Page 70 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed at the waist. “I am Lord Patrick Atherton, Viscount Carlisle, at your service.”
The familiarity at once made sense. Patrick Atherton. The duke’s disloyal cousin.
Rose’s husband.
Cecelia and Francesca drew up behind her, doing their best to match as bridal attendants in gowns of vastly varying shades of violet.
Since Alexandra couldn’t bring herself to address Rose’s husband, she was forever grateful for Cecelia’s interjection. “What service can you mean, Lord Carlisle?”
His eyes, a darker copy of Redmayne’s, lingered on Alexandra in an insulting manner even as he replied with never-failing politeness. “His Grace is aware you haven’t family in attendance to give you away for your nuptials, and so the duty falls to me, as his closest family member.”
“I thought Sir Ramsay, his brother, was his closest family member,” Francesca said frankly.
Lord Carlisle’s features remained remarkably passive, though Alexandra detected a tightening about the mouth. “He is conducting the ceremony, my lady,” he said before dismissing Francesca altogether. “Now if you’d accompanyme, Lady Alexandra, I shall take you to the rectory.” He offered a stiff elbow, lifting his eyebrows with expectation.
Why would Redmayne send his detested cousin to escort her down the aisle? As a taunt, perhaps? A reminder that Lord Carlisle had very little chance of ever becoming a duke now that Redmayne was marrying and likely to bear children?
For a moment, she had almost forgotten Piers had precipitated their marriage as a vengeance against Lord and Lady Carlisle. Or, perhaps she’d begun to make more of their swift connection than he.
Because this gesture on his part was anything but gentlemanly.
Which reminded her of how truly little she knew of Redmayne. To say nothing of his intrinsic self. His less-than-heroic qualities. His flaws and failings. Suddenly, his warnings began to cycle through her thoughts, barraging her into silence before Redmayne’s rather impatient cousin.
I’m a rather mercenary sort of fellow.
Spite is the only reason I have left.
Don’t try to make me a good man.
Swallowing a surge of nerves, she managed to reply. “T-tell His Grace that I appreciate his thoughtfulness. I’m sorry that you’ve taken the trouble, Lord Carlisle, but I have an old family friend in attendance who will be performing that service. I thank you for your pains.” She closed the door on his bewilderment without awaiting a response.
Something about the interaction, about the entire situation, set her teeth on edge and left an oily feeling in her belly, as though she’d swallowed a bad scallop.
The feeling persisted as Lord Bevelstoke, eager to regain the acquaintance of her family now that she was to become a duchess, conducted her down the aisle of the overcrowded rectory.
The ceremony had been quick, or eternal; she couldn’t really recall anything but the stifling heat and how out of place her fiancé—husband—appeared in a church with his pagan beauty contained in an obscenely expensive suit.
All eyes were on him.
There’d been a chaste kiss. Nothing like the ones he’d bestowed on her the evening before. Bells tolled as Redmayne hurried her back down the aisle. Flower petals were thrown when they burst from the rectory. She’d eaten none of the celebratory food, and couldn’t have named a quarter of the people who wished her well. She clung to each of her friends as they left, receiving encouragements she couldn’t hear before she was whisked into the most luxurious coach imaginable.
When they reached the docks, Redmayne had evacuated the coach before the wheels had even stilled, explaining that he’d last-minute arrangements to look after.
Alexandra had sat in a dreamlike daze as frenzied porters had unloaded their trunks, and then her, from the coach.
Somehow, she’d made it to their lavish stateroom.Staterooms,she’d corrected, as she wandered through the luxuriously appointed sitting room to the bedroom, her fingers tracing over a plethora of velvets, mahogany, and leather. She appreciated the open windows through which a briny summer breeze swirled about their cabin, tinkling the crystal on the lamps.
Constance, a shy and efficient lady’s maid, had been selected for her from Redmayne’s staff. However, after Alexandra had been dressed in one of her well-wornnightgowns with an anemic froth of white lace at the sleeves, she had sent the maid away, preferring to brush out her hair on her own.
She’d been brushing for a long time, now. Too long. Long enough for the sun to have completely disappeared. Long enough for her hair to have spun into a vibrant mahogany mass, gleaming and soft, and her fingers to ache from how tightly she gripped the handle.
Apprehension warred with anticipation in a tumultuous tumble of emotion. Did every bride feel some variation of this?
Even the innocent ones?
How was she going to endure tonight? Perhaps she could do what she’d done before and step outside of her body. Stand at the window and wait for it all to be over.
At least the act didn’t take long, she recalled. They could get to it as quickly as possible, and then it would be over. Done.
