Good Dukes Wear Black (23 page)

“No,” Trent told him with a shake of his head. “I'll handle it. Have no fear.”

After saying his good-byes to the other man, Trent climbed back into the carriage, only to be peppered with questions. Who was it? What did they want? Was it something good or something bad? Did he need to go take care of something?

Finally, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her. “Now, let us get back to your father's house at once. I'll tell you about this business later.”

*   *   *

As he stood at the altar of St. George's Hanover Square some three days later, Trent tried to recall when he'd last felt this nervous.

Even before a battle he'd been able to arrive at a sense of calm, pushing any worries about his safety or the safety of his men into a far corner of his mind where they wouldn't affect his ability to fight.

But today was different.

Today was about forever.

“You'll wear a hole in the marble if you keep pacing like that,” Freddy said from his place next to the spot where Trent should be stationary. “I have a feeling you would not like to hear the cost of replacing it.”

Sighing, Trent fiddled with his cravat and came to a stop beside his friend. “I'd be a damn sight more easy about it if I didn't know her mother was so opposed to the match. Who's to say that Goring hasn't managed to convince Mrs. Dauntry to allow him to spirit Ophelia away to Scotland? She seems perfectly capable of it.”

“She might,” Freddy said, clapping him on the shoulder, “but I sincerely doubt Ophelia's father would allow such a thing. Mrs. Dauntry might be foolish enough to wish for Goring as a son-in-law, but Dauntry has a great deal more sense than his wife. Besides that, the announcement is in the papers this morning, so there will be a great deal of explanation involved should she attempt to change the plan at this late date.”

Clenching his teeth, Trent knew that Freddy was right in his assessment of Ophelia's parents. And added to that, Ophelia would not allow herself to be forced into marriage with Goring no matter how much her mother might wish for it. She was a determined young lady when she had the bit between her teeth and she would fight like hell if her mother so much as mentioned Goring again.

“You're likely correct,” he admitted aloud. “I just wish I knew what was taking so cursed long.”

Freddy raised his brows in skepticism. “Can you think of nothing that might delay a lady on her wedding day? The day when she cares the most about how she looks? Even one such as Ophelia, whom I will admit is far more sensible than most of her sex, will take a bit of extra care in her toilette on this day.”

Unbidden, a mental picture of Ophelia clad in a revealing wrapper, seated at a dressing table, came to Trent. Though he hadn't seen her in such a state of undress, his mind had no difficulty filling in the gaps and he found himself rocked back on his heels by the knowledge that all the curves his imagination was currently sketching for him would soon be his to touch.

Before he could get too carried away, however, there was a noise at the rear of the church, and as he watched, Ophelia's mother hurried up the aisle. She didn't meet his eye, and he held his breath—waiting for her to approach and reveal that Ophelia wasn't coming—but she stopped long before the altar, moving to stand next to her other daughter, who stood beside her own betrothed, the Marquess of Kinston.

At a speaking look from the archbishop, Mrs. Dauntry nodded, and to Trent's great relief, the rear door of the church opened, and Ophelia, on her father's arm, walked slowly up the aisle toward them.

He was surprised to see her eyes were bright with tears, but since she was smiling, he supposed they were happy ones. He'd never understand the distinctions between the various types of weeping.

Even so, he was relieved when the archbishop began the ceremony.

And soon, Mr. Dauntry was kissing Ophelia's cheek and placing her hand on Trent's arm. When he felt it tremble a little, he couldn't help placing his other hand over it, offering what comfort he could and realizing only a moment later that it had calmed him as well.

When it came time to say their vows, it was Trent whose voice cracked as he slid the family ring over her knuckle, saying, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship.”

Ophelia's voice rang out clear and strong as she said her own, but there was a moment where he thought he saw a brief longing in her eyes. But whatever it was, she quickly masked it again and soon they were pronounced man and wife. And being congratulated by the few friends and family they'd invited to witness the ceremony.

