Chapter 8
WEDDING DAY
Brandon was standing in front of a mirror, allowing his valet to finish adjusting his cravat.
He looked at himself. Perhaps he should have chosen something more festive than this dark coat and pristine linen, but that was not who he was, and he wanted to be himself on the day he was getting married.
“So just to clarify,” Owen said, “there will be no wedding breakfast.”
“There will be a wedding breakfast.”
Brandon turned and looked at his friend lounging in a chair nearby. He was wearing a dark blue suit, and he had a glass of brandy in his hand.
“Is this your idea of a breakfast?” Brandon asked.
“You just announced to me,” Owen pouted like a petulant child, “that the great Duke of Voss will not have a great reception with half the ton invited.”
“It must be devastating for you.”
“It is a complete waste of a perfect opportunity.”
“A perfect opportunity for what, Owen? Debauchery?”
“A crowd, champagne, whatever your excellent cook would make, a little music, and eligible ladies to flirt with.”
Brandon smirked but didn’t engage, since that would only encourage Owen more. Not that he needed any more encouragement. Owen approached him as he was adjusting the signet ring on his finger.
“You do realize that it is dreadfully difficult to seduce anyone in a half-empty church?”
“It is a cross you must carry.”
“Weddings are a perfect opportunity to find desperate women. Even married women reminisce about that day, wishing they had gone down the aisle with a different groom. Me.”
“It is always encouraging to hear your opinion on the sanctity of a wedding ritual.”
“All I am saying is that it is quite selfish of you to think only of your first night as a married man and not that of your best friend.”
“When the day comes that you marry, I will make sure it will be a grand feast.”
Owen laughed hard.
“Just tell your cook to make cold dishes because hell will freeze over the day I decide to marry.”
“I will make sure to inform him.”
Owen smirked again and shook his head. He stood behind Brandon, his reflection in the mirror meeting his eyes.
“Nervous?”
Brandon didn’t know how he felt, so he decided to choose how to feel, to control his emotions though it felt like the exact opposite.
“Of all the ton, you and the other Fingers are the only people who know that this is nothing but a transaction.”
“All I am saying is you could have made a different deal and still got the information.”
“This serves multiple purposes.”
“Oh, I am sure.” Owen smiled wickedly. “There will be several purposes to be served.”
“You are vulgar.”
“That was vulgar?” Owen scoffed. “If I wanted to be vulgar, I would say—”
“Stash it.”
* * *
The luxurious ducal carriage rode through the city with only Brandon and Owen inside. For some reason, Brandon’s mind went to the dark, unmarked carriage he had sent for Marigold that first night she snuck into his residence. He chuckled, thinking how brave and daring that unassuming woman was.
“At least tell me she’s tolerable to look at,” Owen said. “She makes no social appearances, and I’ve heard conflicting reports.”
Brandon felt a dark satisfaction hearing that.
It was good that others thought of Marigold as plain and simple because she was not.
The first image that came to his mind was her eyes.
He was never a romantic or poetic kind of gentleman, but he really wanted to find the words to describe those almond-shaped, big amber eyes of hers.
The only word that came to mind was honey.
Golden, glowing, fragrant, sweet, sticky honey.
“The only thing that everyone agrees on is that she is tall,” Owen said, taking him away from his wanderings only to guide him to a new path.
Marigold was tall, and yet she felt smaller in his arms. She also had a willowy, firm body. He tightened his fists when he thought of how she felt under his palm.
“She’ll do.” Brandon quickly covered these thoughts.
They arrived at the church and saw that a small crowd had gathered. Not guests, just people eager to see a new Cinderella story, the grand Duke with the lowly lady. Brandon adjusted his coat and walked inside without paying anyone any attention.
The church was old, cold, and mostly empty.
His family, going back generations, had donated this church to the city, and it was a tradition for every duke of the family to get married in it.
Only Owen took his place beside Brandon’s solicitor at the pews on Brandon’s side.
The rest of the Dark Hand kept their distance on purpose since there was a rule within the order not to expose too much of their relationship.
Owen just happened to be his old childhood friend.
Brandon turned his attention to Marigold’s side. There weren’t a lot of people there, just a few stone-faced matrons whom he surmised were his mother-in-law’s friends. Their looks were sour, as if they were sucking on a lemon, positively envious that Marigold had managed to secure such a match.
“Well,” Owen groaned with disappointment, “this is even worse than I imagined. They could have at least brought their daughters, even if it was only for a crash course on how to secure a duke. I happen to be one, and I would gladly pose as a test subject.”
“Close your mouth, start thinking with your upper head, and take your place.”
“Fine,” Owen almost groaned like a child told he had to take a bath. “I wouldn’t want to miss this joyous festive occasion.”
“Keep your sarcasm under control,” Brandon ordered. “Now. Sit.”
“Oh, I bet Lady Marigold loves it when you talk to her like that,” he said ironically.
Brandon’s eyes turned dark, thinking of the way Marigold reacted to that exact tone, but he was not going to share that insight with Owen.
“Sit. Down.”
Then Brandon heard the distant sound of carriage wheels stopping outside and the murmuring of the people waiting to see the bride. He gripped the railing, but when he realized what he did, he forced himself to relax.
Then the doors opened. The first thing that poured in was sunlight, and then she walked in. A collective gasp was heard from the onlookers, and for some reason, that made Brandon chuckle softly.
Marigold stood at the other side of the small, intimate church. Aside from her mother, she was alone. No father to give her away, no friends to be her bridesmaids.
