“Good Lord! How very uncivilized,” Brandon said, disgusted. “What has happened to your spirit of adventure?”
“I don’t believe I ever had an excessive desire for adventure,” Charles said, annoyed that his words echoed Jason’s. “My desire is to spend as much time in the country as I am allowed. No adventures or surprises, beyond those one might hope for. I’m sure my duchess will be in complete agreement.”
“I hope you’re right about Nellie,” Lawrence said. “She sounded very enthusiastic about setting up a literary salon in London.”
Charles tightened his shoulders, annoyed that Lawrence was privy to information Nellie had thus far failed to discuss with him. And why the devil was he on a first-name basis with his fiancée?
“You need another glass of wine.” Brandon signaled the hovering waiter. “This is an excellent vintage. And I must say, the trout was very good tonight.”
“I was a few years behind you three at university and confess to being somewhat lacking in hijinks,” Nicholas, Marquess Penning, said. “But I must agree with Charles. A quiet country life is to be wished for.”
Charles rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “If you can bear the solitude after years in the army.” He raised his glass. “Congratulations, Nicholas, lauded for your bravery in battle by our estimable Regent.”
With a resounding cheer, they raised their glasses.
Nicholas bowed his head, a slight smile in his gray eyes.
“How about a game of billiards then,” Lawrence said, sounding disgruntled. “Seeing as we are too old for hijinks of any kind.”
“Please don’t include me in that assessment,” Brandon said as he followed them from the dining room.
“Nor me.” Stowe slung an arm around Brandon’s shoulders. “We’ve still got some life in us.”
In the billiard room, Charles rubbed chalk on his cue. While his friends laughed around him, he was thinking of Nellie. Tomorrow could not come too soon. She would make a beautiful bride. Would a contented married life lie ahead for them? Or would he spend it trying to understand his wife? While he was pleased Nellie planned to have an interest beyond those required of her, he wondered why it unsettled him. This marriage had begun to appear more difficult to negotiate than a love match. He thought back over his earlier observations on the married state. How fatuous he’d been!
Chapter Twelve
The carriage bearing Nellie, Marian, and Alice arrived at St. Paul’s. A clamor rose from the crowd gathered around the entrance to the huge domed cathedral to watch the guests arriving for the wedding, and most particularly, Wellington and the Prince of Wales.
Her knees trembling, Nellie placed an anxious hand on the wreath of white roses on her head, then took her father’s arm to climb the stairs. With an encouraging squeeze of her hand resting on his arm, Papa escorted her through the massive great west door.
Marian, in cream and rose pink, and Alice, in the despised blossom-pink dress, which really did look pretty, followed behind. The organist began to play, and the music swelled in the perfect acoustic space. With measured steps, she and her father proceeded down the long nave between the great Norman pillars hung with tapestries. Murmurs swirled around her from the guests dressed in their finery. Her heart pounding in her ears, she spied the Prince of Wales resplendent in oyster satin, his brother, the Duke of York, at his side, along with wives and dignitaries.
Charles stood with the reverend before the altar. Dressed in midnight blue, with fawn pantaloons and a white waistcoat, he turned to smile at her, his groomsmen, Sir Lawrence Frobisher, and Nicholas, Marquess of Pennington, beside him.
Reaching them, Marian took Nellie’s bouquet of white roses and silver ribbon from her nervous fingers. Nellie smiled up at her handsome bridegroom. Charles leaned down, his blue eyes soft. “You are beautiful, Nellie.”
The reverend, in his black and white robes, began. “We are gathered here…” When he came to “Who giveth this woman…” her father slipped away to be seated beside her mother. Nellie turned to look fondly at her parents, suddenly aware that this was the end of her girlhood, her years spent at Dountry Park, and the beginning of a new life as a married lady.
Earlier, Nellie had firmly banished Charles’s French mistress from her thoughts. She would not be able to blight her marriage, because Nellie intended to embrace it with all of her heart.
She floated through the ceremony and was sure she would remember little of it later, while focused on the man beside her, his deep voice stating he would love and cherish her. And then her voice, at first barely audible before she raised it.
Charles slipped the sapphire and diamond ring on her finger. They smiled at each other. They were wed.
She and Charles emerged from signing the marriage lines in the vestry and stepped into a perfect summer day. They descended the steps to the dark blue carriage bearing the ducal crest on its door panel, the footmen in livery standing by.
As Charles took her elbow to assist her inside, a scarlet rose landed at his feet. Nellie glanced around. The Frenchwoman stood near one of the constables controlling the crowd. She held the hand of her tiny son beside her. Did she throw the rose?
Nellie couldn’t tell if Charles saw the flower or who tossed it, for he ushered her inside. She arranged the skirts of her wedding gown as he joined her in the carriage. He settled beside her and took her gloved hand in his.
The footman put up the steps and shut the door.
“Nellie, my lovely bride.” Charles leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.
Loud cheering erupted through the coach window from the crowd of onlookers. The coachman’s whip sounded, and the team of matched grays darted forward, the carriage rolling on toward Ludgate Hill.
The reception was held in the ballroom of her parents’ Grosvenor Square home.
Nellie curtsied low before the Prince
