Chapter Three
Falstone Chapel, Northumberland
Every family of any consequence in the northern half of England had come to Falstone Chapel for the wedding, Adam was absolutely certain. And he wasn’t at all happy about it.
“Who invited all these people?” Adam had grumbled, piercing Lord Hettersham with a freezing look when the baron had the effrontery to stare openmouthed at him. Hettersham had quickly lowered his eyes, trembling a bit as he stepped away.
“I did,” Mother had explained with her unvarying calmness. “It is not every day my poor boy takes a bride.”
Adam had clenched his jaw at the loathed epithet. “I assured my bride—” The word still felt awkward on Adam’s lips “—that ours would be a quiet ceremony. I do not believe Miss Lancaster has invited anyone beyond her own immediate family.”
“I hadn’t intended to cause awkwardness, Adam,” Mother answered. “I only wish to celebrate.”
Adam did not feel much like celebrating.
He was standing at the front of the chapel awaiting the arrival of his bride.
He had yet to meet the woman who would become the next Duchess of Kielder.
He’d specified that she not be at Falstone until that morning.
Barton, the Falstone butler, had assured Adam that Miss Lancaster had arrived that morning as expected.
Any young lady who would willingly marry him had to have been desperate.
She was most likely older than he—a lady was considered firmly on the shelf at thirty; he was twenty-seven.
And, while he knew her financial situation didn’t bear scrutiny, Miss Lancaster must also have been rather plain, for a pretty face could often induce a gentleman to overlook a lack of dowry.
So he was about to marry a poor, plain spinster. He could handle that.
“Wonder if the chit’ll actually show up.” That was Mr. Adcock. Adam would know his snivel anywhere.
Adam turned slightly to the left, sending a look of warning across the congregation, though his eyes locked with Adcock’s, all the while inching the hilt of his dress sword out of its scabbard.
Swords were not necessarily au courant, but Adam always carried one.
Adcock knew that and knew Adam could and would use it.
Adcock cleared his throat a touch anxiously and kept any further comments to himself.
The rest of the wedding guests shifted a little nervously as well.
So Adam let his sword slip back into its scabbard.
The elderly vicar, Mr. Pointer, who’d known Adam all his life, did not appear the least bit intimidated.
If anything, he looked quietly amused. Adam never had been able to inspire the proper amount of apprehension in that man.
Where the devil was Miss Lancaster? Another five minutes and Adam planned to go retrieve her himself. It would not be the best start to their marriage, but he was not a patient man.
“Try not to run through any of the wedding guests,” Mr. Pointer said under his breath.
The elderly cleric was one of only two people who ever dared be insolent when speaking to Adam. The other was Adam’s only friend, Harry Windover, who was chuckling from his seat in the front row.
Adam would run Harry through if he didn’t watch himself.
Then the chuckling abruptly stopped. An abnormal hush descended over the chapel.
She’s decided to come, after all, Adam thought, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the vicar, listening to the shuffling of several pairs of feet, followed by the distinct sound of two sets of footsteps approaching from behind—Miss Lancaster and her father, no doubt.
He didn’t look back, just waited as she approached.
After an interminable moment, Miss Lancaster reached the front of the chapel and the ceremony began.
Mr. Pointer smiled at the bride. But then he had been known to smile at Adam, so the man’s grins were hardly a reliable reaction. Mr. Pointer would have smiled even if Miss Lancaster looked like a horse.
That thought was enough to force Adam’s eyes to wander in Miss Lancaster’s direction.
He was prepared to take a plain bride but certainly not one who was equine.
His expression, he felt certain, turned to stone in that moment.
His “aged, homely spinster” couldn’t possibly have been more than twenty years old.
And not at all unpleasant looking. Not what the ton would declare a beauty, but she was decidedly pretty. Pretty was the last thing he wanted.
Adam cursed under his breath, turning his eyes to the vicar once more.
Mr. Pointer must have heard. He paused briefly, one eyebrow raised. Adam offered no apology and the ceremony continued. From Miss Lancaster he heard not a sound, though she couldn’t help but have overheard his remark.
She was a quiet sort, then. That would probably help. Adam shifted slightly, making sure he was full profile to Miss Lancaster. She stood on his left side, which ought to keep her there long enough to complete her vows. After that she’d simply have to learn to live with her husband’s face.
