The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,45
“Er—yes. I thought it would be good if there was a next time. Many next times. Many, many next times.”
She blinked.
He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought perhaps we could get married this afternoon, just like Georgiana suggested. They’ll think it’s our second wedding, of course.”
She nodded, but this was an odd situation.
“I know you want to marry Mr. Andrews, and I know I’m not him, but perhaps we can still try to be happy,” he asked, despising the hopeful sound in his voice.
“You want to marry me?” Her face paled.
He looked down. “I’m not sure we can get to London in time for you to marry Mr. Andrews before the New Year. The weather is worse than before.”
“You wouldn’t mind marrying me?” Portia’s voice was small.
“I would love it.” He squeezed her hands. “Now say yes.”
She said yes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PORTIA WAITED OUTSIDE the drawing room and waited for the music to begin. Jonesie had clothed her in a white muslin gown that she declared appropriate for weddings, arranged her hair in artful curls, and given her a beautiful bouquet procured with the help of the housekeeper.
Murmurings sounded from the guests. Even her guardian and the magistrate were present.
Portia was going to marry Colin. Portia’s heart soared. This wasn’t what she’d expected, but perhaps the very best parts of life couldn’t be planned.
A knock sounded at the door, and Portia glanced toward the closed drawing room door. The butler was inside. Charlotte and her husband had invited all the servants to the wedding.
Well, Portia certainly knew how to answer a door. She certainly wasn’t going to poke her head into the drawing room to tell the butler to open the door. She’d seen Cranston perform the task multiple times. Portia strode toward the entry, then opened the door.
A man stared at her through spectacles perched on his nose. Her heart fell.
“Mr. Andrews?” Portia’s voice trembled.
“Yes.” Mr. Andrews narrowed the distance between them. “I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”
“I-I didn’t expect to see you at all,” Portia said.
Mr. Andrews raked his hand through his hair. His fingers trembled. “I’m dashed sorry. I was late to the ship, and it took off without me.”
“I know.”
“I expect you do,” Mr. Andrews said. “You must have been dreadfully worried when I never showed up. Not the gentlemanly thing at all.”
“It’s fine,” she said, conscious she hadn’t felt mournful of that fact lately. “I understand.”
“That’s jolly decent of you,” Mr. Andrews said. “Now. Shall we get this wedding thing done with?”
“Wedding thing?” Her throat closed, and she forced herself not to bolt into the drawing room.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Andrews said. “It’s not the end of the year yet, is it? I wouldn’t want you to lose your inheritance now. Not when you were counting on me.”
“You want me to marry you.” Portia continued to stare at him, and she had the dreadful feeling her jaw might just have lowered to an unladylike depth.
“Quite,” Mr. Andrews said. “Daisy made it quite clear you needed to marry someone.”
“Yes,” Portia said faintly. Her heart trembled oddly. But then her fingers were also trembling, as were her knees.
“I need to sit down,” she said, then settled into a chair in the foyer.
“I’m terribly sorry about being late,” Mr. Andrews said. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had to come here.”
Her eyes prickled.
She hadn’t expected this. She’d planned to marry Colin. Heavens, she’d been so happy about the prospect of marrying him this morning. She’d had so much joy, more than she’d ever had before, more than she’d deserved to have.
Because Sir Vincent was correct: Portia wasn’t the sort of woman who married a duke. Certainly, Cranston seemed perpetually amazed she was any relation of Sir Vincent. No, Portia was the sort of woman who would be terribly, utterly grateful to end up with someone as nice as Mr. Andrews. She wasn’t supposed to marry the duke, and Colin had said he hadn’t even been searching for a woman to marry. He was going to marry her...because he felt sorry for her.
A small voice in her head insisted that wasn’t the case, but Portia dismissed it. Perhaps Colin had bedded her this morning, but no doubt he’d bedded multitudes of women. She’d be wrong to attach too much sentiment to the process. It hadn’t mattered how much her heart had soared, or how nice it had felt to lie in his arms...that was what all women felt. Wasn’t that the reason why everyone warned not to bed men