Chapter 18
The next morning brought a flurry of activity. Final dress fittings, rehearsal arrangements, last-minute wedding details that seemed both crucial and completely irrelevant.
"You look tired," Vivienne observed over breakfast.
"Someone threw pebbles at my window last night."
"Ah. The Duke?"
"Who else?"
"How romantic. Harold did the same thing before our wedding. Though he was sober and brought flowers."
"James was neither sober nor bearing flowers. He did propose we elope to Scotland."
"Of course he did. The poor man's desperate."
"We're getting married tomorrow."
"After three months of torture. I'm surprised he hasn't actually kidnapped you."
"Don't give him ideas."
The day passed in a blur of preparations. The final dress fitting went perfectly and Madame Delacroix actually cried over her creation. Great-aunt Agatha, who had indeed arrived, kept offering loud commentary about the importance of "marital vigor."
"Is she drunk?" Catherine whispered to James.
"She's been drunk since 1785," he replied. "We think it's preserved her."
Vivienne insisted they had a rehearsal dinner at her house, with only close family and friends. Or as close as dukes got to friends, which seemed to mostly involve other titled people who didn't actively want to murder him.
Catherine was seated beside James, finally, properly, as would be her right as his wife starting tomorrow.
"Twenty hours," he murmured as the soup was served.
"Nineteen hours and forty-three minutes."
"Heavens, this is endless."
"It's necessary."
"Is it? Is it really? Because I'm fairly certain we could skip dinner, skip the sleeping separately tonight, skip everything except the actual vows."
"Your mother would murder you."
"She'd understand eventually."
The Duchess, seated across from them, raised an eyebrow. "I can hear you, you know."
"Good," James said. "Then you know I'm dying."
"You're dramatic. It's one more night."
"One more night after three months of nights."
"James," the Duchess said mildly, "you're scandalizing the Archbishop."
Indeed, the Archbishop was looking rather pink.
"Sorry," James said, not sounding sorry at all.
Dinner continued with multiple courses, multiple toasts, and multiple attempts by great-aunt Agatha to tell inappropriate stories about wedding nights she'd known.
"And then there was my second husband," she was saying loudly. "Now there was a man who understood the importance of..."
"More wine, Aunt Agatha?" the Duchess interrupted desperately.
"Always, dear. As I was saying, the key to a good wedding night is..."
"Perhaps we should move to the drawing room?" the Archbishop suggested quickly.
"Nonsense! I haven't finished my story about the feather duster and the..."
"DRAWING ROOM," the Duchess said firmly, practically lifting the elderly woman from her chair.
"You're all prudes," Agatha declared. "In my day, we knew how to properly celebrate a wedding. None of this missionary position nonsense."
The Archbishop actually choked on his wine.
"I love your family," Catherine told James.
"They're insane."
"They're perfect."
"You're perfect." He took her hand under the table, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. "Eighteen more hours."
"You can't possibly know that precisely."
"I've been counting since the moment I proposed. Actually, since the moment I left you at that inn."
"That's..."
"Obsessive? Pathetic?"
"Romantic."
He brought her hand to his lips, not caring who saw. "I love you, Catherine. Desperately, completely, eternally."
"Save the vows for tomorrow," the Duchess said dryly, though her eyes were warm.
"I have different vows for tomorrow," James said, his gaze never leaving Catherine's face.
"Oh?" the Archbishop asked. "You're not using the traditional service?"
"We are. But I'm adding some personal touches."
"That's not strictly proper."
"Nothing about us has been strictly proper," James pointed out. "Why start now?"
The evening finally wound down, guests departing with final congratulations and advice. Catherine found herself alone with James for just a moment in the hallway.
"I don't want to leave you tonight," he said, pulling her into his arms.
"One more night."
"I've had enough nights without you to last a lifetime."
"After tomorrow, you'll never have another one."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He kissed her, deep and desperate, his hands framing her face like she was something precious.
"Your Grace," Peters appeared, diplomatic as always. "The carriage is ready."
"Curse the carriage."
"Your mother insists, Your Grace. Something about it being bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."
"We've already had all the bad luck. Miss Worthing, society's scrutiny, three months of..."
"James," Catherine interrupted. "Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner tomorrow comes."
"Fourteen hours and twenty-seven minutes."
"Go."
He went, reluctantly, looking back multiple times as if to memorize her.
Catherine returned to her room to find Martha waiting with hot chocolate and knowing smiles.
