The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “I must bid? Are you saying the painting cannot be sold outright?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Why would I sell it outright when I can make far more money at auction?”

  “How much?” she repeated. “What does an old painting go for? Fifty pounds? One hundred?”

  He grinned. “Any old painting, perhaps. But not a portrait of the Black Prince. It’s worth seven or eight hundred pounds on its own merit, but at auction… The family history alone will fetch a few hundred more.”

  Over a thousand pounds. She slumped into the coachman. Even if she handed over every penny of her dowry, it still wouldn’t be enough.

  “Do you take evening gowns?”

  The pawnbroker’s head jerked up, startled. “What?”

  “Dresses made of the finest fabrics, by the most famous of the London modistes.”

  “No. I don’t think anyone—”

  “They’re dreadfully expensive,” she insisted. “I even have some new ones that have never been worn. They can be let out, tucked in… Any lady would snap up the opportunity to have even one of these at a fraction of the original cost.”

  His lips hinted at a smile. “How many of these dreadfully expensive gowns do you have?”

  “Dozens. I’ll sell you all of them in exchange for the Black Prince.”

  He laughed. “I doubt their value will even come close. Feel free to bring them by, however. I never turn down a client without seeing what he has to offer.”

  Grace inclined her head, her palms sweaty. If it still weren’t enough to buy back the Black Prince, perhaps her dresses would at least finance a return voyage to America to care for her mother. Then she could return her dowry money to Oliver. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she would not be leaving him with less than what he’d started with. If what he preferred was his wife…Well.

  She couldn’t have all her wishes granted either.

  Chapter 16

  The next Sunday, Oliver stood at the altar awaiting his bride and valiantly tried not to fidget. He’d never been so nervous in his life. Every part of him was on edge, every nerve twitching with anticipation. It was as if he’d stepped onto a battlefield, not into a church.

  His body thrummed with energy. With the wrenching desire to make this day perfect, and the bitter knowledge that he could not. His bride deserved so much. Yet this was all he had.

  Weddings were typically small affairs with family and a few close friends. In this instance, the ceremony was considerably smaller.

  The very presence of his four best friends showed how deeply they cared for him. Xavier, still withdrawn, but moving of his own accord. Bart, out in public for the first time since he’d been fitted with the false leg. Sarah Fairfax, huge belly and all. Even Ravenwood was there, a sappy grin overtaking his arrogant countenance. For a sobersides, the man loved weddings.

  Oliver was happy to oblige. He just wished he could give Grace more than this.

  Four people. Total.

  No family present for the bride or the groom.

  In Oliver’s case, he had no family. In Grace’s case… Well, he’d tried. Harder than he’d believed humanly possible. Yet even her grandparents hadn’t bothered to make an appearance at the church they’d reserved.

  He’d signed the contract. He supposed that truly was all they cared about. In which case—good riddance to bad relatives. Grace might’ve agreed to be his bride only because circumstances had forced her, but Oliver had not. He fully intended to prove that his love for her was the one and only reason he was standing at the altar.

  Just as soon as she arrived. He slipped the fob from his pocket to check his watch. Well after nine. He lifted his fingers to his neck to adjust his cravat then immediately forced his hands down at his sides. If he touched his cravat one more time it would hang from his throat like a limp white nappy. But why hadn’t they started? Where the devil was his bride? And the vicar? His cravat was much too tight. He was suffocating from all this linen. From this cavernous, empty cathedral.

  He rolled back his shoulders and tried to laugh it off. Ha, ha, ha. He’d been standing there for half an hour or more. Grace would never jilt him at the altar…Would she? He glanced at his friends but couldn’t hold their gazes for long. Not when Grace still wasn’t here. It would be a right popper of a jilting if she’d had the foresight to cancel the vicar but failed to inform the groom.

  Just when he was checking the hour for the twentieth time in as many seconds, the door swung open and Grace entered the church. Oliver’s heart stopped at the sight of her, then sped twice as fast as before. She was more beautiful than he’d dreamed possible.

  She wore no veil, but Oliver preferred it that way. He didn’t want anything between them, not even a thin piece of semitransparent netting. He loved to gaze upon her, to watch those incredible light green eyes twinkle. He hoped they’d twinkle, at least. Whenever they did, the rest of the world disappeared. She wasn’t smiling, but then he wasn’t smiling either, was he, with his stomach all tied up in knots like this. Except yes, yes he was smiling, he was giddy beyond all measure to see her (finally) here, walking toward him.

  The gown she was wearing was a soft, shimmering lavender. Utterly perfect, really. He nodded at Miss Fairfax, who recognized her cue and lumbered to her feet at once. Bless Sarah, with her big belly and bigger heart. She’d wanted to do something special for Grace, make her some sort of crown of flowers like she’d seen in fashion plates, and Oliver had shocked her speechless by having an opinion on which flowers to use.

  Miss Fairfax arranged the halo of jasmine atop his bride’s head.

