Page 3 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

Emma, their older sister, had been recently widowed and was giving etiquette instructions to the elite of Edinburgh to occupy her empty hours.

Grayson returned to his leisurely, more enjoyable inspection of the bride’s heart-shaped backside. Very, very nice, he thought. Not a bad choice at all for a bride, if one had to choose one. Of course, Nigel had already claimed her. A pity he hadn’t shown to pick up the package. Still, who knew what lurked in the shadows of that veil? A beauty or a beast? A siren or a shrew?

This provocative rake’s reverie ended when Heath tapped him on the shoulder to speak again. “The bride is quite lovely, isn’t she?”

“Hmm.” He steepled his fingers under his clefted chin, his expression neutral. “I haven’t made a study of it. I suppose she might be. It is hardly a thing I would notice.”

“You great liar, Grayson,” Heath said with a subdued laugh. “Those blue eyes of yours are absorbing every detail right down to her garters.”

Well, some of his less admirable qualities had not changed. He was still a man even if he wasn’t sure of anything else.

“That is a rather crude remark to be making in chapel, Heath,” he said with mock piety, as he eyed his once-mistress Mrs. Parks from the other end of the pew, where she sat between her two boisterous offspring from a previous affair. She had been a successful mantua maker when she’d taken up three years ago with Grayson. His generous pension had left her nicely settled for life, and she maintained a friendly relationship with him. “Need I remind you, dear brother, that we are in a holy sanctuary?”

“Is this your first time here, Grayson?” Heath inquired in a droll voice.

“Second,” he whispered, clearing his throat.

He took another look around the chapel. One of the bridesmaids had started crying. The bride was comforting her. The guests were definitely becoming restless, squirming in their seats, wondering in whispers what was to happen. He was going to have to take action soon, make up some ludicrous excuse for Nigel’s behavior. He began practicing in his mind.

It was highly improbable, but he could not rule out the possibility that his blasted fool of a cousin had fallen down the stairs in one of his satin slippers and knocked himself unconscious. The guests who knew Nigel would not find this difficult to believe.

He turned his attention back to the appealing figure who stood at the altar with her white shoulders held high. A man would have to possess a heart of stone not to feel some empathy, some urge to protect her from the pain his own relative had inflicted.

He spoke quietly to Heath. “One has to admire her for not bursting into hysterical tears or shredding her flowers in a fit as a few other women I know might have done.” And with this, he directed a teasing frown at Lady Greenhall and Mrs. Parks, neither of whom were known for their submissiveness.

From one of the pews on the same side of the nave, an elderly MP had just been awakened by his wife. In a befuddled shout, he asked if the accursed wedding was over yet.

“It never began,” Mrs. Parks whispered to him in embarrassment. “The groom appears to have gone missing.”

The gentleman shook his head, gazing in pity at the abandoned heroine at the altar. “She’s bearing up well, I’d say,” he said gruffly. “Stoic, like her father. That’s the stuff of old stock. Welsham backbone can’t be broken.”

“The poor innocent must be shattered,” Mrs. Parks murmured, sniffing back tears. “To be jilted by the man she has loved her entire life. I wonder what she thinks of this.”

What Lady Jane Welsham thought could hardly be repeated in polite company. Her primary concern was to rush home and remove her silk corset and small bustle. The steel buckram underpinnings were squeezing the breath from her like a bellows. Surely she had stood here suffering long enough. Surely by now it was obvious to everyone that she had been jilted.

Her second concern centered around her mother, a delicate flower of femininity who did not hail from Papa’s heartier Saxon lineage. Her mama appeared to be quite beside herself. She seemed unable to believe that any young woman, let alone her own daughter, could endure such public shame.

“The only acceptable explanation is that Nigel has been killed,” Lady Belshire passionately told anyone who would listen.

To which the earl, with equal passion, replied, “He certainly will be when I get a hold of him.”

“But they have been promised to each other forever,” his wife said tearfully. “On the day they were born, we all agreed that their future was destined for this—this debacle.”

Jane released a deep sigh, burying her nose in her bridal bouquet. The social embarrassment she could withstand, but she did hate to see Mama so distressed that the fairy tale she had plotted would not have the chosen prince at the ending.

The bride’s dispirited sigh was interpreted by most of the guests to indicate that she had reached the end of her tether. Her tender maiden’s heart was broken. One could almost hear it shattering in her chest. Who could blame her? How could Sir Nigel inflict such indignity upon the young woman who had served as his constant companion and champion since boyhood?

Of course a few malicious opinions did rear their ugly heads here and there, primarily between the debs who had always resented Jane’s social standing and bluestocking tendencies, her refusal to follow the herd. And there—

Jane’s broken heart leaped into her throat. Her gaze had just connected with a pair of sultry blue eyes that sent the most unsettling shiver of awareness down her back. Struggling to catch her breath, she assessed the rest of this compelling person in a covert glance between the gilt-tipped petals of her bouquet. Oh, goodness, goodness, goodness. So that was the scandalous Sedgecroft. That magnificent, menacing specimen of manhood could only be the infamous cousin of whom Nigel had spoken so disparagingly. Jane had always secretly hoped to meet him, but certainly not like this.

“Bear up,” her father whispered in her ear. “We shall survive this.”

“The Welshams have endured far worse,” her brother added, giving her an awkward thump on the shoulder.

Her sister Caroline scowled at him. “Not in this century they haven’t.”

Jane nodded solemnly, not actually hearing a word. It was the first time she had actually gotten a close look at her host, the notorious Marquess of Sedgecroft, in the flesh. All six feet and several inches of impressive flesh he was, too. She felt a little light-headed at the sight of him, or was her corset obstructing the flow of blood to her brain?