“I am so pleased for you both,” Hermione said as she pulled him into a hug. “I couldn't have arranged things better myself. It's as if the heavens were making all of my greatest wishes come true before me.”

“If we are to be blessed with a sudden onslaught of miracles enacted on your behalf, my dear,” Mainwaring said from behind her, “then I believe we should warn the authorities. For I fear some of your ‘greatest wishes,' as you call them, are quite bloodthirsty.”

Hermione scowled at her husband. “I am only bloodthirsty in those instances in which it is called for, my lord, and well you know it.”

From her place at Trent's side, Ophelia laughed. “He is right, you know, Hermione. You can be most vengeful when prompted.”

Lady Mainwaring scowled. “If that's the case,” she said, her gaze going from Trent to Ophelia and back again, “then what sort of punishment do you two expect from me? For I cannot quite believe denials of any sort of romance between the two of you before the Kinston ball.”

“I will simply not hear any more talk of vengeance and punishment on such a lovely occasion,” Leonora said, stepping up beside her friend. “It is a wedding, Hermione.”

“Oh, pish,” Hermione retorted with a most uncountesslike roll of her eyes. “The happiness of these two wouldn't be dampened by the most dire of proclamations.”

“Be that as it may,” Trent said firmly, “I will whisk my bride away now.”

“Spoilsport,” Hermione said with a grin. “Go on, the two of you. We will see you at Trent House.”

Not waiting to hear if his new wife was ready to leave, Trent slipped his arm through hers and hurried her out of the church and into his waiting carriage.

*   *   *

“I cannot believe it's actually over,” Ophelia said once they were safely inside the carriage. “I must admit, I did wonder for a brief moment this morning if it were all some elaborate fantasy I'd dreamt up.”

“It is quite real, I assure you,” he said, lifting her from where she sat primly across the carriage from him, and depositing her most indecorously upon his own lap.

“Trent!” she squealed. “This is quite improper.”

“I am attempting to kiss my wife,” he said, sliding his arm around her back and pulling her close. Then he lowered his head and hovered his lips over hers for the barest moment before taking her mouth. “Which,” he added between kisses, “is allowed.”

Knocked off balance when the carriage began to move, Ophelia grasped his coat with one hand and slid the other around the back of his neck. His kiss was every bit as intoxicating as she'd remembered it, and when he opened his mouth over hers, she was ready for him and gave back as good as she got.

She thought of her married friends and wondered if they'd felt the same kind of contentment upon their wedding day.

Unfortunately that led her to wonder about Maggie. Where was she? What was she doing today? Was she even still alive? Ophelia hoped that she was, and that wherever she might be she was warm and dry and knew that Ophelia and Trent and their friends were all working to find her. The very notion that her friend might possibly think that she'd been abandoned was almost too much to bear. The sooner she found Maggie the better.

“A penny for them,” Trent said, stroking a finger along her cheek. “What's bothering you? This should be a happy day.”

Blushing, Ophelia recalled where she was. “I am sorry, your grace. Please forgive me. I was woolgathering. It's just something I do sometimes.”

“That's not much of an answer, my dear,” he said with a frown. “And though I do believe you were thinking, I don't believe it was idle at all. You were thinking of Maggie, weren't you?”

How, after truly knowing her for only a few days, could he possibly be able to read her thoughts? she wondered.

“I was,” she admitted with a sigh. “I had hoped we would find her before we married. But it seems as if every clue we find leads to a dead end. At this point I don't think we'll ever know what happened to her. Or George for that matter.”

“I hate to hear you sound so despondent, my dear,” Trent said, kissing the top of her head. “I wish I had some news that would make it all seem better. But alas, I do not. My fears perfectly mirror your own.”

“I am sorry to be so morose on our wedding day,” she said, feeling guilty for her sadness.

