My Lady Jane(20)

Gifford Dudley was unfairly handsome: impressively tall and well shaped around the neck and shoulders, with glossy chestnut hair tied into a short ponytail, and expressive brown eyes. And his nose. His nose. It was perfectly shaped: not too long or short, not too plump or skinny, and even the pores were discreet. There was no trace of the Dudley Nose Curse.

Praise all the gods and saints, Lord Gifford Dudley may have had an unfortunate name, but he did not have the nose. She wanted to sing. She wanted to spin around to where Edward was taking a seat in the front and tell him all about Gifford’s perfect nose.

It was a miracle. A marvel. A wonder. A relief. After all, she would be expected to kiss this man by the end of the ceremony, and the last thing she needed was to lose an eye. Then again, she might have expected he’d be free of the curse, or there would be a lot of one-eyed women in England.

The elation drained out of her.

Well, so he was handsome. Good for him. It wasn’t as though there weren’t other handsome men in the world—men who didn’t spend every night with a new woman. His perfect nose did not excuse his poor behavior.

For his part, Gifford did not seem to find her appearance remarkable. Of course not. Few did, unless they were commenting on the hair.

The wedding continued, and Jane dared a glance at the guests. Edward sat stiffly in his chair, his mouth drawn tight like he was in some kind of pain. Her mother sat with the groom’s family; Jane recognized Lord Dudley and his wife, who leaned away from each other, which did not bode well for the marriage Gifford must have grown up observing. Lady Dudley sat close to a young girl, who clutched a doll in one arm and gave a shy wave. Then there was Stan and his wife, both with stiff postures and haughty faces, and a young child between them, toddling on the pew. If Stan remembered his crass assumptions about Jane the other day, he gave no indication, but Jane allowed her eyes to narrow at him slightly as the priest began declaring the all wonders of holy matrimony.

First, true love. No danger of that here. Gifford was staring over her shoulder, a bored, put-upon look on his face. Still bitter about what he and Edward had talked about, undoubtedly.

Second, virtue. Jane snorted, drawing Looks. From her mother especially, who developed another gray hair.

Third, progeny. Jane blanched and went cold. She’d almost managed to forget about that part of marriage. Children. The making of. She would be expected to produce a child. Children. Plural. After all, Jane had no brother, which meant it would be her job to conceive heirs for the Grey estate. The fact that women often died having babies, or shortly thereafter—she was thinking of Edward’s mother, who’d lived only a few days before departing this world—was alarming enough, while having multiple children was just tempting fate multiple times. Especially considering her deficiency in the childbearing-hips department.

But even that was a worry for another time. Because as the priest droned on about the joy of children, how every child would strengthen the bond between the parents, Jane realized that tonight there would be . . .

That was, she—they—would have to . . .

Gifford looked rather stricken, too, as though the idea of the two of them . . . creating offspring had not yet occurred to him, either.

Jane clenched her jaw. So she had red hair and he preferred brunettes. Was she that unattractive that even someone as questionably virtuous as Gifford the Carouser would not want to— She couldn’t even think it. Not now. What had her mother called it?

The very special hug.

When she’d been engaged to Humphrey Hangrot, her mother had tried to prepare her for the wedding night.

“The very special hug might be unpleasant,” Lady Frances had said. “But it’s part of the wedding night, and part of your duty as a wife. You’ll need to produce as many heirs as you can manage. The event itself will be over quickly, at least. Don’t think too much about it.”

Jane had just stared at her mother, mortified, and later tracked down every book on anatomy that had ever been written. There were the obvious differences between a man’s body and a woman’s body, ones anyone could notice. And then, she’d discovered the not-so-evident differences. It hadn’t taken long to figure out what went where, and what a terrifying thing the very special hug must be for a woman.

And now, as the priest announced it was time for the vows, Jane’s stomach knotted and the bouquet slipped in her sweaty hands.

Gifford’s tone was paper dry as he said his part. “I, Gifford Dudley, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, protect you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest woman in the world. My love for you is as deep as the ocean and as bright as the sun. I will protect you from every danger. I am blind to every woman but you. Your happiness is paramount in my heart.”

From the first row of guests, Gifford’s mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and the girl fought a small fit of giggles. Edward was stoic faced, his blood-dotted handkerchief crumpled in his fingers.

Gifford took her damp hand and pushed a ring onto her finger. “I give myself to you.”

“I receive you.” It sounded more like a croak. “And I, Jane Grey, hereby declare my devotion to you. I swear to love you, parley with you, be faithful to you, and make you the happiest man in the world.”

The original version of the vow her mother had suggested had said “obey you” but that simply would not do. It was enough that Jane had agreed to keep the word love where she had tried to insert the phrase “feel some sort of emotion,” but with obey she could not bend. She would consult him regarding decisions. She didn’t have to listen to him after that. And she would be faithful. She might try to make him happy, unless he insisted on being unreasonable.