An Ideal Duchess (15 page)

             
Viola’s arrival in New York was like a douse of icy water thrown in his face, and he realized he had lived in a sort of fugue state where he had forgotten just who he was. Watching Viola struggle to mask her hurt, and her quiet acceptance of his reasons for marriage, had eaten at away him all night. His vow at age ten to marry her was that of a child—adults could not base a claim on one another on so flimsy and so immature a promise. Viola would have to grow out of their youthful companionship and fulfill her own duties, just as he was obliged to now that Alex was dead. Bron wrenched himself away from all thoughts of Alex and lifted his head away from the wall. He turned to find Bim waking from his doze, stretching his long arms and legs barely contained by his tailored morning suit, and then popping his top hat onto his neatly pomaded hair.

             
“Sorry old boy, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. The wedding done yet?”

             
“Only you would sleep through a wedding ceremony in which you are to take part,” Bron rolled his eyes. “No, Miss Vandewater has not arrived.”

             
“Oh good,” Bim rubbed his hands together. “Don’t want to miss that delectable sight.”

             
“That’s
my
bride you’re salivating over,”

             
Bim pantomimed wiping saliva from his mouth with a handkerchief and then grinned widely. “There’s still time for her to recognize she’s chosen the wrong groom.”

             
“If she hasn’t thrown me over for you yet, I doubt she ever will.”

             
“I am a good-looking gent, aren’t I?” Bim preened, tugging on the lapels of his morning coat.

             
“You’re much too conceited for Miss Vandewater,” Bron strolled over to the minister’s desk and retrieved his top hat, brushing its shiny crown before settling it on his head and then glancing at himself in the small mirror over the fireplace mantle.

             
“Now who’s conceited?!” Bim hooted.

             
“I am fixing my hat.”

             
He cocked an ear towards the roaring crowd, this time sensing it was for the arrival of Amanda and her father. His instinct was rewarded by the appearance of Reverend Potter, who poked his head inside the room, the commanding blare of the organist playing the initial strains of the wedding march filling the vestry.

             
“Your bride has arrived, Your Grace, shall we take our places at the altar?”

             
“Of course. Come along Bim.” He cuffed his best man on the ear.

             
“Nervous?” Bim asked seriously, as they followed Reverend Potter into the church.

             
“No.” He lied.

             
He was grateful for Bim’s presence at his side as they followed Bishop Potter into the chancel and then up the aisle, feeling more and more like a trained monkey dancing to an organ grinder’s creaking tune as all eyes of the standing audience turned towards him, their unwavering regard broken only by the fluttering of brightly colored fans. When they reached the altar, Bishop Potter stepped over the kneeling bench and onto the chancery steps, retrieving a heavy, leather-bound bible from the pulpit, smiling beatifically as he faced the audience. Bron walked stiffly to his place on the left side of the bench, only just recalling the American customs Mrs. Vandewater had drilled into his head the night before. He refrained from rolling his eyes at the wry smile on Bim’s face, irritated by his best man and closest friend’s barely suppressed amusement over the proceedings.

             
In the front pew, he saw Mrs. Vandewater standing beside Lulu, her face set and white, and her hands gripping the small nosegay bouquet in her lap. Her response to him had cooled considerably since his proposal of marriage, and he found ironic humor in her disappointment over her daughter’s decision to marry a duke. He forced his attention back to the carpeted aisle leading to the front doors of the church when the audience began to whisper and the fans fluttered with excitement as the ushers opened the door. In came more ushers, followed by giggling, bright-faced bridesmaids, marching two by two to the sonorous crash and waves of the wedding march, advanced towards the altar. Two small girls trundled down the aisle, carefully scattered flower petals in the wake, and then came Amanda’s youngest brother Quintus, who appeared disgruntled in his Fauntleroy suit as he carried a small cushion, the thin gold circlet of his sister’s wedding ring gleaming against its lustrous fabric in the soft light.

             
He lifted his eyes away from the children and suddenly, the procession of ushers, bridesmaids, flower girls, and ring-bearers fell away as he drank in the sight of Amanda stepping into the church with her father. Bim whistled low and long beside him, and he felt an irrational wave of possession over Bim’s reaction, recalling his chaffing in the vestry...she was to marry
him
, and somehow seemed to prefer his moody, taciturn company over any of the other men he noticed hovering around her the entire summer.
Because you are a duke
, a voice whispered mockingly.
So what?
He thought brusquely. She was an heiress—she certainly was not naïve to believe in fairy tale folderol, particularly when she could have had the pick of titled fortune hunters braying at her heels over the past year.

             
He shied away from probing too deeply over why she could possibly wish to marry him and found himself holding his breath as Amanda drew nearer the chancery steps. Bim’s reaction was correct: Amanda did appear radiant and ravishing, the virginal color of her wedding gown heightening the burnished gold of her hair and the blue of her eyes, while the shimmering, almost sheerness of the lace and satin bodice hinted at the sensual glow of her skin. He didn’t give a damn that he wasn’t supposed to be staring at her, custom declaring his eyes remained affixed to the wedding procession forming a half-circle on either side of where he and Amanda where to stand.

             
Her father marched proudly up the aisle, his steps almost more eager to approach the chancery than those of Amanda’s, and Bron refrained from glowering at the self-satisfied smile of the sugar tycoon as he advanced a few steps to meet Amanda. Her eyes met his, wide and slightly panicked, and he paused awkwardly, feeling stupid if he bungled up his directions. But she released her hold on her father to take Bron’s hand, and then slid her other hand into the crook of his left arm.

