At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology)

by Caroline Linden

  “Oh, Frank!” Rosanne wailed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean this to happen.”

  Christian tore off his jacket, losing a button or two, and draped it over her shoulders. A nasty knot in his stomach told him he might be about to lose both his friend and his bride, judging by her agonized tears. The least he could do was protect her from the insolent gaze of Jack-bloody-Willoughby. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled at Willoughby. “Fetch a doctor. He could be bleeding to death.”

  He fell on his knees next to Rosanne, nudging her out of the way. “Let me see.”

  “How could you shoot him?” she asked through a sob. “Why did you do anything so terrible?”

  “I didn’t mean to.” He leaned over his cousin, feeling his chest and limbs for a wound. Thank God his heartbeat seemed strong and he was breathing deeply, almost panting. “Damnation, Frank. By what miracle did I hit you while you missed? The pistols must have been off.”

  “Newnham fired into the air,” either Blair or Willoughby said.

  He had deloped. The knot in Christian’s stomach dissolved into nausea. “Wake up, Frank. Tell me where I hit you.”

  Frank rolled over, “Hell’s teeth, man. You missed me by a yard. Can’t you do better than that? Good thing you aren’t in a foot regiment.”

  “He’s all right!” Rosanne burst into tears and threw herself into Christian’s arms. “Thank God!”

  Her relief, expressed in shuddering sobs, could hardly exceed Christian’s own. Now he knew he hadn’t shot Frank, the joy of holding Rosanne engulfed him. In the shelter of his jacket he found her slender waist and drew her close, murmuring incoherent words of love into her disordered hair.

  “I thought he was dead,” she said into his chest.

  “No one is happier than I that I didn’t hurt him.” Lifting her chin, he kissed her eyelids, wiped the salty tears from her cheeks with his thumb, then took her lips. Even under these circumstances their kiss was perfection, as it always would be. When her hands touched his face, he realized he would never again give a damn about the scar.

  “Ahem.”

  Someone’s cough released him from a blissful trance. What he did care about was that his coat had fallen off and her undergarments were on display to the interested gaze of no fewer than three gentlemen. Helping her up, he rearranged the red tunic about her shoulders and met Frank’s gaze.

  “Will you accept my apology now, Frank?” He offered his hand, searching for softening and seeing only a dull pain.

  His cousin nodded despondently. “I wish you both happiness.”

  “Thank you,” Rosanne said softly. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

  “You picked the better man.”

  “No,” she replied. “Not better, but the right one for me.”

  An uneasy silence fell, broken by the arrival of a limping Kate Lacy. “I turned my ankle and missed the whole thing. I heard shots but as far as I can see no one was hit. What happened?”

  “What did happen?” asked Blair, who had been standing with Willoughby at a short distance from the trio.

  Frank’s face turned sheepish, a welcome return to a familiar look. “When Rosanne arrived shrieking, my attention wavered and I tripped on a thick tuft of grass. My fault. First rule of dueling is examine your ground. Lucky I was aiming high or I might have hit Chris by mistake.”

  “So neither of you meant to shoot each other?” Rosanne asked.

  “Of course not,” Frank replied. “We’re cousins.”

  Kate threw up her hands. “Then why fight a duel at all?”

  Christian and Frank traded infinitesimal smiles. “Shall I answer that?” Frank nodded. “It’s because we are gentlemen.”

  It was the sisters’ turn to exchange glances, of utter incomprehension, while Frank finally took Christian’s hand then seized him into a hug. “Are you going to be all right?” Christian asked.

  “Yes,” Frank said with his usual eloquence and Christian knew what it was like not to have a care in the world.

  “I don’t know about you,” Willoughby said, “but I’m hungry. Besides, I have something important to look for—er—to do.”

  The party moved back toward the house, Kate hopping along, hanging onto Frank’s arm and chattering like a magpie.

  Christian and Rosanne let the others go ahead. “You know,” she said, “Kate claims to like a silent man.”

  “She certainly talks enough for two. Perhaps Frank and I will end up brothers-in-law.”

