Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The ceremony that took place in the cream parlor was elegant, if small in scale.
Rosalie’s parents attended, as well as Robin and Howard. Lucian did not have any family, leastwise, not any with whom he was on speaking terms. But his friends Evander Beauclerk and Viscount Trundley stood up with him, and Vander’s mother announced that she would act as mother of the groom.
Rosalie’s heart raced as she spoke her vows.
She could not help but fear that she was making a terrible mistake.
She could still hear every cruel word Lucian had hurled at her on that balcony two years ago.
He seemed sincere in his affections, but he had seemed sincere back then, too, and it had all turned out to be a joke.
Would this turn out to be a joke, too?
At the same time, he hadn’t turned out to be the villain where his grandfather was concerned.
He had gone to great effort to save her from what would have been a miserable marriage with Lysander.
And his servants seemed to regard him as a good and decent man.
Which was in contrast to the prevailing opinion of society.
But it occurred to Rosalie that the servants might be in a better position to know.
If not for that one conversation in the orangery, the one in which he had broken her heart, she would have been thrilled to be marrying this man.
But she could not erase that memory from her mind.
In spite of Rosalie’s inner turmoil, the ceremony marched on.
It seemed she scarcely had time to blink before Lucian was reaching into his pocket to pull out the ring.
He flipped open the black leather box, and Rosalie’s heart stuttered.
The ring he presented to her was a delicate Giardinetti ring depicting three roses formed from tiny pink stones—topaz, perhaps?
Rose quartz? Rosalie didn’t know enough about gemstones to say what they were, but they were stunning, they were in her favorite shade of pink, and they were flanked by sparkling emerald leaves.
As a general rule, Rosalie didn’t give jewelry a second thought. But she loved this ring. It was precisely what she would have chosen for herself, had she known that it existed.
She chanced a glance at Lucian, and her reaction must have shown on her face, because he was smiling softly. She tried to remind herself that Mrs. Beauclerk had been the one to design the ring.
Yes, an irksome voice in her head interjected, but Lucian cared enough to consult Mrs. Beauclerk. He could have pulled an ancient ring designed for another woman from the family vault. Instead, he went to the trouble of procuring something you would like.
His fingers were warm as he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit.
“You may kiss the bride,” the archbishop intoned.
And just like that, she found herself transformed from Lady Rosalie de Lacy to Lady Valentine.
Lucian gently framed her face, then placed a very proper, closed-mouth kiss on her lips. When he drew back, his grey eyes were intense.
Rosalie felt tears pricking. Well, this was perfect! Even when he scarcely touched her, he somehow managed to render her a trembling mess.
Her mother’s smile was smug because she, at least, had met her goal. Her mulish daughter was finally married to a lord.
The duchess gestured toward the door. “A wedding breakfast has been laid out in the dining room.”
One by one, their guests began to file out of the room. Rosalie hung back, taking a moment to gather herself.
When she and Lucian were the only ones left in the room, she turned and gave him a tremulous smile, thinking that he would offer his arm, or perhaps take her hand.
Instead, he seized her upper arm and pulled her deeper into the room.
“Lucian!” she squawked. “What are you doing?” She gestured helplessly toward the door. “The wedding breakfast is that way.”
They had reached the corner. Lucian laid his hand on another doorknob, one Rosalie had all but forgotten was there, so seldom did anyone use it.
It was a hidden door, built to blend into the wall, that led to an old powder room—a little closet that guests used to duck into so they could apply fresh powder to their hair without getting it all over the furniture, back when powdered hair had been fashionable.
Lucian’s eyes were bright, with a touch of mischief. “We’re not going to the wedding breakfast. Leastwise, not yet.”
Rosalie glanced at the powder room in alarm as he opened the door and pulled her inside. “Why not? What are we doing?”
The door closed with a click. “Consummating the marriage, of course.”
Lucian had spoken in jest.
Mostly. Of course, if his fair bride wanted him to fuck her in a glorified closet between the vows and the wedding breakfast, then, as every reader of the Rake Review could tell you, Lucian did not possess enough scruples to object.