  With the delicate flowers encircling her long black hair, Grace looked more like a fairy princess than a countess. He wished he could say she also looked radiant, but the truth was his bride was a touch gray.

  Then the vicar came bustling in, somehow managing both to hurry and to seem stately, in that commanding way that vicars often have. He took Grace’s elbow and led her to the left side of the altar before taking his place just behind.

  Oliver grinned. He couldn’t help himself. She was wearing his flowers and she was close enough to touch. He could practically kiss her from this distance if he wished to. And did he ever wish to. He wouldn’t embarrass her, of course. This was not the moment for kisses.

  She didn’t love him right now, of course she could not. Nor should she. At the moment, he was nothing. A man with a failing earldom, a chimera with an empty house.

  It was not what anyone wanted, not her, not him. But he could become what she wanted. He would make the Carlisle estate the strongest earldom in England even if it meant no sleep for the next ten years. He would marry her again if she liked, have a thousand wedding breakfasts, a ceremony to rival a king’s. Anything she wished, he would ensure that she possessed.

  “Dearly beloved,” said the vicar.

  Oliver’s heart stopped. Again. He reached for Grace’s hands, then just as quickly dropped them. It wasn’t the moment yet to join hands. Soon. The ceremony was finally beginning. A shiver raced along his spine. They were almost married.

  “We are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation”—here the vicar cast a baleful eye at the motley foursome bearing witness—“to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

  Oliver stopped listening. Not a-purpose, of course; these were the most important words of his life. His ears had stopped listening all on their own. His senses had simply shut down to everything that wasn’t Grace. All he could smell was the sweet scent of her hair. All he could see was her lovely pale face, her eyes so large and green, her eyelashes coal black. He was consumed with the desire to taste her, to have her. To hold her close. This was the woman he was marrying. Grace was finally going to be his.

  “I require and charge you both,” said the vicar, his voice like flames upon Oliver’s skin, “as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you kno
w any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

  Oliver fought a nervous chuckle at the idea. Any reason like what, that the bride didn’t truly wish to marry him? This time he did grab her hands, proper timing be damned. His fingers wouldn’t tremble so with her hands in his. For her, he had to be strong. For her, he would do anything.

  “Oliver York, Lord Carlisle,” the vicar thundered.

  Oliver’s throat went dry as dust, his tongue suddenly ten sizes too large. This was it. This was when they pledged themselves to each other.

  “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  Oliver smiled. The answer must be in his eyes, for it was already in his heart. “I will.”

  The vicar turned to address the bride. “Miss Grace Halton.”

  Grace flashed Oliver a tentative smile. Her eyes were huge as she stared up at him.

  “Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  The ensuing silence was so complete and so terror-inducing that one could’ve heard a pin drop. In fact, Miss Fairfax’s reticule fell from her hands, spilling half the pins of England upon the wooden floor, and nobody so much as noticed. They were all leaning forward, clutching each other’s arms, looking just as concerned as Oliver was starting to feel.

  If by “concerned,” one inferred a complete and utter terror that one’s bride was going to say no right in front of everyone, and he was going to lose his chance for love.

  “I will,” Grace whispered, her eyes shimmering.

  Were those tears? Oliver was probably holding her hands too tightly. Oh God, he’d been gripping her in mortal fear. He relaxed his fingers. What if she’d meant to say no, and he quite literally hadn’t let her get away? So be it. She wasn’t going anywhere, his countess. He would not let her. Not now.

  The vicar glanced up from the altar. “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

  Shite. Oliver’s heart sank as he watched his bride’s dull eyes search the meager audience. There was no one to find. His hands grew clammy. For once, he would have been glad for the Mayers’ presence. Grace’s expression was stricken.

  Had she not recalled until this instant that her grandparents were not there? And of course the most important person of all was also absent. She was getting married without her mother.

  Poor Grace. He knew how much she’d wanted her mother to be there on her wedding day. She’d probably dreamed of it her entire life, taken it for granted that of course her mother would be at her side. And now here she was, halfway across the globe, marrying a man who’d compromised her in a library of all places, and there wasn’t one single person present to stand up on her behalf.

  “I will.”

  Oliver’s head jerked up to see Ravenwood rise to his ducal feet, tall and dark and arrogant, making it look for all the world as though of course he was giving away Miss Halton, they’d planned it all along, things were marching precisely as they ought. Thank God for Ravenwood. He reached her side with both speed and grace, somehow seeming to give comfort to the bride whilst lending pomp and dignity to the ceremony.

  The vicar nodded as if dukes gave away American misses all the time during conspicuously sudden wedding ceremonies. He pried Oliver’s hands from Grace’s and rearranged them such that Grace’s right hand now lay facedown upon Oliver’s palm.

  The ring. It was time to give her the ring!

  Hands trembling only slightly, he slid the gold band out of his waistcoat pocket. As he slipped it onto her finger, he spoke his favorite lines in the entire ceremony, the ones he’d practiced every night for the past week. These words he knew by heart, because he was speaking them with his soul. He waited until her gaze lifted to his. He wanted her to see that he meant every word.