“Don't say that,” he assured her. “Your loyalty and compassion are two of the things I admire most about you. I can imagine any number of foolish
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ladies who would breeze through their wedding festivities without sparing a thought for a lost friend. You on the other hand have been perfectly celebratory. You only let your guard down after we were here alone. Which is just as it should be.”

“You make me sound like some sort of paragon,” she said wryly.

“Not that,” he assured you. “I know you are made of flesh and blood, but I want you to feel free to let down your guard with me. To voice your feelings. Without fear that I will chastise you or belittle them.”

Pulling back a little, she looked up into his handsome face. “You are such a good man,” she told him before kissing him with all the affection he was feeling. “What a great bit of luck that our friends paired up and threw us together.”

“I couldn't agree more,” he said, hugging her to him as if he couldn't get enough.

 

Seventeen

Despite Mrs. Dauntry's loudly voiced objection to the plan, Trent had decided that rather than a traditional wedding breakfast at the home of the bride, they would have a celebration of their vows at some later date when his own family was able to attend. His mother was staying with relatives in Scotland and his extended family was not in town. He'd consulted Ophelia about it and she agreed with alacrity, especially since she felt sure her mother would invite Lord Goring and his parents.

Thus it was that when the carriage came to a stop it was before Trent House in St. James's Square—where some of the older families in the
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still kept their town houses. Only the Lisles and Lord and Lady Mainwaring would be joining them for refreshments.

After he'd presented his new bride to the servants, who had lined up along the front hallway upon their arrival, Trent ushered Ophelia into the small sitting room where he'd instructed Wolfe to show their friends once they arrived.

“I hope that I will be up to the task of running such a large household,” Ophelia said as they stepped into the room that Trent preferred to the formal drawing room which hadn't been redecorated since his grandparents' day. “I must admit that in the haste of our marriage plans, I didn't think of just how daunting a task it would be to fulfill my duties as your duchess. I believe there are more upstairs maids in this house than there are servants in my father's house.”

But Trent was unwilling to let doubt creep into her thoughts. At least not so soon.

“I have every faith that you will be an excellent mistress to all my servants,” he said, drawing her hand to his lips. “You are the most determined lady I've ever met. And I cannot for one moment imagine a little thing like keeping the housemaids in order would get the better of you.”

“You're sweet,” Ophelia said with a half smile, “but return to me in one month's time when your bed curtains are dusty and the chimney smokes.”

Before Trent could reply, Wolfe entered the room.

“I beg your pardon, your grace,” the butler said, looking troubled, “but a messenger has arrived and he said the matter is quite urgent.”

Ophelia's eyes widened. “Maggie,” she said, gripping Trent's arm. “Oh, please let someone have found her.”

“It may just be the man I sent to look for George,” he told her, clasping his hand over hers in comfort. “Why don't I go see to it while you chat with your guests? I promise if there is news I'll let you know.”

She looked disappointed, but nodded. “All right. Go.”

With a brisk nod, Trent followed Wolfe out of the sitting room and into the little chamber off the hall where he found not his investigator but a footman wearing familiar livery.

“Sir Michael Grayson asked me to bring this to you at once, your grace,” said the young man, offering a folded missive.

Breaking the seal on the note, Trent read the hastily scrawled words three times before cursing and looking up at the footman. “Did he ask you to wait for a reply?”

“If you had one, your grace.”

“Go downstairs and tell the cook to give you some refreshment while you wait,” Trent told him. “I'll have my response for you within the hour.”

When the servant was gone, Trent cursed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd known that first afternoon that both Maggie and George disappeared that the husband had been in just as much danger as the wife.

The note from Sir Michael had been brief and to the point. He'd found George in a rooming house in Whitechapel suffering from a gunshot wound. It might have proven fatal, only the woman who ran the house had gone through his pockets and, thinking to gain some quick money, had sent for George's father. He was unable to speak just now and Sir Michael said he'd let Trent know as soon as he was well enough to talk.