings this very moment, my lady.”
“What about the chairs?”
“There are forty in the dining room and ten in the parlor.”
She sighed, as if she were disappointed at hearing the count for the number of chairs, despite them matching the very numbers she had requested not three days ago. “That will have to suffice, I suppose.”
Hatfield knew this wasn’t her ladyship’s first wedding. She’d had two of her own before taking on the arrangements for her niece’s nuptials, so he was rather surprised at her nervousness.
“I’m expecting the modiste at any moment,” she suddenly stated.
“She has already arrived. I took her to Miss Slater’s room almost an hour ago.”
Cherice blinked. “Oh.” Once again, a flash of disappointment crossed her face. “Well then, I suppose I shall see to the florals.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hatfield replied. He watched the small woman hurry off to the parlor, wondering at her strange mood. He thought she would be happy seeing to the wedding of her niece by marriage. How she had managed to secure a groom for the girl in such a short amount of time hadn’t been as much of a surprise to him as it was to the other servants of Devonville House. When Cherice DuBois Winslow Slater put her mind to a task, it was always completed with efficiency. The marquess might have thought it was his idea to marry the widow—to be the first to court her on the very day she came out of mourning—but Hatfield knew better.
Cherice had probably decided she wanted to be the Marchioness of Devonville even before her husband died.
When the lion head knocker pounded at the front door, Hatfield straightened and answered it, prepared to direct the delivery to the back door. However, two men stood before him, and neither held anything but small items in their hands. He recognized Lord Henley immediately, having remembered the viscount from when he collected Miss Slater for their ride in the park. As for the other man...
“I am Vicar Cuthbert. Here to perform a marriage ceremony,” the shorter man said with a nod. “Not that it’s really very proper to hold a wedding ceremony in a home, of course, but then I have been assured Devonville House is somewhat of a public place given anyone can tour it should they ask. Is that really true?”
Hatfield blinked. No one had ever come to Devonville House with such a request, but he couldn’t imagine Lady Devonville turning anyone away. She would be happy to show off the house, he thought. She was a proud woman, after all. “It is, sir,” he finally answered. He turned his gaze onto the viscount.
“Lord Henley. Here to... get married,” the viscount stammered as he held out his calling card.
Hatfield stepped aside. “Lady Devonville is in the parlor,” he replied, deciding he would simply escort the gentlemen there rather than interrupt her ladyship.
Once he delivered them to the parlor, a room that now featured a floral scent reminiscent of a perfumery, and to the direction of a rather relieved Lady Devonville—did she think the groom wouldn’t show up for the ceremony?—Hatfield was about to pay a visit to the dining room when his attention was redirected to the top of the stairs.
The butler didn’t try to hide his surprise at the sight of Marianne Slater as she stood in her wedding ensemble. He knew right away she couldn’t see him—at least not clearly—for she remained at the top of the stairs for a moment more before finally taking one step down. The modiste, her head angled to one side and an expression that betrayed her pride in her creation, clapped her two hands together and caught his gaze for just a moment. “You’re doing just fine, Miss Slater,” he heard the woman say, her fake French accent sounding almost authentic. “Although I think you should wait for Lord Devonville. Seeing as how you cannot see very well.”
Turning on his heal, the butler dared a glance back into the parlor. The vicar had taken a position at one end of the room, his attention on a small book that lay open in his hands. Viscount Henley stood at an angle, his attention suddenly on him. Hatfield gave a jerk of his head, and the viscount hurried over to him.
“I should think you would like to see this, my lord,” Hatfield said as he nodded to the stairs. At seeing Lord Henley’s reaction to his bride, the butler felt a sudden twinge in his chest. Until that moment, he had believed his master’s niece was entering a marriage of convenience. Now, he knew without a doubt that Lord Henley truly wished to marry the girl who stood waiting for her uncle.
“Good morning, my sweeting,” Lord Henley said as he moved to the bottom of the stairs. “Why, you look more gorgeous than you did the night I met you.”
Marianne’s inhalation of breath could be heard throughout the entire great hall, her blush of embarrassment pinking her face. “You bounder,” she accused with a huge grin.
Lord Devonville was suddenly at her side. “Bounder or not, he’s to be your groom,” he said, his slight burr tinged with a hint of humor. He escorted his niece down the stairs and then let go of her arm when she was standing before the viscount. He disappeared into the parlor.
