“Is there any other? What on earth is that thing on her head?” Creighton asked, grunting as Tillie trod on his foot to get a better view.
“Bugger that,” Marcus replied. “What is she doing here and why is she going to the church? What poor bastard brought her up from London?”
“I’d really rather not bugger that, if it’s all the same to you, Selridge.” Creighton grinned at his pun, one he’d nearly worn out when they were together at Oxford.
It occurred to Marcus this entire scene was very reminiscent of his schooldays, and it made him smile. The last year had been so hard, he had almost forgotten the strength to be found in shared humor, shared fears, and shared fun. The only other time he had felt it was with Addy, in a cave, in the dark. Maybe a little in the gardens, the night he’d given her a ring and very nearly, her first lesson in passion. Who was teaching whom, was the question.
No, it was not quite the same. The fun of that evening had quickly changed into something far more powerful and frightening. Which was why he had chosen to avoid her. The feelings she stirred in him, swept him into such a state of chaos and desire; he could not think straight. As much as he feared that chaos, he found he craved it on a daily basis. How was he supposed to be the responsible administrator of a vast estate, when he spent hours a day fantasizing about a twenty-year-old girl’s lips?
“Egad. You poor man.” Creighton’s outburst drew Marcus back to the conversation at hand.
“Who is a poor man?” he asked.
“Jeffries, here,” Tillie said. He’d finally gotten the name right. A mistake, to be sure. “Seems your mother asked him to escort Hellishly Haverly up from London to attend, not only the wedding breakfast, but the wedding as well.”
“Good God, man.” Marcus put his hand on Jeffries’s shoulder as he and his friends shook their heads in commiseration. “Do you need to sit down? How could my mother do that to you?”
Jeffries turned, took Marcus’s white silk embroidered waistcoat from the clothes press, and held it up for him to don. “I assure you, Your Grace, I was happy to do it.”
“Does he drink, Selridge?” Creighton asked.
“If I had to escort that old harridan all the way from London,” Tillie observed. “I would need a bottle of brandy every hundred or so miles.”
“The trick, sir, is to give her a bottle every hundred miles.” Jeffries’s expression never changed as he pulled the dark blue cutaway coat from the wardrobe and held it up as he had the waistcoat.
Marcus slipped his arms into the sleeves and allowed the valet to settle it onto his broad frame whilst the others roared with laughter.
“Well played there, Jeffries,” he said with a grin. “Very few men can get the better of these two wits.”
The valet nodded, his mouth curving into the first real grin Marcus had ever seen by the man. With movements that disappeared like smoke, he slid the pier glass in front of the now fully dressed duke. As Marcus studied his reflection, Jeffries fetched the horsehair clothes brush. Creighton and Tillie stepped to either side of the mirror to appraise the groom’s appearance.
“Tis not the first time Jeffries has bested us, Selridge,” Creighton said. “I have never seen a better hand at whist in my life. Will there be cards this evening, do you think?”
“By jove, you are right, Creighton,” Tillie agreed. “I had forgotten. He and your brother took us for nigh on five hundred pounds, whilst we waited to see if you would cock up your toes, Selridge.”
“Good God, Tillie,” Creighton groaned. “That is not why we were there.”
Marcus’s eyes snapped up and locked with Jeffries’s. His cocked head and look of puzzlement must have conveyed his question. The answer came quickly.
“These gentlemen were at your bedside in London for nearly six weeks, Your Grace. Had they not been, I fear your brother might never have slept at all. You are fortunate to have such friends.”
Creighton and Tillie? They had been friends for years, that much was true. Never would he have believed either of them to be the type to keep vigil over a dying man. That is what he was those first weeks after Waterloo. He had no memory of it. Later, the physicians said it was a miracle he had awakened after so long. It appeared there might be more to it than that. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, clenching his fist as his bad one spasmed.
“I—I had no idea. I don’t remember any of it.” He made no attempt to clear the roughness from his voice. “I owe you, all three of you, a great debt, it would seem.”
“Nonsense.” Creighton, who never blushed, turned slightly pink. “The food and wine were free, the accommodations luxurious, and the whist beyond compare. Only a fool would turn down such a holiday.”
