Aunt Agatha eyed the dress and winced. “The less saidabout that wretched dress the better—you know, of course, what everyone has been saying.”
“The duke didn’t seem to mind it, Aunt Agatha, and really, isn’t that all that matters?” Emm said mildly. “It’s unconventional, certainly, but the color suits her.”
“I don’t give tuppence for what everyone is saying, Aunt Agatha,” George told the old lady. “It’s mostly hot air, spite and envy, and for all I care the gossips can choke on it.” She smiled. “And the duke told me helikedmy dress.”
“Pfft!What choice did he have?”
George touched the jewels at her throat. “He didn’t have to give me these jewels either, but he did.” She realized now why he’d given them to her before the wedding breakfast—so that all the guests would see and know that she had his approval and support. She was deeply touched by the thoughtfulness—and loyalty—of the gesture.
The duke was turning out to be rather different from the man she thought she knew.
Aunt Agatha glanced at the rubies and pursed her lips. “He should never have done so. His mother should have had them years ago—I know she asked for them often enough. They’re priceless, a treasured family heirloom, but the old duchess always refused to hand them over. Claimed they weren’t part of the entail and so she could choose who to give them to.” She shook her head. “But to give them to you, and after your disgraceful appearance at the church. Truly outrageous.”
Aunt Dottie bustled forward and gave George a warm hug. “You look stunning, dear girl—and oh! I see you’re wearing the famous Hartley parure. The old dowager duchess would have approved, I know.”
“And how wouldyouknow, Dorothea?” her sister said in an acid voice.
Aunt Dottie gave George a mischievous wink. “I know she despised her daughter-in-law, Aggie, dear. And our darling George is going to make her grandson very happy, so of course she would have loved her and wanted her to wear her jewels—especially as they suit her so well.”
George glanced at the duke on the other side of the room, talking to several men she didn’t know. Would she make him happy? She had no idea. Would he make her happy? She had even less of an idea.
***
They reached Everingham House just as evening was falling. Hart considered carrying her over the threshold, but then decided she’d probably hate it. Besides, there was nobody to open the door; he’d given the servants the night off.
She’d been very quiet on the way, hadn’t said a word.
The house was in darkness, except for a soft glow coming from inside the front entrance hall. He pulled out his key and opened the door. His butler, Fleming, had left a candle lamp burning on the hall table.
Not for the first time Hart wished he’d overruled his mother on the subject of gas lighting. It was brighter in the street outside than it was in his house.
“When you redecorate, we’ll get gas lighting installed,” he told his bride as he lit another candle lamp.
“WhenIredecorate?” She grimaced. “Rose or Lily are the ones for that kind of thing. I have no interest in wallpaper and suchlike. I grew up in a run-down old farmhouse and never saw anything wrong with it.”
“Never mind; there are people we can hire.” He picked up a lamp and passed the other to her. “I was really thinking about the light. My mother preferred candlelight to gaslight.”
She nodded. “More flattering to aging skin, I expect. I don’t mind candles though.” She glanced around. “Where are we going?”
“Upstairs.” Where else? They’d eaten and drunk their fill at the wedding breakfast and she’d delayed leaving far beyond the usual time for a bridal couple to depart. She’d even wanted to change into her everyday clothes and take her dog for a walk, until her uncle had volunteered to take care of the dog himself, leaving her with no more excuses.
She was nervous—he’d watched it coming on all through the afternoon. She hadn’t been at all anxious when they’d been here earlier; she’d been eager for him then. But now bridal nerves had set in.
She gave a jerky nod, gathered the skirt of her glorious dress up in one hand, and started up the stairs, the lamp held high. The candlelight shimmered in the folds of the rich fabric and danced in the rubies at her ears.
She paused on the landing. “Where do I sleep?”
He gestured to the open door. “Wesleep in my room, of course. In my bed.” Oh, yes, she was nervous, all right.
She hung back, loitering on the landing. “You married me for my horse,” she said, striving for lightness, “so maybe you should sleep with Sultan.” Her skin was almost colorless in the soft light.
He laughed softly, caught her by the hand and drew her slowly against him. “I don’t think so.”
She stiffened, and then pulled away. What the devil was the matter? She’d been afire for him before the wedding breakfast. What had changed?
Bridal nerves, he decided. “I’ll light some more candles.” He set hers on a side table, then entered his bedroom and used his candle to light a dozen or so of the candles that his staff had set around the room. Lanterns would throw a better light, but he had a vague notion that a nervous bride might be more comfortable in candlelight.
He’d turned, having expected her to follow him inside. Instead she had remained on the landing. He went to her, and was surprised when she took a step back.