  “That would be splendid.” With wild hair, reddened eyes, and her gown falling off, she had never looked more beautiful, and she smiled as though, miraculously, she felt the same way about him. He drew her into the shadow of a sturdy tree.

  “Right now,” he said, “I’m not interested in anyone’s marriage but ours.”

  “Not even the duke’s?”

  “Especially not his.”

  A long, delicious kiss later, he reluctantly set her aside. “How soon can we be married? Tomorrow?”

  “My mother will want to organize a big wedding and introduce you to our friends and relations. Also all the neighbors she most dislikes, so that she can show off having a daughter married at last.” She laughed at his heartfelt groan.

  “I look forward to getting to know your family, and I don’t even mind impressing the neighbors. But I’d rather do it as a married man.”

  She gave him a saucy look through lowered eyelids. “I hear the Archbishop of Canterbury is arriving today.”

  “I shall speak to him about a special license. Then my career as a good-tempered, sociable man can begin. Now turn around and let me fasten your gown.”

  “I don’t want you to change one little bit.” She cast a delightfully lascivious glance over her shoulder that set him sizzling to his core. “I dreamed of you last night and wished you were in bed with me.”

  “The sooner I am, all night and every night, the better.”

  -o0o-

  Author Biography

  Miranda Neville grew up in England, loving the books of Georgette Heyer and other Regency romances. She now lives in Vermont with her daughter and an immensely talented cat, who made a book trailer for her last novel. Her historical romances published by Avon include the popular Burgundy Club series, about Regency book collectors, and the current Wild Quartet. P.S. I Love You was inspired by Cyrano de Bergerac and her very talented fellow authors.

  For more information about Miranda and her books, and a link to the fabulous feline book trailer, visit her website, www.mirandaneville.com.

  When I Met My Duchess

  By

  Caroline Linden

  Chapter One

  It was going to be a terrific storm.

  Gareth Cavendish, Duke of Wessex, surveyed the rapidly darkening sky as he stood on the steps of his country estate. Gray-violet clouds boiled up in angry billows and every few seconds thunder rumbled, as if the storm were clearing its throat, preparing to roar. But so far not a drop had fallen.

  “I do hope they’re near,” he murmured, scanning the pristine landscape of his property. “The clouds may burst at any moment.”

  The man behind him shifted his weight. “Sir William is a very punctual man.”

  “Yes.” Gareth narrowed his gaze upon a far-off puff of dust, just visible beyond the stately oaks that lined the road leading to Kingstag Castle. A servant had been sent out to watch for the visitors’ arrival, but it was still over a mile from the main gates to the house. A moment later, a traveling chaise-and-four emerged around the last turn. “There. Just as you said, Blair. Very punctual.”

  His secretary murmured a vague reply.

  The carriage bowled smartly down the drive, drawing nearer. He stood a little straighter. It wasn’t every day a man welcomed his bride-to-be to his home. Miss Helen Grey, younger daughter of Sir William Grey and the toast of the Season, would be the Duchess of Wessex by the end of the month. Gareth was very pleased with the match. Her father’s best property marched with one of h
is smaller estates, and according to the marriage settlements, that land would be his one day, as Grey had no sons. It was a good match as well, for the Greys were an old and respected family, even if they had fallen on rather hard times of late. And the young lady herself was ideal: a serene, gracious manner, a lovely face and form, and a beautiful voice. Helen Grey would make the perfect Duchess of Wessex.

  Gareth glanced again at the sky. He hoped the storm broke soon and blew over quickly. Guests were to begin arriving the next day, and he shuddered to imagine the chaos if everyone was kept indoors for the next week.

  “Let us hope there are no lightning strikes, hmm?” He half-turned to flash a faint smile at his secretary, who nodded, stony-faced. Gareth took another look at the man who was not merely his secretary. James Blair was his distant cousin from a poorer branch of the family and superbly competent. He relied on him like he relied on his right arm. Normally they worked together in perfect tandem, Blair anticipating his thoughts and Gareth relying on his cousin’s uncommonly good judgment in all matters. No one was more closely acquainted with his business concerns or personal matters, nor a better friend. He trusted the man completely.

