Page 67 of Lady Willa's Divinely Wicked Vicar
Finally, the last of their exchange was heard by all.
“Come to the ceremony, Oliver, if you must. But you will be respectful or I will throw you out on your ear.”
“I’d like to see you try, Charles.”
“I’d like to see you resist.”
Wills caught her breath. She knew her man. He would not brook any mischief on his wedding day. And when she focused on the man who strode into the drawing room behind Charlie, she knew his measure.
Oliver was less than Charles. Shorter by inches, slighter by frame, weaker of chin, the oldest son of the Duke of Southbourne was a lesser man. He frowned at his father in greeting. He nodded at the bishop. He scanned the staff in dismissive arrogance.
And as for his consideration of her? Well. It was not gentlemanly.
“I came to wish the bride good fortune.” He stood before her and sneered. His little mouth curled up in a fake smile. “You are lovely, my dear. No wonder he wants you. But do you know he has no fortune? Hmm. And I do.”
“Oliver!” The duke ground out.
He flared his nostrils, his gaze riveted upon her. “Have a good dowry, do you? You’ll need it. De Courcy’s girl, I understand. And you ran away. Why, I wonder?”
“That’s enough!” Charlie grabbed Oliver’s arm. “Youintrude!”
“I?” He bellowed. “I intrude? You come here and take my place. Run the estate. Pretend it is yours, and with my dear father’s blessing! You intrude!”
The duke wheeled his chair before him. “If, Oliver, you had wished to make this house your home and take on your duty, you could have at any time. Instead you did naught. Naught to preserve it and protect it!”
Oliver would have none of it. “I demand you step aside, Charles!”
Charlie confronted him. “Then step up, Oliver. Earn your place. Step into the role you were born to. I want it not!”
That made Oliver stiffen. “Why do I not believe you, brother?”
The duke stuck out his walking stick and poked his oldest boy in the thigh. “Be a man, for once in your life, Oliver.”
“What did you give him? Money? Land? He needs something to support this pretty piece of muslin!”
Wills bit her tongue, the wicked words she wished to say not fit for the fine day it should be.
The duke shot a glance at Clive, the butler. “Out with him!”
“Send me away! Oh, do!” Oliver eluded Clive. “You must, eh, father? Because if you don’t rub me out, this lovely chit will only starve!”
“Never!” came the booming voice from the threshold.
Gasping, wide-eyed, twenty-odd souls turned toward the sound of footsteps in the marble hall and two ferocious little dogs yipping round Oliver’s feet.
Wills could scarce believe her ears and eyes. But tears of joy came. “Papa!”
“Yes, my dear Willa.” He strode into the room like a Goliath. Beside him came her mother. But he stopped short at the sight of the duke in his wheeled chair. “Forgive please, Your Grace, this intrusion.”
“De Courcy,” the duke smiled and inclined his head in greeting. “So glad you could join us, sir.”
“I say! I say!” Oliver was shouting at Clive and the two footmen who were removing him from the house forthwith.
But all ignored them while Whistle and Thyme romped around the drawing room and came to sit at Wills’s feet. Their tiny pink tongues were out, their long tails thumping the Axminster carpet, their impish brown eyes on her. But she could only rejoice at the sight of her parents.
Her father beamed at her, a hint of supplication in the tilt of his head. “I would not miss this for the world, my dear. I came to celebrate that my darling daughter has chosen a wonderful man to be her wedded husband. If you will pardon my poor judgment and have me? Us? Will you?”
She ran to him and flung her arms wide to embrace both her parents. “Always, Papa. Mother,” she whispered and gathered her close. “I am so happy you’ve come.”
