The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(45)
The bishop was staring at him again while Meagan fixed him with a watchful gaze. Alexander had no idea what the man had just said.
“Dreaming of the wedding night are ye?” Egan MacDonald whispered, loudly enough for the first pews to hear.
Amid the tittering, Alexander said, “I beg your pardon. Please repeat the words.”
Meagan gave him a tight smile. “That is what you are supposed to do, Alexander.”
More titters. Alexander placed his hand over Meagan’s and held it tightly, while the bishop droned again what he was to say, and Alexander repeated it.
“I, Alexander Octavien Laurent Maximilien, take thee Meagan Elizabeth Tavistock to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward … and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
His beautiful bride didn’t tremble at all as he slid the wedding ring, diamonds and emeralds on a band of silver, onto her finger. His hands, however, were slick with sweat and shaking while he promised to worship her with his body. Meagan noticed and slanted him a look of concern.
Could she know what beautiful eyes she had? Brown and shining, flecked with gold, like the sun-dappled water of a pond.
With some relief, the bishop concluded, “I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Alexander leaned down and touched Meagan’s ripe, red lips with a hard kiss. It was done.
* * *
The wedding breakfast commenced at Maysfield House for all the dukes and duchesses, ambassadors and their wives, not to mention Michael Tavistock and Simone—Simone mostly behaved herself, for which Meagan was thankful. The banqueting went on for hours upon hours, the highest placed people in the ton seeing no reason to abandon the food and drink and festivities too soon.
So many toasts were drunk to the bride and groom that Meagan was dizzy with champagne, and she spoke to so many people she quickly lost track of what she said to whom. The first Grand Duchess, she thought darkly, probably had been able to address each person by name and make them feel special. Meagan, in the end, could only babble incoherently and hope her utterances made sense.
She barely saw Alexander, who was being the cool Grand Duke and left her side soon after the meal. As she watched him speaking to the Russian ambassador, she wondered how many Russian treaties favorable to Nvengaria would appear in the morning.
At long last, as the afternoon wore into evening, the guests began to depart. They would return home and change clothes and descend later on the town in the usual social whirl to discuss the wedding ad nauseam.
Michael and Simone were the last to leave. Meagan kissed her stepmother’s cheek and squeezed her hands, relieved that the happily chattering Simone was going home. But when Michael gathered Meagan in his arms, Meagan’s tears began to flow.
Michael held her in a tight embrace, the warm smell of his plain cashmere suit making her heart ache. “You be happy, my girl,” he said, his voice thick.
“Yes, Papa.”
Behind Michael, Simone sniffled and dabbed her eyes delicately with a lace handkerchief. “Oh dear, I was going to be brave. But we are only streets away, and in the summer, you and Alexander will come to Oxfordshire. We will have a house party the envy of all of England. I’ve already begun the arrangements.”
Michael pulled away from Meagan, a wry smile on his face. Meagan shared the smile, but she already missed them.
Alexander’s stiff English butler, Montmorency, stood at the open door, his nose in the air, his shoulders back. The Tavistock barouche waited outside the entrance, Roberts holding the door. Roberts scratched his left calf with the toe of his right shoe, leaving blacking smears on his white stocking.
Dear, bumbling Roberts nearly unleashed Meagan’s tears again. Her simple home life was receding like the last wave of a tide, and no matter how much she wanted to be with Alexander, she knew she was losing something irreplaceable.
Meagan forced a cheerful smile and waved her parents out the door, telling Roberts to be careful riding home on the back of the barouche. The doors slammed, the carriage jumped forward, Roberts hanging on for dear life. Then they were gone.
Montmorency shut the front door, enclosing Meagan in the echoing black and white rotunda of the front hall. She shivered, rubbing her hands on the sleeves of the dark green silk gown Meagan’s new lady’s maid had helped her don after removing her wedding finery. Her first matronly colors—no more pale cream and white for Meagan.
While the house had been filled with guests and bustling servants it had not seemed too large, but now the walls stretched up and up to the dome far above, and the quiet of so much empty air seemed to press in on her.
“Your Grace,” Nikolai said behind her.
Meagan whirled. “Goodness, Nikolai, you move like a cat.”
“I beg your pardon,” Nikolai said, not looking one bit sorry. “His Grace wishes you to formally meet your staff.”
“Now?” Evening shadows pierced the hall, and Meagan had looked forward to retiring to her new chamber, throwing herself across the elaborate tester bed, and falling fast asleep. Her bride’s nerves were stretched raw.
“His Grace wastes no moment of any day.” Nikolai kept his face straight, but she’d already learned that the valet’s choice of words spoke volumes. “This way, please.”
Meagan abandoned her dream of a good sleep and followed Nikolai across the tiles and into the staircase hall. Her dress made a pleasing swishing noise, her slippers echoing on the marble floor.