“Josties is right about one thing,” Tillie said. Creighton threw up his hands and went to open the door into the hallway. “Your brother never left your side. Even to sleep. He napped on a rather uncomfortable cot from time to time, but he never left the room. Well, except when he went down to give Miss Formsby-Smythe a progress report.”
Marcus did not miss Tillie’s reference to the cot’s lack of comfort. Only someone who had slept on it himself would know. In spite of his complete lack of tact, and an obliviousness to the feelings of those he considered beneath him, Tildenbury was a good man. It was his reference to Clementine that took Marcus aback.
“Clementine came to ask after me?” He was uncertain if the answer meant anything to him anymore, but his curiosity got the better of him. When he saw the looks his friends and even Jeffries exchanged, he was less certain of his need to know.
“Actually, Your Grace, it was Miss Adelaide Formsby-Smythe who came to call,” Jeffries finally said. “Every day, if I am not mistaken. Until you were declared out of danger.”
“I see.” He really didn’t. The idea of her checking on him every day for six weeks warmed him in a way he had never thought possible. He was certain she had only done so for Julius’s sake. Addy had been in love with his brother. Reason enough for her to be concerned about Marcus. What if there were other reasons for her visits? All of this gave him the sinking feeling she was going to wreak far more havoc with his emotions than he ever imagined. It scared the hell out of him.
“It appears you are marrying the right chit after all, Selridge,” Tillie declared. “Wives are supposed to care about your health and all that rot.”
“As if you would know, Tillie.” Creighton swept his arm toward the door. “He won’t be marrying anyone if we don’t get him to the church. It’s bad form for the bride to arrive there first, you know.”
“What makes you think she will?” Marcus asked, even as he scanned the room in search of his grandmother’s wedding ring.
“There does seem to be some sort of commotion coming from the guest wing.” Tillie stood in the middle of the corridor and craned his neck in that direction. “Can’t see a thing, but there is a great deal of squealing and such going on.”
“Squealing? Do you think there is something the matter?” Marcus asked. He and Creighton stepped out to join Tillie, followed by Jeffries.
The red and gold Aubusson carpets muffled their steps as they walked toward the end of the corridor where the guest wing met the main third floor corridor. Every few feet a marble pedestal supported a heavy porcelain urn spilling over in a cascade of flowers. The baseboards and molding gleamed like silver. His mother had not missed a detail in planning this wedding. If he saw one more example of what a momentous day this was, Marcus had a plan of his own. Cry craven and run away to join the Royal Navy, bad leg and all.
A low rumble of noise filtered up the hall. Like a great many running feet, punctuated by a random high-pitched shriek every now and again. The three friends looked at each other in confusion.
“Should we?” Tillie asked.
“Gentlemen?” Jeffries interrupted. They turned to look at him. He checked a heavy gold pocket watch. Marcus recognized it as Julius’s. “The church awaits, Your Grace. Might I recommend the quiet of it,
to the preparations of your mother, your bride, her mother, her cousins, all of their personal maids, the housemaids, a modiste, six modiste’s helpers and—”
“Say no more, my good man,” Creighton said as he grabbed Marcus’s arm. “We’re off. Tillie, come along. Don’t dawdle. We know our duty. We must deliver Selridge here to the executioner, I mean, to the parson on time.”
“You are not remotely funny, Creighton. You know that, don’t you?” Marcus said as he allowed himself to be dragged down the carpet to the stairs. “Wait. The ring. I forgot the bloody ring.”
“Your Grace?” Jeffries held up the diamond encrusted band. “I found this on your shaving stand.” Before Marcus could do so, Creighton plucked it from the valet’s outstretched hand.
“Give it to me, Jeffries. In his present state, he’ll lose the damned thing and then we will have to deal with his mother. Perish the thought.”
Tillie shuddered in agreement and nodded vigorously.
“I am not in a state,” Marcus declared. He had been saying that very thing a little over a week ago. He used the burnished cherry wood of the banister to steady himself as he descended the stairs. “Creighton, for God’s sake slow down. I would rather not take a tumble down these stairs and break my neck before I am married.”