  But now his secretary looked as though a funeral train were approaching instead of a bridal party. “All right, Blair?” he asked curiously.

  Blair stared straight ahead, his eyes flat. “Yes.”

  He glanced toward the approaching chaise as an awful thought struck him. Good Lord. There couldn’t be something about this marriage giving him pause, could there? Blair had conducted the marriage settlement negotiations on his behalf while estate business had kept Gareth in the country. Naturally, he must have seen Miss Grey and her family a fair amount. Alarm stirred in his chest. Perhaps Blair has seen something troubling but hesitated to bring it up now that the documents had been signed and the engagement announced. Blair would notice. Blair also would not want to embarrass him.

  He cleared his throat. “You seem quiet. No reservations about the bride, I hope?”

  At last Blair looked at him, albeit reluctantly. “No. Miss Grey is a very suitable choice.”

  That seemed an evasive answer. “Were there any problems with Sir William?” he asked, lowering his voice even further. Blair shook his head. “Come, man, what is it?” he prodded. “You look positively grim.”

  Blair’s chest filled as if he would speak, and then he sighed. “My apologies, Wessex,” he muttered. “It must be the storm.”

  Gareth closed his eyes and mentally smacked himself on the forehead; he’d completely forgotten Blair had been frightened of storms as a boy. Perhaps he still was, and now Gareth had just gone and forced him to admit it aloud. “Of course,” he murmured quickly.

  “I wish you and Miss Grey every happiness,” added his secretary with a forced smile.

  Gareth nodded, happy to let the conversation lapse. The carriage was almost to the steps, and for a second he wondered what he might have done if Blair had confessed some wariness about Miss Grey or the marriage in general. He couldn’t very well just send her home, but it would have been gravely alarming had James found her wanting.

  There was a rustle of silk behind him. “I hope I’m not late,” said his mother as she stepped up beside him.

  “Your timing is perfect,” he said. “I presume Bridget had something to do with it.”

  “As ever,” she replied under her breath.

  Gareth shot his mother a quick glance. All three of his sisters were beside themselves with excitement over the impending celebrations and desperately eager to meet Miss Grey, the reigning toast of London. But while Serena and Alexandra were capable of proper, dignified behavior, the youngest had a true genius for trouble. If anything were to break, go missing, or inexplicably wind up on the roof, Bridget was sure to be found nearby, protesting—with a perfectly straight face—that the most incredible circumstances had caused it. Normally he took Bridget’s mishaps in stride, but he would be eternally grateful if she managed to behave properly for the next fortnight. Perhaps he ought to tell Withers, the butler, to post footmen outside the guest rooms to make certain Bridget didn’t accidentally inflict a broken leg or a black eye on the bride.

  “She’ll be on her best behavior, won’t she?” he asked, praying that would be good enough.

  “Yes.” The duchess gave him a confident smile. “I’ve told her she will be excluded from all the wedding festivities if she is not. For now, I’ve sent her to help Henrietta entertain Sophronia.”

  His shoulders eased. “A masterstroke.” The only person more capable than Bridget of causing trouble was Sophronia, his great-great-aunt. Or was she a great-great-great-aunt? He tended to think of her in the same vein as the statues in the garden: ancient, crumbling, and utterly impervious to anything. Normally Sophronia kept to her own apartments with her companion, Henrietta Black. But if she and Bridget could occupy each other tonight, so much the better for everyone.

  “Never let it be said I don’t know my children.” His mother turned to face him and her gaze sharpened. “Do you love this girl, Gareth?”

  She only called him Gareth when she wanted to get his attention. His eyes narrowed, but he spoke calmly. “What has love got to do with marriage?” He knew it existed and that it was pleasant to find it in marriage, but he’d never met a woman who stirred him, even slightly, the way poets and romantics sighed about: the world upended, walking on air, being struck by lightning from a clear blue sky. Rubbish. Whatever else Gareth might have been amenable to, he preferred to keep his feet on the ground, and he most certainly didn’t want to be hit by lightning. If such a force even existed, he was just as happy not to know about it. His marriage to Miss Grey would be elegant, refined, and sensible: in a word, perfect.

