She did—free to thank him to the top of her bent.
Later, when she lay pleasantly
exhausted beside him, pleasured to her toes, she murmured, “You know, if it hadn’t been for Prinny and his machinations…”
Royce thought, then shook his head. “No. Even if I’d taken longer to realize, I would still have set my heart on you.”
Everything was ready. He’d found the right spot, worked through every detail of his plan. Nothing would go wrong.
Tomorrow would be his triumph. Tomorrow would see him win.
Tomorrow he’d break Royce.
And then he’d kill him.
Twenty-one
The clamor was deafening.
Royce leaned forward and spoke to Henry. “Pull up.”
Bedecked in full livery, garlanded with white ribbon—as was the open carriage—Henry eased the heavy horses to a halt in the middle of the road leading through Alwinton village.
The cheering crowd pressed closer, waving, calling.
Royce threw Minerva a glance, a smile, then rose, and drew her up with him; her hand clasped in his, he raised it high. “I give you your new duchess!”
The crowd roared its approval.
Minerva fought to contain the flood of emotion that welled and swelled inside her; looking out, she saw so many familiar faces—all so pleased that she was Royce’s bride.
His wife.
She stood by his side and waved; the beaming smile on her face had taken up residence when he’d turned her from the altar to walk back up the aisle, and hadn’t yet waned.
The crowd satisfied, he drew her back down; once she sat, he told Henry to drive on.
Still smiling, she relaxed against Royce’s shoulder, her mind reaching back to the ceremony, then ranging ahead to the wedding breakfast to come.
The same carriage, freshly painted with the Wolverstone crest blazing on the doors and with ribbons woven through the reins, had carried her, the Earl of Catersham, and her matrons-of-honor to the church. Her gown of finest Brussels lace softly shushing, the delicate veil anchored by the Varisey diadem, she’d walked down the aisle on the earl’s arm oblivious to the horde packed into the church—held by a pair of intense dark eyes.
In an exquisitely cut morning coat, Royce had waited for her before the altar; even though she’d seen him mere hours before, it seemed as if something had changed. As if their worlds changed in the instant she placed her hand in his and together they turned to face Mr. Cribthorn.
The service had gone smoothly; at least, she thought it had. She could remember very little, caught up, swept along, on a tide of emotion.
A tide of happiness that had welled as they’d exchanged their vows, peaked when Royce had slipped the simple gold band on her finger, overflowed when she’d heard the words, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Duke and duchess.
The same, yet more. A fact that had been amply illustrated from the instant Royce had released her from the utterly chaste kiss they’d shared. A kiss that had carried both acknowledgment and promise, acceptance and commitment, from them both.
Their eyes had touched, then, as one, they’d turned and faced their future. Faced first the assembled throng, all of whom had wanted to congratulate them personally. Luckily, the others—his friends and the Bastion Club couples—had formed something of a guard, and helped them move reasonably smoothly up the aisle.
The roar as they’d emerged from the church into the weak sunshine had echoed from the hills. Hamish and Molly had been waiting by the steps; she’d hugged Molly, then turned to Hamish to see him hesitating—awed by the delicacy of her gown and the brilliance of the diadem’s diamonds. She’d hugged him; awkwardly, he’d patted her with his huge hands. “You were right,” she’d whispered. “Love really is simple—no thinking required.”
He’d chuckled, bussed her check, then released her to all the others waiting to press her hand, shake Royce’s, and wish them well.
An hour had passed before they’d been able to leave the churchyard; the guests and the rest of the wedding party had gone ahead, to the wedding breakfast waiting in the castle’s huge ballroom, a long-ago addition built out at the back of the keep.