“And afterwards?” Creighton asked with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Afterwards, I may ask you to push me.” Marcus gritted his teeth as the hard surface of the marble floor in the foyer sent a lance of pain up his leg.
“Anything in service of a friend, you know that.”
Marcus stopped on the front terrace as the footman went out to call the carriage around. He pulled on the white gloves Jeffries handed him. The man’s efficiency awed him. What awed him more was what he owed these men—one beyond humble in every way possible, the other two flippant and casual in an effort to hide their finer qualities. He wouldn’t have noticed it six months ago. His rage and despair had blinded him to so much for so long. Until Adelaide Formsby-Smythe was thrust into his life. He tried to shake them off—these new and embarrassing thoughts—like so much rain on an umbrella. Not entirely successfully.
“Here is the carriage, Your Grace,” Jeffries said, giving Marcus’s shoulders a final brush. “If I do not see you later today, I wish to—”
“Not see me? What are talking about, Jeffries? You are coming to the church.”
“It is not my place, Your Grace. I am not part of the staff any longer. It was my understanding the wedding was to be for family and a few select friends.” He nodded at Creighton and Tillie. “It would be—”
“I want you to escort my mother to the service, if you would,” Marcus made his request without being quite clear as to why. It was right, on a day when so much was not. “This is a joyous day for her, Jeffries. However, it will be… difficult as well. I would consider it a great favor if you would look after her for me.”
Today, of all days, his mother would miss Julius. Today might have been his wedding day, in spite of everything. Marcus missed him too—for a hundred reasons, both great and small. Jeffries, of all people, would understand completely.
“Of course, Your Grace,” came the soft reply. “It would be an honor.” He lifted his head and squared his shoulders. “I shall see you at the church.”
Creighton stepped up into the carriage, to be joined by Marcus. Tillie climbed in last and pulled the door closed behind him. As the footmen scrambled onto the back it was Tillie who tried to get in the last word.
“We could make a dash for the coast, Selridge, if you are having second thoughts.” He cackled at his own joke.
“The lady has four brothers, sir,” Jeffries called after them. “You might want to rethink that.”
“Good God.” Tillie replied.
Chapter Eleven
Percival had stolen her shoe.
Now, when one plans a wedding in less than a fortnight, a few problems here and there are to be expected. Especially when the two women who plan said wedding have lost all sense of what “quiet,” “private,” and “simple” mean. In such a case, a monumental difficulty, perhaps even a minor catastrophe, would not be out of place.
Little did they know, they had been far more fortunate than they deserved. Half the merchants on Bond Street sent representatives or made the pilgrimage to Winfield Abbey themselves at the request of the Duchess of Selridge. Each of them—from the tailor, to the modiste, to the milliner, to the confectioner, ad infinitum—had accomplished the impossible with a minimum amount of fuss.
Adelaide felt perfectly justified, therefore, when she found her present position and the complete chaos around her a bit of a surprise. She was to be married in less than an hour, and Percival had stolen her shoe. Her mother ran around the lovely bedchamber exclaiming to anyone who would listen (their numbers were dwindling by the moment) the entire wedding was ruined. Ruined beyond all repair, and all for the lack of the mate to the shoe Adelaide’s cousin, Anne Deleford, held clutched in her hand.
Anne had come up from London to stand up with her at the church. Her other cousin, Wilhemina Rawlings, who was to serve the same function, now stood on the bed in all of her wedding finery and screamed at the top of her lungs about rats and vermin. Which annoyed Adelaide no end, as Percival, the shoe thief who started it all, was not a rat at all, but a rabbit. A very large, very aged, and apparently very near-sighted rabbit. He’d obviously mistaken the little satin roses on Adelaide’s wedding shoes for cabbages or some other rabbit treat.
Thus it was, Adelaide stood on the dressmaker’s stool, the skirts of her wedding dress pulled up to her knees. Everyone else frantically ran about like madwomen and tried to find her shoe. Actually, she was not altogether certain that was what they were doing at all. All they appeared to do was work each other into an even more heightened frenzy—a frenzy any self-respecting rabbit would work diligently to escape.
