One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(29)

Refreshing. Her appearance was refreshing, like cool, clear water on a sun-baked summer’s day. And he gratefully drank her in.

She gave him a deferential nod. “I apologize for my tardiness, Your Grace. I am ready. Has your groomsman arrived?”

He stared at her.

“You … you do have a groomsman to stand up with you? Someone to sign the register as a witness?”

He shook his head. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Won’t Beauvale do?”

“Laurent?” Her brow wrinkled. “I suppose he could, but I hate to ask. I’m rather doing this against his wishes. And unfortunately, he’s the only one of my brothers here. Michael’s at sea of course, and Jack—well, Jack is necessarily avoiding you.” She swept a glance around the room, finally settling it on the butler. “I suppose we could have Wycke. But surely you don’t want a servant?”

If it meant they could be married within the next quarter hour, Spencer would gladly have opened the door and dragged in the first ruffian off the street. “He’ll do.” He made a curt motion to the butler. “Bring the curate. We may as well do it in here.”

At the clergyman’s entrance, Spencer summoned the man to his side with nothing but a pointed look and the arch of one brow.

The curate inclined his balding head. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“There’s a very generous donation in the parish’s future if you make this fast. Ten minutes, at the most.”

Frowning, the man fumbled open his liturgy. “There’s an established rite, Your Grace. Marriage must be entered into with solemnity and consideration. I don’t know that I can rush—”

“Ten minutes. One thousand guineas.”

The liturgy snapped closed. “Then again, what do a few extra minutes signify to an eternal God?” He beckoned Amelia with a fluttering, papery hand. “Make haste, child. You’re about to be married.”

Spencer scarcely heard the fevered rush of words that constituted his wedding. In principle, he agreed with the curate. Marriage should be a solemn, sacred enterprise, and the length of time Spencer took to make a decision had no correlation with how seriously he considered it. This wasn’t something he approached lightly, else he would have married years ago. Somewhere in between mumbled “I will’s” and parroted vows, he managed a brief, silent petition for a few male children and whatever other blessings God saw fit to grant them. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

At the curate’s direction, they exchanged simple gold bands. All his aunt’s pieces were at Braxton Hall; she’d have her selection of jeweled rings there. Her fingers were chilled, and irrational anger spiked through him. Why was she cold? Hadn’t the modiste sent gloves?

“I pronounce you man and wife.”

There, it was done.

He turned to his bride, looking her in the eye for the first time since the ceremony had begun. And he promptly kicked himself, because this would have been far more pleasant if he’d been looking at her the whole time. Her eyes were really quite lovely—large, intelligent, expressive. A patient, sensible shade of blue.

He very much wanted to kiss her now.

And as if she’d heard the thought—God, he hoped he hadn’t said it aloud—she gave a tiny shake of her head and whispered, “Not yet.”

With a plunk, the curate laid open the parish register on a side table and thumbed to the appropriate page. Once their names and the date had been recorded, Spencer took up the quill and signed his name on the line. His was a long name; it took a while. After he’d finished, he dipped the quill again before passing it to Amelia.

She paused, peering down at the register.

As the moment stretched, Spencer’s heart gave an odd kick. Oh, come along.

Before she could lay pen to parchment, a commotion in the hallway disrupted the scene. Julian Bellamy stormed into the parlor, followed by Ashworth. Spencer groaned as the two made straight for him.

“What the devil do you mean by this?” Bellamy demanded.

“I mean to be married.”

“I know that much, you despicable blackguard.” Sneering, Bellamy shoved a rectangle of paper in Spencer’s face. “This. What do you mean by this?”

It was the bank draft he’d sent over yesterday morning, as promised. “It’s just as I said. I’m offering Lady Lily compensation in exchange for her brother’s token.”

“In the amount of twenty thousand pounds?”

Beside him, Amelia gasped.

“Twenty thousand pounds,” Ashworth said. “There’s no racehorse in the world worth that, much less one retired to stud.”

“I didn’t base my offer on the market value of the horse. I offered what the token is worth to me.” Spencer turned to Bellamy. “And it’s Lady Lily’s to accept or decline. Not yours.”

The slender, dark-haired woman stepped forward. “I’m very grateful, Your Grace, but you know I cannot accept.”

“If you find my offer insufficient, we can discuss more generous—”

“It’s not that,” Lily said. “Your offer is beyond generous. It’s charity, and I cannot accept it in good conscience.”

Bellamy cut in. “She cannot accept it because Leo’s token is gone.”