Chapter 15
“Truly, I am so happy,” Lydia said with the classful ignorance of one who did not know the true circumstances behind the wedding. “I always hoped you would marry her.”
The first thing Maxwell did upon returning home was source a special license.
That done, a small announcement in the paper to ensure everything was above board.
Then his solicitor met with Lord Gilford to establish the details, Thalia’s dowry, and any obligations the two men had toward one another as they progressed with the marriage.
Throughout the entire process, he did not forget what was owed to his position as Duke—a certain amount of ceremony—, and he elected for a small wedding at St. George’s on Hanover Square.
“Why is that?” Maxwell asked, adjusting his cravat one final time in the mirror.
“Because you seemed to like her so very much! And because she always looks at you as though… Well, as though she admires you. And I have not seen her admire that many gentlemen.”
Lydia blushed, and Maxwell shot her a sharp glance. After speaking with Thalia, he had given Lydia her space, but he still had to fight every instinct to protect her.
“It’s a particularly sudden decision, nevertheless,” Joyce said from where she reclined on the sofa behind them both. “Especially during this Season. You might have left things at an engagement and allowed the focus to remain on Lydia.”
“Mama!” In the mirror, Maxwell saw Lydia frown. “I hardly mind. Max is not required to sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of mine.”
“This has nothing to do with happiness, or sacrifice, and everything to do with practicality.” Maxwell turned from the mirror and speared Joyce with a frown. “I have not forgotten my duties and obligations as far as Lydia is concerned.”
“I am not concerned, Maxwell.” Lydia gave him a wide, blissfully innocent smile.
Of course, the ton would certainly talk about this. He had felt the whispers ever since the announcement; shock that he was finally marrying; further shock that his chosen bride was a lady with whom, to all intents and purposes, he had once broken an engagement.
“If we don’t go yet, we will be late,” Maxwell said, and Joyce rose from the sofa with an air of reluctance.
Lydia gave his arm a quick squeeze. “I hope your union with her is everything you hope it will be. I can’t wait to greet her as—” Here, she faltered. “As your wife,” she finished.
“I will, of course, tell her everything,” he said. “She will not betray your secret.”
Joyce sniffed but let the subject drop as they climbed into the carriage and traveled the short distance to the church. There, he took his place at the front, pacing back and forth with his hands behind his back.
The idea that he was nervous felt preposterous, yet here he was, looking toward his marriage with an air of anxious anticipation.
This eventuality had been one he had originally intended to avoid: marriage with a lady he felt more than passing respect for. Whatever he claimed to Lydia, she would be a distraction, and the worst part of it all was that he wanted her to be.
He was tired of resisting her.
Once they were joined in matrimony, there would be no further reason for them to wait, so long as she was amenable.
“I must say I didn’t see this coming quite so fast,” Simon said as he came to stand beside Maxwell. He clapped him on the back. “No need to fear; my wife has taken her in hand. Shown her all the best warehouses; she will have everything she needs, if you take my meaning.” He winked.
The nervous anticipation tipped into something approaching a need.
The doors at the end of the aisle opened, and Thalia stepped inside, accompanied by her father. Anna slipped behind her and into a pew, smiling broadly at Maxwell. She seemed pleased, at least, but Maxwell could not take his eyes off Thalia.
He had always known she was attractive and had desired her for longer than he cared to admit, but the full force of her beauty struck him anew. Dressed in pale gold satin, she seemed to glow like a star. The material gathered under her buxom curves, and her brown hair was soft around her face.
Ethereal—that was the only word Maxwell could conjure to describe her.
Ethereal, and somehow, beyond all logic, his.
When she reached him, she looked up with laughing brown eyes, and if Maxwell had ever been in doubt about the force of his feelings or whether he was in trouble, he knew then.
He was utterly lost for her.
“You may shut your mouth,” she whispered mischievously. “It would do neither of us any good now if you were to choke on a fly.”
“You look lovely,” he whispered back, unable to embrace her joking spirit and reciprocate. His heart was pounding, and he wondered briefly if he was about to suffer a heart attack.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The ceremony was about to begin, but Maxwell could not take his eyes off her. Eventually, she led the way, turning to the bishop with such meaningful intensity that he was forced to do the same, going through the motions until finally they were declared man and wife.