“I’m dreadfully sorry about all this, Addy,” Anne said, even as she glanced around the room and tried to spot the errant Percival amidst the feet of the scurrying servants. “I can’t think how he got out of his box.”
“If you wouldn’t insist on carrying him about in an oversized hatbox, this wouldn’t have happened.” With Anne’s assistance, Adelaide stepped down from the stool and dropped her skirts to the floor. She wiggled her white-stocking-clad toes in the carpet and sighed. “There must be fifty hatboxes in my trousseau. One of the maids probably opened yours by mistake.”
“Fifty?” Anne’s astonishment was clear even if her face was not. Still clutching the remaining shoe, she lifted the bed skirt and looked under the bed. A bed that shook violently as Wilhemina ran back and forth on it, still screaming.
“Willie, for God’s sake, do stop.” Adelaide ordered. “You’ve known Percival for ten years or more. Why on earth are you carrying on so? Get down and help us look for my shoe.” The screaming and running stopped, and a very put out Wilhemina glared at her.
“Addy, how can you be so cruel? I have never liked the nasty little creature and I won’t if Anne keeps him another ten years. I am not leaving this bed until he is found. What if he runs up my skirts?” Wilhemina crossed her plump arms over her bosom and shuddered.
“He’ll likely be the only male who ever does,” Anne whispered in Adelaide’s ear as they dodged a maid who had returned with some smelling salts for the modiste. At the mention of the word “rabbit” the poor woman had fainted gracefully onto the sofa and had not stirred since.
“Anne, you’re horrible,” Adelaide said as they both knelt down to look under the vanity table.
“That’s why I am your favorite cousin. You are my favorite cousin because you never threaten to make a stew out of dear Percival.”
“Cousin Horace is my favorite cousin,” Adelaide said. She gave up on the search and sat down at the vanity. “And I would not mind if old Percy took the other shoe as well. They’re very pretty, but they pinch my feet.”
Anne rose to stand behind her
and began to make repairs to Addy’s elaborate coiffure. The personal maid the duchess had insisted on hiring for her had created a masterpiece. Adelaide’s recent activities, however, had dislodged a strand or two from the ivory and pearl combs that held it in place.
“Only you would complain such perfectly delicious shoes are too tight. They must have cost a small fortune. And how can Cousin Horace be your favorite? He is nearly seventy, deaf as a post, and never says a word.” She handed Adelaide the shoe she held and placed a delicate wreath of damask roses and orange flowers on her hair.
“If you lived in a house with my mother, Clementine and four brothers you would see Cousin Horace’s appeal, Anne, dear. Besides, he always has those lovely peppermint drops in his pockets.”
“Hmm. Point taken,” Anne agreed. “I do love a good peppermint.”
In any situation, no matter how loud or ridiculous, Adelaide and Anne had always managed to find a place to sit and have a quiet coze. Whilst the world around them went mad. Which it frequently did in their family. It was one of the things she appreciated most about her cousin.
“So, is that why you are marrying His Grace? To escape the noise?”
Anne’s tendency to ambush people with very pointed questions, however, was not one of her finer qualities. In fact, it was dashed annoying. So was her habit of following one pointed question with another.
“Or perhaps it is why you failed to invite Dylan Crosby to the festivities. Trying to keep the noise down?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Anne Deleford.” Adelaide held out her hand to admire her betrothal ring. It now sat on her right ring finger to make way for the wedding ring Marcus would place on her left. “If Dylan was not invited, it was an oversight. Perhaps he could not be reached in time.” She turned from the vanity mirror and got to her feet. Once she dropped the shoe on the floor, Adelaide made short work of wiggling her foot into it.
“I see,” Anne said. The words were spoken in such a way Adelaide knew her cousin read far more romantic notions into Dylan’s exclusion than existed. The oversight had been deliberate, but not for the reasons Anne thought. Had he realized she was engaged to be married, to the Duke of Selridge, no less, he never would have allowed her to go on their latest rescue mission. Plenty of time to tell Dylan of her new title after the honeymoon.
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 13
