Page 77 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

But if Emma understood the hypocrisy of the Polite World, the scandal of her secret affair would fade away in forgotten notoriety once it was realized that she would one day become a duchess. And be with the man she loved into the bargain.

Chapter Seventeen

Adrian arrived at Grayson Boscastle’s Park Lane mansion at nine o’clock the following morning and formally asked for Emma’s hand in marriage.

Grayson graciously accepted the offer with an appropriate display of surprise and pleasure, as did his wife Jane. In truth, Jane’s astonished exclamations of delight almost convinced Adrian that he had dreamed the events of the previous evening. All was well that ended in holy wedlock, apparently.

“I say this calls for a celebration supper,” Gray son announced, rubbing his hands together with a self-satisfaction that hinted he might have plotted this romance himself. “Could we manage it, Jane?”

She smiled at him. “It should pose no incon venience at all, dear husband. The staff is now accustomed to throwing lavish affairs at the last moment.”

“Nothing lavish,” Adrian said quickly, thinking of Emma’s preference for the subtle. “I do believe that for all concerned we should marry as quietly as possible.”

And so it was that Jane excused herself to leave the two men to discuss widow’s settlements and jointures while she hastened about the happy duty of planning a family wedding. Which meant, of course, that she and the bride would require a new wardrobe and footwear to match and that the Italian shoemaker would need an army of elves to assist him. Jane decided that she would simply have to treat herself to a dozen new shoes to celebrate her sister-in-law’s engagement.

Another Boscastle fallen victim to the family heritage of passion. It was Jane’s role, as she perceived it, to ensure that the path of matrimony followed as smooth a course as possible. One conveniently forgot whatever mischief preceded the wedding march.

As the daughter of an earl, as well as wife to a marquess, she understood intuitively that the addition of a duke and duchess to the family line was a connection to be ardently embraced, if not exploited.

Jane’s son Rowan, her husband’s heir, would grow up with a duke’s son as his cousin and playmate. It was the proper order of life in the English aristocracy. In another decade, indeed within a year, few in the haut ton would remark upon or even remember that any impropriety had preceded the union of Emma and Adrian. No one outside the family dared to mention the scandal of Jane’s own marriage.

For the time being at least, all was well in the world of the Boscastles.

That same evening the Marquess of Sedgecroft hosted a supper party to announce the engagement of his sister, the Viscountess Lyons, to Adrian Ruxley, Viscount Wolverton, heir to the Duke of Scarfield.

Only a few select members of Society, outside the Boscastle family, received an invitation to this affair. The Earl of Odham brought his beloved Hermia, both of them expressing disbelief at the announcement. Two members of Parliament and their wives attended. Still, all in all, it was a private affair.

The wedding two days later, in the private chapel of Grayson’s Park Lane home, proved to be another exclusive event. Emma felt so calm before the ceremony that Julia asked her in private whether she required a vinaigrette to prevent a faint.

“If I lived my entire life in this family without fainting,” Emma replied, “I doubt I shall do so today.”

Yet when she saw Adrian in the chapel, she came as close to a swoon as she imagined possible. He was dressed in a formal deep-blue frock coat and black broadcloth pantaloons. At his side hung a ceremonial sword which she prayed to all the saints in heaven, he would not be tempted to use until after they had exchanged vows. Indeed, he looked so grand that Emma, in an unadorned dress of silver tissue, felt herself pale in comparison.

It was her second marriage, however. She could not in good conscience wear virginal orange blossoms in her wreath. A semi-veil would suffice to hide her blissful smile from the small assembly of guests. This wolf was hers to tame.

Grayson gave her away, and afterward the wedding party enjoyed a breakfast of coddled eggs, prawns, and lamb cutlets followed by apple pudding, raspberry jelly, and lemon cream. As expected, there was a three-tiered wedding cake with heavy white icing.

Adrian toasted his bride with a glass of champagne and the three comfits he had stolen off their cake. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand in his. “But it appears I shall never change.”

She smiled up at him, her heart in her eyes. “I should never forgive myself if you did.”

It rained on their short drive to the London hotel where Adrian had resided off and on for the last year. His choice of impersonal lodgings had stemmed less from convenience than his reluctance to put down roots again in England. Belatedly he wished he had a proper home in which to be alone with his bride.

It was his wedding night.

He tried not to think of Emma’s late husband. It seemed so petty and unfair to confess jealousy of a man who in death could not defend himself. But Adrian was a practical man, one who had learned to survive.

And he required Emma to survive. If that was a weakness, he did not deny it. She was the warmth of a candle in winter darkness. He did not need anyone, or anything else, but her.

He shrugged out of his jacket while she went behind the screen to wash. He then opened the wardrobe door and peered inside. He went to the window to check the street below for carriages.

Emma stuck her head around the screen, her face amused. “If you are going to confess on our wedding night that you are a spy—”

“I’m looking for your brothers.”

“They aren’t there, are they?” she asked in horror.

He laughed. “No.”