Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas(30)
His dark brows arched. “You’re right. It will be better if I am on the other side of the Atlantic.” He opened the door for her.
When she walked in front of him, on impulse she laid her hand on his arm for a moment. “I shall do my best to be a duchess you will be proud of.”
He inclined his head. “I’m sure you will succeed.”
As she went upstairs to her room, she decided that he was rather attractive, in a subdued way. Granted, he wasn’t much taller than she, but she was a tall woman. The quiet excellence of British tailoring showed his trim, muscular figure to advantage, and his craggy features had a certain distinction.
The words echoed in her mind, and as she entered her room and wearily lay on the bed, she realized that she had had similar thoughts when she first saw him at Swindon Palace.
That memory triggered others, and gradually fragments of that day came back to her. Lord Justin had been quiet but very gentlemanly, and knowledgeable about the gardens and estate. He had even showed signs of humor, of a very dry kind. It had been a pleasant interlude.
Yet he was still almost entirely a stranger, for she knew nothing of his mind or emotions. He didn’t seem to be a man of deep feelings; it was his duty to marry well, so he was doing so, choosing a wife with his head rather than his heart.
Her eyes drifted shut. Perhaps this marriage would not be such a bad thing. She had heard that arranged marriages were happy about as often as love matches. She and the duke would treat each other with polite respect and not expect romance or deep passion. God willing, they would have children, and in them she might find the love she craved.
Certainly the duke had one great advantage: he could hardly have been more different from charming, articulate, false-hearted Paul Curzon.
*
The maid Antoinette made a last adjustment to the train of Sunny’s ball gown. “You look exquisite, mademoiselle. Monsieur le Duc will be most pleased.”
Sunny turned and regarded herself in the mirror. Her cream-colored gown was spectacular, with sumptuous embroidery and a décolletage that set off her bare shoulders and arms perfectly. After her hair had been pinned up to expose the graceful length of her neck, fragile rosebuds had been woven into the soft curls. The only thing her appearance lacked was animation. “Thank you, Antoinette. You have surpassed yourself.”
The maid permitted herself a smile of satisfaction as she withdrew. Sunny glanced at the clock and saw that she had a quarter of an hour to wait before making her grand entrance at the ball. The house hummed with excitement, for tonight Augusta’s triumph would be announced. All of Newport society was here to fawn over Thornborough and cast envious glances at Sunny. There would also be sharp eyes watching to see how she and the duke—Justin—behaved with each other.
Antoinette, who was always well-informed, had passed on several disturbing rumors. It was said Sunny had at first refused to marry the duke because of his licentious habits, and that Augusta had beaten and starved her daughter into accepting him.
Even though there was a grain of truth in the story about her mother, Sunny found the gossip deeply distasteful. She must make a special effort to appear at ease with her mother and her fiancé. She looked in the mirror again and practiced her smile.
The door opened and a crisp English voice said, “How is my favorite goddaughter?”
“Aunt Katie!” Sunny spun around with genuine pleasure. “I had no idea that you were coming for the ball!”
“I told Augusta not to mention the possibility since I wasn’t sure I would arrive in time.” Laughing, Lady Westron held Sunny at arm’s length when her goddaughter came to give her a hug. “Never crush a Worth evening gown, my dear! At least, not until the ball is over.”
After a careful survey, she gave a nod of approval. “I’m madly envious. Even Worth can’t make a short woman like me look as magnificent as you do tonight. The Newport cats will gnash their teeth with jealousy, and Thornborough will thank his stars for his good fortune.”
Sunny’s high spirits faded. “I believe he feels that we have made a fair bargain.”
Katie cocked her head. “Are you unhappy about the match?”
Sunny shrugged and began drawing an elbow-length kid glove onto her right hand. “I’m sure that we’ll rub along tolerably well.”
Ignoring her own advice about crushing a Worth evening gown, Katie dropped into a chair with a flurry of satin petticoats. “I made inquiries about Thornborough when his solicitor first approached me about a possible match. He’ll make you a better husband than most, Sunny. He’s respected by those who know him, and while he isn’t a wit like his brother was and he’s certainly not fashionable, he’s no fool, nor is he the sort to humiliate you by flaunting his mistress.”
Sunny stiffened. “Thornborough has a mistress?”
“Very likely. Most men do.” Katie’s lips curved ruefully. “There’s much you need to learn about English husbands and English houses. Living in Britain is quite unlike being a visitor, you know.”
Sunny relaxed when she found that her godmother had been talking in general rather than from particular knowledge. Though she knew that fashionable English society was very different from what she was used to, she disliked the idea of Thornborough with a mistress. Acutely.
She began the slow process of putting on her left glove. “Perhaps you had better educate me about what to expect.”