But he had really just wanted to have a moment with Rosalie. After everything they had been through, and how dramatically he had made a hash of things, he could not believe that he had somehow managed to marry her. He had honestly not realized it was possible to feel this happy.
The door he’d spotted led to what appeared to be an old powder room. It was empty save for a cherrywood table beneath the lone window bearing a porcelain urn with a chip beneath one of its gilt scroll handles.
He tugged Rosalie to him and gave her the sort of kiss he hadn’t been able to give her in front of her mother, her large, imposing father, and the Archbishop of Canterbury.
When he raised his head, she was breathing hard. She glanced around the tiny room. “Can we really consummate the marriage here? In a powder room?”
“I was joking about that.”
Her face fell. “Oh.” She hastily composed her features and gave a forced laugh. “Of course. I knew that.”
Lucian grinned. His new bride was full of surprises. “Do you want to?”
“We shouldn’t,” she said at once.
He kissed her again. This time, when he lifted his head, she made a soft whimpering sound.
His voice was dark when he spoke. “I didn’t ask whether we should. I asked whether you wanted to.”
She blinked her eyes open. They were glassy with pleasure. “You have this strange effect on me,” she murmured.
He bent down to kiss her neck and was gratified when she shuddered. “I know precisely what you mean. You have the same effect on me.”
“Lucian!” she gasped as he kissed his way across her collarbone toward the swell of her breasts. He brought his hands up and began teasing her nipples through the silk of her bodice.
He reached behind her, seized the urn, and moved it to the floor. Placing his hands around Rosalie’s waist, he lifted her onto the table. “It is a bridegroom’s duty to take care of his bride.” He brushed a quick kiss across her lips. “Let me take care of you, Rosalie.”
“All right, I…” She trailed off, glancing around the tiny space. “The window,” she said, gesturing to the panes just behind her. “What if someone sees?”
It was a reasonable concern, as it was a full-sized window—necessary, no doubt, to maintain symmetry on the house’s outer facade.
Nevertheless, Lucian doubted anyone was watching. “It’s all right.” He kissed her ear, and she shivered. “It’s not as if we’re on the ground floor.”
Rosalie’s breath was coming in pants. “But what if… someone were to see?”
“Good. Maybe they’ll tell that blasted Brazen Belle woman. Instead of publishing that rot about how I don’t want to marry you, she can report that I am completely and utterly besotted.”
Rosalie blinked at him as if she were confused. “You’re… besotted? With me?”
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Rosalie. Darling. I just crossed an ocean for you.”
Suddenly, she looked as if she might cry. He didn’t think he’d said the wrong thing, but surely he wasn’t supposed to make her cry on their wedding day?
But then, she reached down and drew her skirts up to her thighs, and Lucian knew how to interpret that one. That was definitely a good sign.
“Come here,” she said in a shaky voice as she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to her.
Lucian wasn’t about to object. He stepped into the vee of her thighs and kissed her long and deep. Unsurprisingly, his cock had sprung to attention. Much to his delight, Rosalie scooted forward to the edge of the table and began rocking against him.
He reached around her and deftly undid the ties of her dress. She broke off their kiss, breathing hard. “The wedding breakfast. We have to go to the wedding breakfast in a few minutes, and my dress can’t be askew.”
It was all he could do to keep from laughing. “I’m enough of a scoundrel that I was featured in the Rake Review. Believe me, when it comes to rearranging women’s clothing, I’m as good as any lady’s maid.”
She scowled. “I’m not sure if you should have told me that on our wedding day.”
He made an appreciative sound as her dress sagged open. “What if I promised that you’re the only woman I’ll be using my ill-gotten skills on from now on? Because I don’t want anyone but you, Rosalie.”
She looked baldly skeptical. “Not even the Marchesa D’Arienzo?”
Lucian blew out a breath. So, she had read that section of the Rake Review column. Of course, she had. He should not have expected any differently.
“I did sleep with Isabella.” Rosalie looked away, and he placed his hand on her chin, turning her back toward him. “Once,” he said with emphasis. “Do you know why I did it?”
She rolled her eyes. “Probably some excuse about men having needs, and how I shouldn’t become hysterical when you take up with another woman a month from now.”