“Please do give my name to your secretary,” she said, giving in to a flutter of bridal excitement. “We can begin compiling the guest list, making the arrangements.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll be married here, in this room. Tomorrow.”

Chapter Six

Not thirty hours later, Amelia sat in the Rose Parlor—actually, one of two rose parlors Beauvale House boasted, thanks to Winifred’s fondness for pink. With a fretful sigh, she squeezed Lily Chatwick’s hand and asked for what must have been the fifth time, “Are you certain you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Lily answered.

Amelia chewed her lip. “It just feels all wrong, to have you here.”

It all felt wrong, full stop. A wedding, before Lord Harcliffe was even in the ground? It was so tasteless, so arbitrary … and so sadly lacking in rolled icing and orchids. But evidently the Duke of Morland considered her whispered “yes” to be Amelia’s last word on the matter. Plans for these hasty nuptials had proceeded apace, whether she liked it or not. Yesterday afternoon had seen a flock of messengers descend on the Beauvale doorstep, delivering legal papers, the special license obtained from the archbishop, trunks emblazoned with the Morland crest in which to pack up her belongings. But before all these, a modiste had presented herself, flanked by two seamstresses and armed to the teeth with straight pins. Apparently the duke had been serious, when he spoke of pensioning off her blue moiré silk.

For the better part of the hour, the three women had flitted about her, measuring and clucking their tongues portentously, as if they were the three Fates of Grecian myth, sent to snip and stitch the precise shape of Amelia’s destiny.

Then early this morning, a footman had marched the long path to Amelia’s small bedchamber at the rear of the house, bearing a tower of boxes. The largest package held clouds of white petticoats and a mist-thin chemise; the smallest contained a coil of perfectly matched Baroque pearls. And one of the boxes in the middle had opened to reveal a tasteful, stylish gown of dove-gray satin. The color was understated and respectful—but quietly lovely. Amelia ran her fingers lightly over the skirt, twisting it in the sunlight to coax a lilac shimmer from the fabric.

“It’s a beautiful dress,” Lily said.

Amelia balled her hand in a fist, ashamed to have drawn attention to her own vanity. She ought to have refused to wear it and put on her plain black bombazine instead. But she had such a weakness for fine-milled fabric.

“You deserve it,” Lily said, as if she understood Amelia’s thoughts. “And you must not feel guilty on your wedding day. I’m grateful to be here, truly. What else should I be doing? Sitting weeping at home? I found ample time for that yesterday; tomorrow will bring a fresh supply of empty hours to fill. Today, I am glad for the distraction. And to be completely honest, I’m a bit relieved.”

“Relieved that you won’t have to marry him?” Amelia laughed dryly. “Yes, I understand. Better me than you.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m certain His Grace will make you a fine husband.”

“Are you? I wish I could say the same.”

Lily’s gaze caught hers. “Amelia, you would not believe what he sent to the house yesterday.”

“Not seamstresses, I hope.”

“No, no. A bank draft.”

Amelia buried her face in her hands to disguise her unladylike response. “Not that blasted horse again.”

“It’s not so bad as you suspect. I was astonished to see the—”

Bang.

The parlor door swung open with such force, the hinges rattled in the doorframe. Alarmed, Amelia shot to her feet. Lily followed suit, with considerably more grace.

The Duke of Morland filled the doorway. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Irate.

Not even the brown-black curls at his temple had the temerity to rebel this morning; they appeared to have been ruthlessly subdued with comb and pomade. His impeccable black topcoat and Hessians were matched by an equally dark expression. The duke looked angry, commanding, arrogant—and so intensely attractive it actually pained her to look him in the face. Truly, Amelia felt as though she’d swallowed all three of his nimble little seamstresses, and they were currently stitching the lining of her stomach into pleats.

From behind the duke’s imposing figure, Laurent made a chagrined expression. “Beg pardon. I tried to prevent him.”

“Good heavens, what is it?” In a defensive move, Amelia crossed her arms over her chest. Then she impulsively uncrossed them and clasped her trembling hands behind her back. He was just a man, she reminded herself. Just a mortal, imperfect man. She couldn’t let him cow her—not now, not ever.

“Lady Amelia,” he accused, “you are …” He raked her with a glance, and beneath the pearly silk, a thousand pins pricked her skin. “You are late.”

“Late,” she echoed, disbelieving.

“Eight minutes late.” Striding into the room, he drew a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “The wedding was to begin at half-ten. It is now ten thirty”—he raised an eyebrow and paused dramatically—“nine. Nine minutes late.”

Struggling to remain calm, Amelia advanced to meet him in the center of the room. “Your Grace,” she muttered, “you have allowed me a betrothal of precisely twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours, in which to reorder my life from that of an unmarried woman to that of a duchess. Now you would begrudge me nine minutes’ delay?”

He glowered at her. “Yes.”

Laurent crossed to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder, drawing her away. “Amelia,” he said quietly, “it’s not too late. You needn’t do this, you know.”