  “Don’t scoff,” said his parent. “You know I only ask out of concern. You’ve persuaded me the match is advantageous for both parties, but you’ve hardly said one word about your feelings for the lady herself.”

  “She’s lovely. She’ll make a very suitable duchess and mother. You’ll adore her.”

  “I wasn’t worried about my adoring her,” replied the duchess. “I worry about you adoring her.”

  His jaw tightened. What a time to ask that question. “I have the utmost respect for her, and I trust we shall be very content with one another.”

  His mother only sighed.

  Irked at her and at Blair for ruffling what had promised to be a perfectly smooth welcoming, he descended the steps as the carriage reached the gravel and slowed to a more decorous speed. There was nothing to reproach in his actions. He was a sensible man who made logical decisions. He thought he’d chosen quite well, despite his mother’s sentimental disquiet and his secretary’s grim silence. If they had some objection to this marriage, he thought darkly, they had better speak soon or forever hold their peace.

  But this was not the moment to brood about that. Straightening his shoulders, he prepared to welcome his future wife and her family. Miss Grey, her parents, and her elder sister would spend the next fortnight at Kingstag, preparing for the wedding at the end of that time. Behind him, the butler, housekeeper, and a few servants waited at the ready to greet their soon-to-be mistress. The house had been cleaned and polished to a bright shine over the last month to appear at its best for the wedding. He darted a quick glance at his mother, but she silently stepped up beside him, her serene smile back in place, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  The sky growled again as the coach pulled to a halt. A dust-covered servant jumped down to open the door, and Sir William alighted first. The baronet fairly radiated triumph. “A very great pleasure, Your Grace,” he boomed, sweeping a bow as the servant turned to help Lady Grey down.

  “The pleasure is mine, sir. Welcome.” Gareth greeted the older gentleman. “May I present my mother, the Duchess of Wessex?” His mother stepped forward and graciously greeted the baronet.

  Gareth turned his attention to Lady Grey. “Welcome to Kingstag Castle, madam.” He bowed over her hand.
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  Her pleased eyes climbed the façade of the house before she turned a beaming smile on him. “A pleasure it is to be here, sir. And for such a happy occasion!” She laughed, a little trill of delight. He smiled, then stepped forward to help his betrothed down from the carriage himself.

  Helen Grey was lovely, he thought approvingly as she stepped down, her small hand nestled in his. He’d thought so from the moment he met her. Her dark hair was arranged in the latest style, her dress the picture of elegance. She looked as fresh and beautiful as the roses in his mother’s garden. The Greys must have stopped so she could change and refresh herself before arriving. “Welcome to my home, Miss Grey.” He raised her hand to his lips as he bowed.

  She blushed, her cheeks a perfect soft pink. Her dark eyes glowed as she gave a little curtsey. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m delighted to arrive at last.”

  Gareth smiled in satisfaction. She truly was the perfect bride. Her voice was just as lovely as he remembered, and her person even lovelier. Her manner was gentle and sweet. What more could a man ask for in a wife? He presented her to the duchess, pleased to see his mother greet her as warmly and graciously as ever. He knew she would never be rude or crass, but he wouldn’t put it past her to probe—in that delicate, almost imperceptible way she had—into Miss Grey’s feelings as well.

  “How fortunate you arrived before the storm broke,” he said to Sir William. “It’s been threatening all day.”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Lady Grey, fanning herself. “We were quite worried we would be caught in a downpour.”

  “It looks to be a bad one,” observed Sir William, squinting at the sky.

  “Indeed. Shall we proceed inside?” Gareth paused, remembering something. “But did you not say your eldest daughter would also be accompanying you?”

  A moment of silence passed over the group. Sir William and Lady Grey exchanged a glance. Miss Grey wet her lips. “Yes. My sister did come. She wanted a moment to repair her appearance, I believe.”