"Tomorrow, my lady."
"Tomorrow."
"Are you nervous?"
"About the wedding? No. About the wedding night?" Catherine paused. "Also no, actually."
Martha laughed. "At least you know what to expect."
"That's the problem. I know exactly what to expect, and the waiting is killing me."
"Just think, this time tomorrow, you'll be the Duchess of Ravensfield."
"This time tomorrow, I'll be in bed with my husband, and anyone who tries to disturb us will be shot."
"I'll make a note of that, my lady."
Catherine barely slept, her mind too full of anticipation. When dawn finally broke, she was already awake, watching the sky lighten.
Her wedding day.
The morning flew by in a whirlwind of preparation. Bath, hair (an elaborate creation of curls and pearls that took two hours), cosmetics (subtle but enhancing), undergarments (silk and lace that made her blush), and finally, the dress.
It was a masterpiece of ivory silk and delicate lace, with tiny pearls sewn throughout that caught the light. The neckline was modest but flattering, the waist fitted, the skirt flowing into a small train.
"You look like a princess," Martha breathed.
"I look like a duchess," Catherine corrected, studying her reflection.
Vivienne appeared in the doorway, resplendent in lavender silk. "The carriage is here. Are you ready?"
"I've been ready for three months."
"Then let's not keep the duke waiting any longer."
The carriage ride to St. George's was both endless and too quick. Catherine could see the crowds gathered outside—all of society had come to witness the wedding of the season.
Inside, the church was packed. Two hundred of London's elite, all in their finest clothes, all craning to see her entrance.
But Catherine only had eyes for James.
He stood at the altar in his formal morning dress, looking devastating and nervous and completely hers. When he saw her, his entire face transformed; relief, joy, and love so profound it took her breath away.
The walk down the aisle seemed to take forever. The Duke of Devonshire, who was giving her away in place of a father, kept a steady pace despite her desire to run.
Finally, finally, she reached James.
"You came," he whispered.
"Did you doubt it?"
"Every second until now."
The Archbishop began the ceremony, the ancient words washing over them. Catherine barely heard them, too focused on James's face, on his hand holding hers.
"Do you, James Edmund Alexander Wrentham, Duke of Ravensfield, take this woman..."
"I do," James said before the Archbishop could finish.
Laughter rippled through the congregation.
"Your Grace, I need to finish the question."
"The answer will still be yes. To everything. Forever."
More laughter and even the Archbishop smiled slightly.
When it was Catherine's turn, she managed to wait for the full question, though only barely.
"I do," she said clearly, firmly, irrevocably.
"The rings?"
James slipped the gold band onto her finger with hands that trembled slightly. "With this ring, I thee wed. Finally."
She placed his ring with equal care. "With this ring, I thee wed. Forever."
"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may..."
James didn't wait. He pulled Catherine into his arms and kissed her thoroughly, properly, scandalously. The kind of kiss that made matrons fan themselves and young ladies take notes.
When they finally parted, the entire church was applauding. Someone, definitely Lady Jersey, whistled.
"Your Grace," Catherine said, testing out the title.
"Your Grace," he replied, grinning like a fool.
They practically ran back down the aisle, hand in hand, laughing. The crowds outside cheered as they emerged, throwing flower petals.
"The wedding breakfast," Catherine reminded him as he helped her into the carriage.
"Will happen without us if necessary."
"James!"
"What? We'll make an appearance. A brief appearance. A very brief appearance."
The wedding breakfast was beautiful, elaborate, and seemed to last approximately seventeen years. James and Catherine behaved like a team, accepting congratulations, making appropriate responses, pretending they weren't both desperate to escape.
"How much longer?" James murmured during a brief moment alone.
"We've been here forty-five minutes."
"That's enough, surely?"
Lady Jersey appeared as if summoned. "Thinking of escaping already?"
"Never," James lied.
"You're a terrible liar, Your Grace. Go. You've done your duty. Besides, everyone's placing bets on how quickly you'll leave."
"What's the winning time?"
"Fifty-three minutes. You have eight minutes to make Lord Ashford very happy."
"Then we're leaving in nine minutes," James said immediately. "Ashford still owes me money from cards."
Lady Jersey laughed. "Young love. Go on then, make your escape."
Nine minutes later exactly, James announced they were leaving. There were protests about cake and traditions, but he was already pulling Catherine toward the door.
"The bouquet!" someone called.