At the warm solicitude in his voice, her resolve nearly crumbled. For something like twenty-six hours now, Laurent had been urging her to reconsider this whole enterprise. If she said no, even at the last moment, Amelia knew her brother would support her decision. He’d done the same ten years ago, when she’d been unable to stomach marriage to that horrid Mr. Poste. Never mind the money, he’d insisted, your happiness is worth more than gold.

When she’d been granted that reprieve, Amelia had felt nothing but relief. At the age of sixteen, she never could have conceived that Papa’s debt would balloon so catastrophically, nor that a country widower’s suit would be the last she’d entertain.

Amelia lowered her voice to a whisper. “This is an opportunity, Laurent. An opportunity for us. Once I am a duchess, I can help our brothers in ways even you cannot. The alliance will greatly improve Michael’s chances of marrying well. Perhaps I can secure a living for Jack, get him out of London and away from his unsavory friends.”

Her brother shook his head. “I fear Jack may be a lost cause.”

“Don’t ever say that. If Mama were here, could you say that to her face?”

“If Mama were here, could you marry this man? She wouldn’t have wanted this for you. She wanted her children to marry for love.”

“And yet you defied her,” she said gently.

After Papa died, the debts had mounted higher and higher still. Laurent had made the very sacrifice at which Amelia had once balked: he’d married, sensibly and disaffectionately, to secure the d’Orsay family’s future. She loved him for it and often despised herself for leaving him no other choice. “I can’t cry off this time, Laurent. It isn’t only about the family. I want my own household, my own children. This may be my last chance. I’m not sixteen any longer.”

No, she was older and wiser—and undeniably lonelier. And disagreeable as his demeanor might be, the Duke of Morland compared favorably to Mr. Poste. Morland wasn’t thirty years older than she. He had straight teeth. He didn’t reek of tallow and sweat. He knew how to kiss. Properly.

And he was a duke. A duke with six estates, who would settle twenty thousand pounds on her, and some property besides. In her shortsighted, selfish girlhood, she’d let slip one chance to help her family. If this man saw fit to offer her security and children, Amelia supposed she could promise him punctuality in trade.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Laurent cast a wary glance at the duke. “I’ve no compunction about tossing him out on his ear, if you like.”

“No, no. You are very good, but I am decided.” She truly believed the sentiment she’d expressed to the duke the other night, during their waltz. Contentment was largely a matter of individual choice. “I am decided, and I will be happy.”

Spencer was displeased. Greatly displeased. Twelve minutes now. He could have been married already, perhaps even ordering the carriage for their departure. Instead he was standing here awkwardly in the center of the room, watching his intended bride confer with her brother in heated whispers.

Damn it, he hated weddings. He didn’t remember ever attending any others, but he was certainly making this one his last.

To think, not an hour ago, he’d been congratulating himself on his brilliance. He needed a wife, and here was his chance to obtain one without the nuisance of a courtship. When a man of his wealth and station proposed marriage to a lady of hers … They both knew she couldn’t possibly have refused.

But she had no problem keeping him waiting. Spencer didn’t like being made to wait. The waiting was making him uneasy, and he didn’t like feeling uneasy.

This was why he’d insisted on a small, private ceremony in her home. If there was no crowd, no music, no fanfare, he reasoned, he would remain perfectly calm and in control. Except that now a ten-minute delay had him fretting like a schoolboy. And that fact had him resenting her further, because he was intelligent enough to realize that this churning tempest inside him must mean something. Something about him, something about her … something about them, perhaps? He didn’t know. He just wanted to marry the woman, take her home, and puzzle it out in bed.

“Your Grace?”

His head whipped up. Lady Amelia stood before him. And whatever exorbitant sum he’d paid that dressmaker, it hadn’t been nearly enough.

Standing with her hands clasped behind her back, she played her figure to its best advantage. Her waist was trim and defined, her hips cuppable, her bosom delectable. Silk covered those lushly proportioned curves, clinging in all the right places. Its silvery, iridescent shade reminded him of dew on heather, or the belly of a trout; and it contrasted pleasantly with the warm, milky texture of her skin. She was all softness and sleekness, and his gaze slipped over her easily even as his thoughts snagged. He wrestled to make sense of her, define her, understand what it was she signified to him and why. He couldn’t say she looked elegant or stunning or beautiful.

Refreshing. Her appearance was refreshing, like cool, clear water on a sun-baked summer’s day. And he gratefully drank her in.

She gave him a deferential nod. “I apologize for my tardiness, Your Grace. I am ready. Has your groomsman arrived?”

He stared at her.

“You … you do have a groomsman to stand up with you? Someone to sign the register as a witness?”

He shook his head. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Won’t Beauvale do?”

“Laurent?” Her brow wrinkled. “I suppose he could, but I hate to ask. I’m rather doing this against his wishes. And unfortunately, he’s the only one of my brothers here. Michael’s at sea of course, and Jack—well, Jack is necessarily avoiding you.” She swept a glance around the room, finally settling it on the butler. “I suppose we could have Wycke. But surely you don’t want a servant?”

If it meant they could be married within the next quarter hour, Spencer would gladly have opened the door and dragged in the first ruffian off the street. “He’ll do.” He made a curt motion to the butler. “Bring the curate. We may as well do it in here.”