When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,113

speak vows while I’m being stabbed in the back. Mary, you will remove the pin for me.” She infused her order—it was not a request—with all the dignity a duchess could command.

Madam looked torn, then she swept a curtsy. “Best wishes, Your Grace. Mary, see that the duchess is made comfortable, then gather up the boxes.” Madam tapped twice on the door, which was opened from the far side, then departed.

“Come,” Matilda said, marching into the bedroom and moving behind the privacy screen.

“Two footmen wait right outside your sitting room door,” Mary said quietly when she and Matilda were alone. “You wouldn’t get ten paces down the corridor if you fled. I have a message for you.”

“From Mr. Wentworth?”

“Aye, Your Grace. After I left here last night, I’d barely reached the street corner when a strapping blond fellow came up beside me and told me I shouldn’t be abroad so late on my own. Had an accent, and he wasn’t threatening me in the least.”

Duncan was a fine strapping fellow, but he had no accent and wasn’t blond. “The fine fellow was watching this house, I take it?” Thank you, Duncan, for not losing me or losing heart.

“The fellow was a footman to the Duke of Walden, and he took me to Mr. Wentworth straightaway. Mr. Wentworth said that your knights will charge before the ceremony, and you weren’t to do anything to put yourself in harm’s way.”

The ceremony was scheduled to start in six minutes.

And yet, Duncan would not fail her. Was incapable of failing those he cared for, regardless of their station or the danger to himself.

“Then I’d best take myself down to the family parlor. Thank you, Mary. You might well have saved my life.”

Mary’s features were too finely drawn to be pretty, her figure lacked the curves bestowed by regular, ample nutrition, but she had a lovely smile.

“Seamstresses hear everything,” she said. “We see everything, and I knew you weren’t a happy bride. His Grace said I might have my own shop.”

“You’d rather have the handsome footman?”

“To be honest, I might like both, Your Grace.”

“Then I hope you get them.” Because for a woman to have both the man she loved and something meaningful besides—a home, a shop, a calling—ought not to be an impossible dream. “Thank you again for your aid. It’s time for you to leave, and for me to cry off at the altar.”

Mary gathered up the boxes and accompanied Matilda into the corridor. One footman went with the maid, the other stayed right at Matilda’s elbow as she descended the stairs. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eight times as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“This way, Your Grace,” the footman murmured, turning to the left.

Matilda disdained to take his arm. “No need to direct me. I can hear the colonel shouting plainly enough.”

* * *

The war hero expected to be obeyed, and Duncan delighted—delighted—in the fact that nobody was obeying him.

“But, my lord,” a footman sputtered, “the gentleman said he’d brought the ring, and every wedding requires a ring. You said we was to be certain that nothing interfered—”

“He’s not a bloody jeweler,” Parker bellowed. “Those two aren’t a jeweler’s bullyboys.”

Quinn and Stephen were the pair in question, the duke looking ferocious despite his Bond Street tailoring, while Stephen examined the heavy gold handle on his sword cane.

Over in the corner, the priest paged through his prayer book and pretended to ignore the verbal altercation.

“In fact,” Duncan said, “you are correct, my lord colonel. I am Mr. Duncan Wentworth. I have with me Lord Stephen Wentworth, and Quinton, His Grace of Walden, whom I am honored to call my cousins. We are under the impression you intend to hold a wedding.”

“And what bloody bedamned business is it of yours if I do?” Parker was resplendent in his regimentals, and they nicely matched his choleric complexion.

“Why?” Duncan asked. “Why marry a woman who does not seek to marry you?”

The priest looked up.

“You know nothing of the situation,” Parker said. “Her Grace welcomed my suit and welcomes the protection marriage to me will afford her.”

Matilda entered the room, a footman trailing. She was magnificently attired in a dress of pale green that had purple, red, and blue flowers embroidered on the hem, cuffs, and cream underskirt. Her hair had been done simply—a braid coiled into a chignon, and she wore no jewelry.

To Duncan she had never looked lovelier, or more furious.

“Your Grace.” Duncan bowed, Stephen and Quinn doing likewise, while the