The longcase clock in the foyer chimed seven, and Rory was snapped back into the present. “If we’re to marry at ten, we had better begin preparations.”
A throat cleared behind him, and Rory turned to see Gables pretending to be staring at the ceiling. “Did you hear that, Gables?”
“I did not, my lord.”
“Right. Miss Brooking and I are marrying today.”
Gables’s gaze cut to the governess, and Rory felt unexpectedly protective. He hadn’t considered the gossipthis change to Genevieve’s situation would cause among the servants. He’d better handle it quickly. “Gables, send for the servants. I want to address everyone at once.”
The butler bowed and moved away.
“What are you about?” Genevieve said under her breath.
“Announcing our marriage,” he said. “Come and stand here. I think it will look better if you are by my side.”
“Actually, I should go upstairs and find something suitable to wear.”
“Wear that. It’s pretty enough.”
“I’ll take your preference into consideration. I should put my hair up, and where is Frances—”
“Genevieve, stand here,” Rory demanded. “One thing I’ve learned about marriage is that we must be united. We should start how we mean to go on.”
She looked at him then back at the stairs.
“If you’re having second thoughts, you have approximately two minutes to make up your mind. That isn’t enough time for me to kiss you, which means you’ll have no interference from me. If you don’t want to marry me, say it now before I make a fool of myself declaring our impending nuptials to my entire staff.”
He kept his voice level and his expression impassive. He’d practiced looking as though he didn’t care for years. Over time, he’d even learned to match his feelings to his expression. But right now, his expression was only a mask. He cared, and cared very much, about what she said next. Rory was half afraid that he cared so much that if she refused him, he might be hurt. He clenched his hands into fists, tamping down his fear at the idea of ever allowing a woman to hurt him again.
How had he allowed himself to return to this vulnerable place?
Genevieve was still looking at him.
“A minute thirty,” he said, not really knowing if thirty seconds or three hundred had passed.
Slowly, she made her way across the marble floor between them and stood directly in front of him. She looked up at him, but Rory didn’t dare lower his gaze to meet her eyes. He was petrified of what he might see, and he wouldn’t allow her to see that fear. He’d learned very young never to show weakness. He was always the bravest, always the first to agree to any reckless or dangerous scheme. He wasn’t about to let the idea of another marriage fill him with trepidation—at least, he wouldn’t let her see that it did.
She inhaled slowly then stepped away. Rory didn’t dare move his neck, but he shifted his gaze. She had moved to stand beside him. Then he felt her hand touch his, just the brush of fingertips, but it was enough to send a jolt what felt like sunshine through his hand, up his arm, and into his very core.
She’d chosen him.
Chapter Fifteen
Genevieve could feelher independence slipping away. It wasn’t as unpleasant as she’d anticipated. Clearly, one benefit to marrying the wealthy son of a duke was the ability to have one’s every whim catered to. Ten minutes after she’d taken her place at Rory’s side, he’d informed the staff he meant to marry her; ordered servants to fetch the vicar, prepare a wedding breakfast, festoon the chapel with flowers; and instructed the maids to dress Genevieve and Frances in their best.
He’d glanced at Genevieve, seeming to acknowledge her for the first time. “Anything else?”
“My mother,” she said. “I’d like her to come.”
He flicked a finger at a footman. “Who else?”
She had a few friends in the village, but as she’d been gone for extended periods the past fourteen years, she had not spoken to most except in passing. She wished her sister were not so far away and could attend, but it was unlikely Georgiana would be able to take an extended leave at any rate. Genevieve realized she would never again have her life circumscribed by an employer.
She wondered if a husband would be worse.
“Just my mother,” she said.
“Very good. Frances is in the kitchens planning a wedding breakfast that will rot our teeth. I’ll go fetch her.” Then he’d strode in that direction, his valet protesting that there was no time.