Maxwell did not decide to kiss her. It was more than that, when she turned her face up to his, her jaw tilting and her lips smiling and her eyes unusually soft, there was nothing else he could have done.
A sigh arose in the church as his mouth brushed across hers, and her fingers tightened across his arm, pulling him closer.
Tempting as it was to sink deeper into the kiss, he forced himself to pull back and look down at her.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and her teeth sank into her bottom lip.
“Well, wife?” he asked, low enough that no one else could hear them.
“Well, husband?”
He tucked her hand in his and led them both down the aisle and out of the church into the light.
Outside, a carriage awaited them, and he handed her inside, still feeling a little as though he had stepped outside reality.
The day was just as bright as he remembered; this was his carriage and Thalia was just as beautiful as she had been inside the church.
If anything, more so now with the wind tossing her curls as she entered the carriage and her cheeks faintly flushed.
His wife. His.
That thought brought a great deal of satisfaction with it.
Perhaps this had never been the plan, but he couldn’t deny how right it all felt.
Thalia’s father had, naturally, not wanted to pay for the wedding breakfast, so Maxwell had volunteered to host. Thalia and Anna had been the ones to plan it; however, during late-night talks where Thalia did not disclose how secretly thrilled she was to marry Maxwell.
And nervous.
And confused.
Mostly confused, if she was honest, because the way in which he had offered for her was—well, it was confounding, and she hadn’t quite decided how to feel about the proposal.
They would be husband and wife, giving him hitherto inaccessible control over her, and she knew enough about him to know that he would want to have some authority over parts of her life.
Such as which events she attended on behalf of Rossini. Not going to gentlemen’s clubs again.
There was a lot to discuss.
But, as she glanced at the gentle smile he produced as he looked down at Lydia, she felt a burst of optimism that they would find a way of working together.
“I hope you’re happy,” her father said from her other side. The only reason he was attending at all was that people would talk if he didn’t—and good appearances mattered to him almost as much as money.
Thalia raised her glass. “He is a far better man than any I have been thrust at this year, Father. So yes, I am happy.” Perhaps she was giving her tongue too much leave, but her father no longer had any claim on her.
“And frankly, I am relieved to be in the care of a man who does not see me as a commodity.”
Her father snorted. “Is that what you believe?”
Across the room, Maxwell leaned in a little further to hear what Lydia said, an indulgent smile on his face. How could she ever have suspected he might have a tendre for the young lady? Lydia was so obviously a daughter figure to him, a younger sister that he viewed as such.
And Thalia could see that Maxwell cared deeply for the girl, even from this distance. The sweet thought made her heart squeeze.
What would love look like on his face if it were directed at her? She could imagine it, alarmingly enough: softness in his gray eyes, that same brand of warm smile, except tinged with a different kind of heat when directed at her.
“Yes,” Thalia said. “I do believe that. He is a good man, and he cares about me. He will give me a certain level of freedom. I am a duchess now.”
The words tasted delicious as she said them. The Duchess of Marrowhurst; it hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
“Well, you seem very sure of yourself, my girl, but don’t be so certain that this confidence will last.” He tipped his glass at her, somewhat mockingly, and moved around the table, making his slow way to the door.
Elliot slid into the seat he vacated and slanted Thalia a wink. “Relieved to be rid of him.”
Thalia let out a long breath. “You have no idea.”
“What do you think of your new husband?”
Husband. She was delighted at the sound. “More to the point, what do you think of him?”
“I think he is still young, handsome, and rich. What more could a young lady ask for?” He leaned in a little more closely. “An ordinary young lady, that is.”
“He knows everything,” Thalia said quietly.
Elliot leaned back in his seat, blinking in surprise. “He does?”
“He discovered it when I was representing Rossi at an event, and he has kept my secret.” She kept everything else he had done to herself. “I think he will support me.”
“Well then, this is a turn up for the books. I thought he would be handsome and brooding and lock you in his gleaming tower.”
“We haven’t had a chance to speak of the practicalities, but I rather hope he will allow me to sculpt in an entirely more easily accessible way,” she whispered.