My Cynical Marquess ~ Lords of Reluctance Book 1

Chapter Nineteen

The lush fragrance of flowers mingling with the pungent scent of candles drifted over the assembled guests seated in the small chapel of Rutherford Court. What was assuredly the wedding of the year was just about to begin, and Society had arrived en masse to witness the nuptials between the unknown Miss Grace Preston and the highly eligible Marquess of Rutherford. Beautiful blooms graced the altar, the groomsman, Lord Markham, dressed with exquisite care, and the groom himself appeared calm and composed. But that could not be further from the truth.

Nicholas hid his joy behind a polite mask, honed from years of experience circulating amongst Society in the nation's capital. With an abstracted air, his eyes travelled over the assembled guests, recognising several of his friends from London. It only half registered in his mind that it would normally constitute a dire emergency for them to leave the comforts of Town to venture forth to the wilds of the country. Curiosity, that had to be it, he thought. Curiosity at whom he would deem worthy enough to be his wife.

His gaze settled on his mother, looking serene seated in the front pew with Lord Barrington. She had informed him soon after the betrothal ball that she would not be the dowager marchioness for long, for she accepted Lord Barrington's proposal and they planned to marry as soon as may be. He really did not mind. She deserved to be happy, especially after the disaster that was her marriage to his father.

On the other side of the aisle sat Lady Bedford, Lord Grosvenor, Lady Denby, and Lord Faulkner, who had arrived to spend some time with Lady Alicia before their own wedding in London. Standing around the walls of the chapel were the servants of Rutherford Court, who were thrilled to witness the wedding of their master to their new mistress. They all loved Grace. In Nicholas's opinion, their devotion to her bordered on hero-worship and that boded well for how Rutherford Court would run in the future. Even Artemis attended, sitting on her haunches in front of Lady Bedford with a violet ribbon around her neck and looking as though she had every right to be there.

Excited murmurs rose from the congregation as the sound of a carriage emanated from outside the chapel. Nicholas found himself holding his breath, the anticipation of seeing his Grace almost too much to bear. He had not set eyes on her since yesterday at breakfast, Lady Bedford declaring it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding and his mother concurred. Of all the silly nonsense, he thought. They resided under the same roof, but somehow they had managed it and Nicholas now found himself almost bursting his buttons to have her in his arms. Not much longer, not much longer, he chanted to himself like a mantra. And then he saw her.

His bride glided down the aisle on the arm of her uncle, Lord Denby. Behind them walked Lady Alicia, who had agreed to serve as Grace's bridal attendant. As he watched her approach, he could not refrain from breaking out into a wide grin or conceal the shimmer of tenderness in his eyes. She was beautiful. She slowly walked toward him, her simple violet morning gown swishing about her legs, concealing little of the charms that lay beneath. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the chapel, shining on the rich chestnut colour of her hair. A single lock draped almost casually over her shoulder from where it escaped from the knot on her head, several white roses threaded through to complete the effect of ethereal majesty.

Grace held Nicholas's gaze as she made her way down the aisle toward him. She was scarcely aware there were others present to witness the wedding. As far as she was concerned only three people mattered, Nicholas, Reverend Mapplethorpe, and herself. She smiled in appreciation at how handsome he looked, waiting for her and looking at her with such tenderness, she found herself nearly melting under his regard. His coat of black superfine fit snuggly across his shoulders and his black breeches moulded well-muscled thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. The manly strength of him she had experienced on several occasions, for he seemed to pick her up with relative ease as if she weighed no more than a feather.