a lace-edged neckcloth. Even the sleeves of his shirt were edged with lace rather than plain starched cuffs. His breeches and waistcoat were silver gray, his tailed coat a darker gray. His stockings and linen were snowy white. Horbath had excelled with the folds of his neckcloth, and he had placed a diamond pin in just exactly the right place. He hoped he had not overdone the outfit, but Horbath had assured him he had not.
“A man has only one wedding day, sir,” he had said.
“It is quite enough,” Gabriel said now, “that I will have all the Westcotts and your parents in attendance, Bertie. Weddings are an abomination.”
“Ah. You had better not let your bride hear that, old chap,” Bertie advised. “Weddings are the breath of life to females. M’mother bought a new hat. M’father will have to sit three feet away from her on the church pew so that he don’t get clipped over the ear every time she turns her head.”
Gabriel chuckled, though he was feeling a bit too bilious for proper amusement. Who could have predicted that he would be nervous on his wedding day? He was horribly afraid that he was doing the wrong thing. All night he had been remembering snippets of what Jessica had said to him in that rather impassioned outburst at Richmond Park. She was really two persons, was what she had been saying—the very aristocratic Lady Jessica Archer, sister of the Duke of Netherby, and the person who lived within that aristocratic outer shell. She had wanted him to find that person, to romance that person. She had wanted him to fall in love with her, even if she had not used that term and had even, in fact, denied it.
She had wanted to fall in love herself, as her cousin had done, the one who had been more like a sister to her, the one for whom she had sacrificed her own expectations of happiness. And good God, it had seemed to Gabriel during the past few weeks that that family of hers on her mother’s side, the Westcotts, set great store by romantic love. They were a family of what looked like closely bonded couples. A goodly number of them had been out on the ballroom floor last night, waltzing. With each other. It must be almost unheard of. Husbands did not often dance with their wives. Husbands did not often dance. At least, not in his experience.
Yet despite what she had said to him there at Richmond, he was marrying her—in rather a hurry—because of her outer self. Because she was a duke’s daughter and as aristocratic as it was possible for a lady to be. Her natural public demeanor was hauteur itself. She was not the sort of woman who was likely to crumble before anyone who tried to intimidate her. Rather, she would draw herself to her full height, peer at her assailant along the length of her nose, and reduce that person to the size of a worm about to be trodden upon. He would feel comfortable going back to Brierley with Jessica as his wife and countess. No. Comfortable was not the right word. There was no comfort to expect from what was facing him. She gave him courage, then. Not that he had the smallest intention of leaning upon her.
It was time to go and get married. He shook out the lace that covered his hands to the knuckles and looked around for his hat and gloves and cane, which Horbath had of course set out neatly by the door.
He did like her, he thought. And he certainly wanted to bed her. She was a beautiful and appealing woman. The prospect of making love to her tonight, in fact—here in his hotel suite—quickened his breathing. He just wished there had been more time to romance her, to give her more of what she had wanted. He was cheating her of that. Perhaps after they were married . . .
“Oh, I say,” Bertie said. “I almost forgot. Message from m’mother, and m’father told me to be sure not to forget to tell you, though he can do so himself later, at the wedding breakfast, of course. Rochford arrived in town last night.”
Gabriel stood very still, one kid glove half on his hand, as he looked back at Bertie. “Anthony Rochford?” he said. “Did he go somewhere?” Now that he thought about it, the man had not been at the ball last night. That