All that he noticed in seconds before focusing on how she looked. He convinced himself it was just a thorough inspection of how his bride would be perceived by the world. And also a personal challenge because it was the first time he had chosen anything for a woman.
Marigold was wearing the gown he had sent her, and he knew instantly that he had made the right choice. The silver-white silk caught the light like the moon on a steel lake. The pearls on the embroidery made a soft sound each time she moved, and the fabric of her skirt made her look like a nymph.
His reaction was visceral before he could completely control it.
His breath caught, and his jaw clenched a little right before he commanded it to relax again.
His eyes could not focus on one thing. They went from the little auburn curls touching her neck, to her golden amber eyes, down to how the exquisite dress hugged her body to her hips before the skirt flowed outward.
Marigold was arranging her skirt, ready to walk toward him, when her mother leaned into her ear, perhaps with one last piece of advice or wish though Brandon was not sure Marigold’s mother could spare either.
The moment lasted only a few seconds, and then her mother stepped back, her fake smile back in place, making her way to the front pews and waving at her friends.
But Marigold was left there pinned to the floor. She had been composed and almost serene when she entered the church, albeit a little nervous. But after whatever it was her mother whispered in her ear, there was now a flicker of something akin to fear crossing her features.
What did that woman say to her?
Brandon gritted his teeth and held back from giving his mother-in-law a piece of his mind. He decided the best course of action was to focus on Marigold.
So, he turned his full attention to her, his black eyes finding her amber ones, and he nodded.
Marigold took one step toward him slowly, her posture perfect.
She kept her eyes on him, holding a small bouquet of white flowers.
Her eyes were a bit distant. She was not just nervous as a usual bride would be.
Marigold was always thinking and calculating, so he could tell that something wasn’t adding up for her.
“What a liar,” Owen whispered from the first row.
Brandon was momentarily distracted as he turned a warning look to his best friend, but Owen seemed to have his full attention on Marigold. Then he turned to Brandon with a judging look. Brandon smirked because he knew what his friend was saying.
Marigold looked magnificent, a bride worthy of a duke.
She pulled even closer, and now, Brandon could hear the whisper of her wedding dress against the cobblestones.
He could catch flashes of the pearls as they reflected the candles.
And he noticed the slight tremble in her gloved fingers clutching onto those flowers as if they were a lifeline.
She was finally in front of him, and Brandon looked down at her with an encouraging expression. She was doing well. Always surviving, always managing, even if she was all alone.
From now on, she would no longer be alone.
The thought hit him like a bullet through the chest. Of course, this was just a transaction. She had information, and he gained the things that he needed. But this particular transaction was a lifelong commitment, tying someone else to his fate.
These thoughts had crossed his mind during the past days. Of course, they had. He was not an imbecile. But seeing her in her wedding dress made it real.
He had no time to dwell on it because the rector began the ceremony, but Brandon’s attention was split between the words and Marigold’s profile.
Whatever had happened and whatever her mother had told her, she had buried it deep down.
She did that a lot, he assessed, judging from the nonchalant way she spoke about being threatened by London gangs.
“Dearly beloved,” the rector’s voice echoed against the walls, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”
Brandon had sat through weddings before. It was, after all, part of the political and economic process of the gentry. Men who married for lineage, alliances, convenience, and heirs.
He wondered how many of them were married for information, or was he the first one? He had never expected the words to sound different when spoken over him. Yet they did.
“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
What a nice little trick that question was.
The ritual did not merely announce that you had accepted the person right next to you as your mate for the rest of your life. It asked you to admit it out loud in front of people. A life commitment.
He turned and glanced down at Marigold. Like a beautiful, blessed bride, she kept her eyes ahead, but Brandon noticed how carefully she was standing and how, for this brief moment, she was not breathing. Brandon knew why.
Even now, dressed in the gown that he had sent for her in the eyes of the public, the Crown, and God, Marigold braced for the worst. She thought that he would reject her, that perhaps this was an elaborate joke.
“I will,” Brandon answered.
Marigold broke her composure to look up at him as the rector posed her the same question. The thin veil covering her eyes could not hide her nerves.
“I will,” she said steadily.
If he expected the inkling of panic he felt to become a boulder of anxiety now that they had both committed to each other, somehow, he instead felt relief.
The rector took their hands, joined them together, and draped his stole over them. Even through the gloves, he could feel her cold fingers. He didn’t even realize that he was reciting his vows. And then it was her turn. As she repeated her own vows, her voice trembled only once.
A thought came rushing to him, bypassing all the hidden doors behind which he hid his thoughts. It was simple and yet monumental. This woman, Marigold, was now his.
“With this ring I thee wed…”
His voice sounded deeper. The gold band looked strangely natural against her hand. It was done. Marigold was now his duchess, and it remained to be seen if that was a good thing after all. Marigold looked up with a tense smile, perhaps wondering the same thing.
As the ceremony finished, he guided her to the exit.
The small crowd that had gathered outside watched them with intrigue.
Some cheered, but for others, it was just a spectacle, a way to see how the other half lived.
From within the church, the Dowager Countess emerged, waving at the crowd as if she were the one they had gathered for.
Brandon avoided and ignored his mother-in-law and helped Marigold into the ducal carriage. One of the footmen rushed to help the new duchess ascend the steps, but Brandon beat him to it. He offered his hand, and she turned, almost startled, to look at him before accepting.
He climbed in after her and took his place across from her as she looked out the window.
That was when Brandon realized that he had fought men, actively sought danger, and thrown himself into the underbelly of London, but he had no idea how to talk to his wife.