“Good morning,” she said as she dipped a curtsy, the sarcenet overskirt of her gown shimmering in the morning light from the parlor.
Hatfield couldn’t help but watch as the viscount bowed, and instead of taking her h
and to kiss the back of it, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. He seemed about to say something more, but his attention was captured by the tall man who now stood at the top of the stairs. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he overheard Henley say.
For a moment, the bride seemed at a loss as to what to do, but she heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to discover her father hurrying down to join her.
“Father?” she said in disbelief. “When... where...?”
Lord Donald kissed his daughter’s head and pulled her into a hug, ignoring the hiss the modiste allowed just then at seeing her creation crushed. “I arrived yesterday afternoon,” Hatfield heard the man say. The rest of his words were too quiet to hear, but whatever he said seemed to please his daughter, for Marianne was soon smiling.
A moment later, and they entered the parlor.
Left in the suddenly quiet hall, Hatfield dared a glance into the room and paid witness to the beginning of the ceremony.
He would have watched the entire wedding, but the lion head knocker announced the arrival of the first of the breakfast guests, and he was forced to return to duty.
And to wipe away the tear that had collected in the corner of one eye.
Chapter 9
A Bright Afternoon for Setting Sail
Friday afternoon
While walking up the slanted wooden planks to board the sailing vessel, The Fairweather, Marianne couldn’t help the combination of dread and excitement she felt. As much as she wanted to visit Italy—a trip she couldn’t have hoped to make in her lifetime—she never imagined going there with someone she hardly knew.
On her wedding trip.
The ink was barely dry on the marriage certificate!
She hadn’t even been in London a fortnight ago, and here she was, walking a gangplank onto a ship set to sail in an hour with a husband she had to marry because she had been caught kissing him in some aristocrat’s garden.
Or because he had been caught kissing her.
Probably the latter, she thought, wondering if her uncle could have been disabused of the idea of her having to marry the viscount if she had just argued with him a bit. At the time, though, she hadn’t wanted to argue.
For some reason, the idea of marrying Jasper Henley wasn’t so daunting a week ago. Even yesterday, she had been so caught up in Aunt Cherice’s excitement and the plans for the wedding and breakfast, Marianne hadn’t paid much mind to those plans being for her.
Despite the lack of time, the Devonville cook had managed to create a feast for the forty guests who had invaded Devonville House earlier that day, just as she and Jasper repeated their vows in the flower-festooned parlor.
She barely recognized anyone at the breakfast, although she had been assured she had been introduced to most of them. Any others were members of the Royal Society, colleagues of Jasper’s who had come to wish him merry and remind him of his primary reason for going to Sicily—archaeological research. They seemed in good humor as they did so, their elbows no doubt leaving bruises on his ribs.
Marianne had blushed at their implication, for what else could she do? But at no point had they said anything deliberately vulgar.
The biggest surprise had been the moment her father, Donald Slater, appeared at the top of the stairs. She rather wished she had been able to see him clearly, for she would have had a bit more warning before he gathered her into his arms and kissed her forehead.
She knew it was him just before that happened, though. The familiar smell of his cologne and the deep timber of his voice had her whirling around to find him regarding her with a mix of joy and sadness.
When she asked if she might introduce him to Jasper, he had given his head a shake and claimed to have spent an hour in the man’s company only the night before. I arrived in London yesterday afternoon, and sought out your viscount at White’s after my brother told me everything, he had explained. I think I am most relieved you haven’t ended up with a Gypsy.
Not that she would have ever run off with any of the Lowland Gypsies that occasionally stayed next to the river near their village. She couldn’t imagine the life of a nomad. Always on the move.
And then he had said the most important words of all.
I gave him my blessing, for he has promised to provide protection and affection for my favorite daughter. And then I gave him most of your dowry. The rest I have hidden in your bedchamber at home, so I have some assurance you will come visit me at least once more in this lifetime.
She had expected the protection, of course, but a promise of affection? They had only known one another a week.
Not even a week.
Six days.
As for his comment about her being his favorite daughter—she was his only daughter.
At least as far as she knew.
But his last comment? Despite Jasper’s teasing question when they had ridden in the park—the one about her coming into her majority and guessing what she might have done with her inheritance—Marianne had told him that she hadn’t taken possession of the fifteen-thousand pounds, but she hadn’t mentioned that she or her husband, should she ever marry, would one day inherit a distillery. A rather lucrative distillery. If her father hadn’t informed Jasper, then she figured she wouldn’t, either. Better to allow some time to pass and to determine how well they suited before telling him what his future might hold.
