Page 43 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

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It sprinkledon the day of the ceremony, and yet the droplets of rain might have been miniature diamonds. A Biblical deluge could not have discouraged those Londoners hopeful for a view of the wedding party to stay home. The magic of romance glistened over the ancient city.

Enterprising street waifs had held places since before sunrise in Hyde Park for a coveted glimpse of the bride as she was borne through the streets; she had been spirited from Heath’s townhouse in misty grandeur to Grayson’s mansion in his coach-and-six. For a shilling a spectator could watch the procession of elegant carriages converge on Park Lane.

The marriage rites unfolded without incident in the privacy of Grayson’s chapel.

Ravenna could not have asked for a more attentive husband. He remained at her side throughout the wedding reception. He raised his guard whenever a man outside the family approached her. The birthmark on his freshly shaven face made him look especially fierce today; his finely tailored clothes showed him at his devastating best.

His stare could cut a man dead. Or reduce a woman to flustered confusion. How could she appreciate the wedding breakfast when her mind kept wandering to what the night would bring?

The thought of his large hands on her body, of belonging to him, enthralled her. Her heart beat wildly under her bodice. She knew him and she didn’t. She sketched her fingers down the stem of her champagne glass in contemplation. Her mind was a jumble of hopes, memories, and warnings.

He is a splendid lover.

His desires are indecent.

Hide me, Simon!Now there was no one to hide her. And the realization made her shamefully happy. She wished she understood how he felt about her. She wished she had not spent her life in a remote castle.

The weight of his hand on hers drew her from her musings. “Ravenna,” he said, tilting up her glass. “I hesitate to spoil the moment, but you’re spilling your champagne on the buttered crabs.”

“Good heavens.” She blinked in horror as she looked down at her plate of soggy crustaceans. “How off-putting.”

“It’s fine. No one else noticed. If this celebration vexes you overmuch, we can contrive an early escape. I shall invent a reason.”

“We shouldn’t.” She looked across the table, tempted to take him up on his offer. Clearly neither she nor Simon were displaying the gratitude owed their hosts. “Answer me one question, Simon,” she said in a quiet voice.

“If I can.”

“What is the antidote to your charm?”

His eyes lit up in surprise. “Have I charmed you?”

“Like a wizard.” She vented a sigh. “I am stupidly spellbound.”

He smiled modestly. “I’m not a chemist, but it’s my understanding that one must be slowly introduced to a substance in order to develop any sort of immunity against it. You should have cultivated a tolerance to me by now.”

“Are you immune to me?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Good God, no.”

“We had a hurried wedding and no virtual courtship. Jane and I talked for hours last night. She said it is natural that I feel nervous.”

“Do years of friendship not count?”

“Not in my favor,” she said candidly. “If anything I feel more susceptible to you than I would to a stranger.”

“We won’t be strangers in a few hours,” he said, as if that fact had not consumed her mind the entire day. “I would hope that whatever gaps remain between us shall soon be filled.”

Simon wascontent to leave the conversation at that. She was his wife, even though the shadow of his guilty secret stood between them. He stared past her to the attendants who stood against the wall. Years of waiting, of wanting. Could he wait a little longer? Could he hold back until she wanted him? Was he a devil for taking advantage of a crisis to win her?

Probably. But he would serve as her devil for the remainder of their days, if she so allowed. At minimum he’d make a better husband than the vulgarian she’d almost married. She would be well-loved on her wedding night by a man who would never dream of betraying her.

Was his silence a form of betrayal?

He doubted she understood the depth of his feelings for her. Nor did Rhys, who took him aside during a champagne toast, to mutter, “For God’s sake, Simon, you look positively menacing. At least act as if you are in love with her. You are about to embark on your wedding night, not a cart-ride to the gallows.”

Actas if he loved her?