             
Bishop Potter approached, opening his bible, and Bron sank to kneel on the low, cushioned bench, Amanda following his lead in a rustle of silk, her fingers tightening over his hand. They rose to their feet after the Bishop’s brief blessing, and when he asked “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”, Amanda turned slightly to allow her father to take her hand and pass it to Bishop Potter, who then placed her hand in Bron’s.

             
There was a rustle of murmurs and slight coughs before Bishop Potter began the marriage rites, and Bron found himself staring down at Amanda, whose profile was sharp and pale beneath the fall of her veil, as her eyes remained fixed to the hoary countenance of the bishop. He was startled from his contemplation when Bishop Potter asked, “Wilt thou, Auberon Reginald Frederick Townsend…”, and cast Amanda’s profile a swift glance before replying, “I will.”

             
Her response to the bishop’s question (Wilt thou, Amanda Cornelia Frances Vandewater…) was clear and firm and she finally turned her eyes to his, seeming to fasten him to the words they just spoke. The binding authority of their vows were enforced by the passing of Amanda’s wedding ring from Bim to him, and then to her, who passed it to the bishop, who then handed it back to him before he finally slid it onto the third finger of her left hand.

             
He felt the gold circlet warm instantly upon contact with Amanda’s skin, and he nearly dropped her hand in haste to escape that dangerous warmth. He turned after the bishop’s blessing and the renewed bellow of the organ to extend his left arm for Amanda to take as they walked down the aisle, the procession forming itself behind them. He halted briefly when Amanda paused beside her mother, who gently lifted her veil over her head and they exchanged a long, emotional look. He cleared his throat and Mrs. Vandewater gave him a fierce glance that shamed his haste to leave the church. Nevertheless, they continued on, the ushers beside the door opening it to reveal the enormous crowds restrained only by the alarming billy clubs and forbidding stature of the policemen circulating through Fifth Avenue on horseback.

             
A black landau drawn by a pair of fine gray horses and driven by a coachman clad in the Vandewater’s blue livery awaited them at the curbside, and Bron went to open the door, tucking Amanda’s train over her arm. The police could not silence the deafening roar of the crowd when they spotted he and Amanda emerging from the church, and the childish passion of these Americans for the marriage of strangers once again bemused  and baffled him. The excitement of his tenants and the county families, he understood, for Bledington was their life’s blood and he their duke, but this insatiable hunger to gawk and gape at people to whom neither side of the cordoned rope held fealty or were bound by centuries of tradition, made little sense.

             
The crowd roared again, when Amanda, to his surprise, waved to them with a smile of genuine pleasure, before climbing into the carriage, the skirts of her wedding gown spilling and flowing over the leather seats in a torrent of white satin and lace. Bron stepped in behind her, careful of his footing and the crisp whiteness of her gown, and settled beside her in the seat, leaning over to close the door. A swift rap on the roof let the coachman know they were ready to depart, and he watched as Amanda continued to wave to the crowd through the window, her demeanor gracious and calm until the swell of well-wishers thinned out as they rode further and further up Fifth Avenue.

             
Almost at once, a sort of nervous energy buzzed around her as she rooted through her sumptuous wedding bouquet of fat white roses and delicate orchids tied with showers of white ribbon.

             
“What are you doing?”

             
She seemed startled by his voice, but continued to comb her fingers through the flowers until they flexed with discovery, and shortly thereafter drew a gold ring from its depths. The heavy, old-fashioned stone settings were dull with age, and he glanced out of the window, his mouth tight with embarrassment.

             
“My engagement ring. Look, Bron.”

             
He reluctantly turned back to face her, and she fluttered her left hand towards his face, the juxtaposition of the faded, pea-sized emerald and aged gold on her finger with the shiny, braided gold wedding ring like a gawky country miss beside a polished London debutante.

             
“I should have had it cleaned,” He muttered.

             
“No, I love it! It reminds me of history and my new status as Duchess of Malvern.” She glanced at her spread fingers. “Besides, it belonged to you, and that is what matters most, isn’t it?”

             
“I suppose so,” He crossed his arms and turned back to the window.

             
“You are happy to be finally wed, aren’t you?” She said, sliding her arms around his neck and placing her head on his shoulder.

             
It reminded him awkwardly of her gesture towards her father, and he had the uncanny notion that she expected him to care for her, to spoil, pet, and indulge her, like her father. Well he was not her father, and he made to move from her arms before he was stunned, rooted to the spot by the sensation of her mouth on his ear, her teeth tugging teasingly, gently, on his earlobe. He turned to her in shock, and she laughed, her eyes bright with unconcealed desire.

             
“I simply cannot wait for our honeymoon,” She grinned. “And you’ve forgotten to kiss the bride.”

             
Bron lowered his eyes to her lips, she wet them with her tongue, her expression anticipatory, and her skin flushed with excitement. He had kissed her interminable times since that first time on Beacon’s Rock, but he was struck by the realization that this kiss did not have to end with him panting in frustration, his penis hard as a rock and his testicles tightened from a lack of release. The surge of heady, overwhelming desire to have her right now, to bury himself into her bewitching body blotted out all of his prior apprehension and caution, and alarmingly, she seemed to feel the same. He felt a rush of heat spread across his face as he stared at her, his breath emerging in short, hard pants as he struggled to rein in his devastating ache for her.

             
“Kiss me, Bron,” Her arms tightened around him.

             
He forced himself to shake his head, his periphery catching sight of the Vandewater’s narrow house on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 79th street.

             
“You don’t want to kiss me?” She whispered, her eyes darkening with hurt.