Marianne watched as a porter saw to loading her trunks. Although one had been half-empty upon her arrival in London, her aunt had seen to it she had bride clothes to fill it and another they had purchased that week, claiming she would need a variety of gowns for where she was going.
Cherice was still grousing about Marianne’s lack of a lady’s maid, even after she was assured that Jasper would arrange one upon their arrival in Sicily. I have a colleague who has arranged a villa for us and who can recommend someone, he had assured her.
Marianne wasn’t sure what she expected in the way of accommodations on the vessel, but she was pleasantly surprised when a porter escorted them to a cabin with walls covered in mahogany and outfitted with rich furnishings. The room was small, to be sure, but every inch of space had been designed for optimal storage and comfort. There were even sconces mounted on the walls, their tiny flames bathing the room in a soft glow.
With the trunks delivered and the cabin’s door shut and its bolt thrown, Marianne realized it would only be a matter of time before Jasper would bed her. She wondered if dinner would be served later, or if he had arranged for provisions to be delivered. Not having traveled on a ship before, she didn’t yet know if she would suffer from seasickness.
“I hope you like it,” Jasper whispered as he drew her into his arms. Although the quarters were larger than the cabin he had originally reserved, he didn’t plan to spend much time in it given his discomfort in enclosed spaces. A frown creased his brow. “You can’t even see all of it, can you?”
Marianne gave a shake of her head. She could see enough, although all the edges of the furnishings were blurry. “I can see that it’s quite elegant,” she countered, her gaze going to the settee. She realized right then that they would both be sharing the bed, for the settee wouldn’t begin to accommodate either one of them.
“Would it be...?” He stopped and swallowed.
“Would it be...?” she repeated. His lips were suddenly on hers, his arms wrapping around her shoulders and waist so that he could pull her against the front of his body. When he ended the kiss, he left his forehead pressed against hers.
“I wish to make love to you.”
Knowing she should have expected the request even before nightfall—Cherice had warned her he might wish to bed her even before the breakfast commenced—Marianne gave a nod. “It’s your right, of course,” she whispered as she pulled the drawstring of her reticule from around her wrist and tossed it onto the table. She followed it with her gloves, cursing at herself for how her fingers trembled.
Jasper took her hands into his and frowned. “If you don�
�t wish to do it now, just say so, and I will wait.” He nearly cursed himself for saying the words. He couldn’t believe how his desire for her had bloomed since they had stepped into the cabin. For the first time since that moment in the park when he had formally proposed, they were alone.
Would he always feel this attraction to her? This need to hold her close? This lust? He couldn’t remember his reaction to Sophie being this intense.
“That’s very kind of you, but I think it best we do it now,” Marianne replied, her words sounding so much more confident than she felt just then. “I haven’t done this before,” she murmured as she removed her pelisse and draped it over a chair. “Of course,” she added, realizing how her comment would sound. She pulled her bonnet from her head.
“I shan’t be long inside you,” he murmured quietly. “I don’t wish to cause you pain, but I fear—”
“I know,” Marianne said as she regarded the small bunk. There was barely room for the two of them to lay side-by-side, but there wasn’t another bed in the cabin. “Aunt Cherice told me.”
Jasper bit back what first came to mind, wondering what the former Lady Winslow had told Marianne about the marriage bed. “I will pleasure you first, of course, and make you as ready as I can,” he explained, his voice soft.
Merely nodding, Marianne turned her back to him and then comprehended his words about pleasuring her. A frisson shot through her body as she wondered how he intended to pleasure her when he also knew he would be causing her pain. “You’ll have to help undress me,” she said as she angled her head to one side. She swallowed, annoyed at how her body had begun to tremble, as if she feared what he would do to her. She didn’t—not really—but she couldn’t help the feeling of unease that gripped her. “Can you undo the buttons?”
About to lift his fingers to the nape of her neck, Jasper instead lowered his lips to the bit of skin that showed there. Despite her body’s jerk, Jasper trailed a series of kisses along the top of her neckline and to the back of her ear. He heard her soft inhalation of breath as he wrapped an arm around her waist and gently pulled her against the front of his body.
The Vision of a Viscountess (The Widowers of the Aristocracy Book 2) Page 8