In his mind, Adam cursed Josiah Jones to every torment imaginable for his assurances that Miss Lancaster would be the perfect bride for Adam.
Only a lady with no prospects of any kind and even fewer redeeming qualities would have fit the requirements—would have been willing to settle for what she was getting—so Adam wouldn’t be blamed for ruining her life.
Miss Lancaster, however, with her pleasing looks and youth, could have looked elsewhere.
Adam half-expected her to object to the union when Mr. Pointer asked if there were any reasons why the marriage ought not take place. No one else would dare, but he knew little of his soon-to-be wife. She remained as silent and still as ever.
“Adam Richard Boyce, Duke of Kielder, Marquess of Kielder, Earl of Falstone . . .” Adam barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the ongoing list that was his legal name. Ridiculous. “. . . so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.”
“Persephone—”
Persephone? “Ridiculous name,” Adam muttered under his breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Lancaster turn her head the slightest bit in his direction, the first acknowledgment he’d seen from her of his presence, let alone his comments. Adam turned his eyes toward her just enough to see her reaction.
Miss Lancaster looked confused. She didn’t say a word and quickly turned her gaze back to Mr. Pointer. In the next moment she answered the vicar, “I will.”
Adam felt himself stiffen, realizing what came next. In a minute’s time, Mr. Pointer placed Adam’s right hand in Miss Lancaster’s, and he was hard-pressed to keep his head turned enough to prevent her from glimpsing the scars that were the right side of his face.
He probably needn’t have bothered. Miss Lancaster’s eyes never rose above the level of his cravat, reconfirming his initial impression that she was a quiet, shy sort of young lady.
Unfortunately, he could also see that she was every bit as pretty as he’d thought when she’d first arrived at his side.
He felt uglier than usual in that moment. Adam hated feeling ugly. He went to great lengths to avoid people who made him feel that way.
This is never going to work, he thought to himself.
* * *
Persephone managed to keep a smile plastered on her face as she and her new husband walked through the throng of well-wishers gathered outside the chapel. Obviously a duke’s idea of a small, quiet ceremony differed greatly from that of the great-granddaughter of an insignificant baron.
“Madam,” a deep, rumbling voice said from a pace ahead of her.
Persephone pulled her attention to the present and realized her husband was offering to hand her into their waiting carriage. He wasn’t looking at her, something he’d avoided doing throughout the ceremony. Odd.
“Thank you.” She placed her hand in his, stepping carefully onto the lowered step of the exquisite landau, its roof fully collapsed.
She seated herself on the forward-facing seat and quickly arranged her skirts, feeling suddenly nervous at the idea of being alone, even for the length of a carriage ride, with her husband of less than ten minutes.
He stepped up and sat beside her without looking in her direction.
The carriage smoothly began its forward journey. Persephone saw the duke nod to the well-wishers. She, herself, smiled as they pulled away. Most of those assembled would be at Falstone Castle for the wedding breakfast, so there need be no farewells as yet.
Persephone watched her husband as they pulled further away from the churchyard.
What little of him she’d been able to see, thus far, was not unpleasant.
He wore his dark hair a little long, falling in waves around his face, completely covering his ears.
He had strong features, which seemed to hint at an underlying strength of character and determination.
His build was that of an active man. Persephone wondered how he spent his days, whether he preferred riding or fencing.
She saw the duke’s eyes dart quickly in her direction. Persephone dropped her gaze to her lap, embarrassed at being found out studying him. They continued in silence for a few more minutes before the duke spoke abruptly.
“Is your name really Persephone?” His voice wasn’t raised enough to be heard by the driver over the pounding hooves of the team pulling them swiftly on their way.
“It is.” She kept her voice low. She glanced up at him once more. He watched the passing landscape, face turned a little away from her.
“What were your parents thinking choosing a name like that?”
She hadn’t heard him wrong during the ceremony, after all, it seemed.
At first she’d told herself that he hadn’t referred to her name as “ridiculous” in the midst of their wedding.
Now it seemed likely that he had done just that, and only moments after muttering a curse loudly enough to stop the vicar mid-sentence.
“My father is a scholar. He is particularly fond of Greek mythology.”