  “With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, looking into her eyes. His fingers trembled, but his voice was strong and sure. “With my body, I thee worship. With all my worldly goods, I thee endow. Amen.”

  Grace’s eyes once more blurred behind the sheen of tears, but this time it could not be blamed on unintentional manhandling on the part of Oliver. He could only pray that these were tears of joy, much like those that even now clogged his own throat, rather than tears of sorrow. He would die rather than cause her pain.

  The vicar lay his hand atop theirs and intoned, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  Exactly so! Oliver stood even taller, pride mixing unrepentantly with pleasure. His chest puffed a little fuller. She was very nearly his.

  “For as much as Grace Halton and Oliver York have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands, I pronounce that they be man and wife together. Amen.”

  Oliver’s knees went weak, and it was all he could do not to swing his bride into his arms and abscond home with her at once. No, not just his bride—his wife. Joy swept through him. Only a few more short prayers, and they would be free to go.

  “O Lord, save thy servant, and thy handmaid,” the vicar was droning now.

  Oliver’s flesh thrummed with excitement. The call-and-response prayer meant they were nearing the end.

  “Who put their trust in thee,” he responded automatically.

  Grace said nothing.

  “O Lord,” the vicar continued, “send them help from thy holy place.”

  “And evermore defend them…” Oliver’s voice trailed off in concern.

  Grace still hadn’t joined him in speaking the rote lines. In a blinding flash of insight, Oliver belatedly realized why.

  His bride didn’t know the words. How would she? She hadn’t been raised with the Church of England.

  Instead, Oliver’s deep voice rang out alone as the vicar continued his litany. The words echoed in the vast stillness, low and naked without female accompaniment. Oliver swallowed. He tried not to feel as if he alone was pledging eternity here today. His hands still held hers, his ring upon her finger. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know the words. He would say them for both of them. Just as it didn’t signify that she hadn’t chosen him. He would love her enough for two. He would love her and honor her and cherish her until she simply could not help but love him back.

  “Almighty God,” the vicar was saying now.

  Oliver gave his bride’s hands a fortifying squeeze. This was the final prayer. They’d done it!

  “Pour upon you the riches of his grace, sanctify and bless you, that ye may please him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives’ end. Amen.”

  Amen.

  This time, he did give in to temptation. He grabbed up his new wife and swung her in a very small (but still wholly improper) joyous little circle.

  Bart and Xavier made their way up front to do their duty as witnesses. Sarah and Ravenwood—two of the most sentimental romantics of Oliver’s acquaintance—rushed up to compliment Oliver and Grace on a splendid ceremony. Ravenwood shook Oliver’s hand and kissed Grace’s cheek. Sarah hugged both of them as best she could with her belly in the way. The moment they finished signing the contract, Bart nudged Sarah out of the way to have his turn shaking Oliver’s hand and kissing Grace’s cheek.

  Oliver never stopped grinning. Not until they stepped outside. Then his joy shattered.

  The bride and groom traditionally left together after the ceremony. His carriage was right where he’d left it, with warming bricks and ple
nty of blankets inside should they need them on their way back home.

  But right next to his carriage, the one in which he’d planned to give his new wife her first hundred or so married kisses, was an ominous hired hack. Oliver’s head swam, his heart beating much too quickly. No. She would not leave him. Not when money could be sent to her mother. He was leaping to conclusions.

  His fingers loosened about her hand. “You prefer to follow me home in your own carriage?”

  She did not meet his eye. “I have errands I must attend to at once.”

  At once. Before consummating the marriage. Without even waiting for their guests to disperse. He nodded dumbly. He would not stand in the way of anything that made her happy.

  Chapter 17

  Grace stared at the dark-haired pawnbroker in horror. “What do you mean, you sold the Black Prince to someone else?”

  “Pawnbroking is a business, miss. I got a better price.” He lifted a careless shoulder. “End of story.”

  “A better price than a thousand pounds for a seven-hundred-pound painting?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Two thousand. I’m letting that gift horse keep its teeth.”

  “Who on earth—”

  “Sorry, miss. If there’s not something else I can interest you in, I’m going to close up shop for the day. Maybe take the missus on a little holiday.”

  “Do you mean to say this just happened? Somebody bought it earlier today?”

  “About half an hour ago. Can’t tell you how glad I am that you were running late. An extra thousand pounds ain’t nothing to sniff at.”

  “I wasn’t late. I was getting ma—” Grace broke off her explanation and tried to fight the creeping powerlessness weighing down her limbs.

  What use was explaining that she’d been at her wedding, which she’d been obligated to complete before coming into possession of the one thousand pounds she did have? Minus the passenger ticket in her reticule. The next boat left at eight o’clock the following morning, and she would be on it. Oliver would be disappointed when she told him, but too much time had passed to send a surrogate. She had to see her mother for herself.