Some noblemen are so swelled with their own consequence that they expect the opposite sex to fall swooning at their feet.
– Roslyn Loring to Fanny Irwin
Chiswick, June 1817
It was a perfect day for a wedding-the morning sky bright with hope and promise. Yet Drew Moncrief, Duke of Arden, could summon little enthusiasm for the occasion as he waited with his two closest friends before the church entrance.
Primarily because he believed the groom was making an irrevocable mistake.
Lounging against a pillar on the church portico, Drew watched as Marcus, the new Earl of Danvers, restlessly paced the drive below in anticipation of the bridal party’s arrival.
“Devil take it, Marcus, will you calm down, man?” Heath Griffin, the Marquess of Claybourne drawled from his own similar position on the portico. “Your nerves are seriously wearing on mine.”
“He’s suffering from a case of bachelor terrors,” Drew murmured with sardonic amusement. “I told you he would succumb.”
Marcus cast the two of them a dismissive glance. “It isn’t fear, it’s impatience.” But to satisfy his friends, he climbed the short flight of steps to rejoin them on the portico. “I want an end to this waiting so I can make Arabella my wife. This last month has been interminable.”
Marcus and Miss Arabella Loring, the eldest of his three wards, had been officially betrothed a month ago, but now the moment finally was at hand. The village church was filled to overflowing with guests and flowers. The vicar was standing by to conduct the ceremony. And Marcus looked the part of the noble bridegroom-blue superfine coat, gold embroidered waistcoat, white lace cravat, and white satin breeches.
Drew, who was dressed similarly for the occasion, let a sad smile curve his mouth as he shook his head. “I never expected to see you so hopelessly besotted, my friend.”
“Your time will come someday,” Marcus predicted in a sage tone.
Drew flicked an imaginary speck of lint off the lace of his cuff, his half smile turning to one of pure cynicism. “Oh, I will eventually do my duty and wed to carry on the ancestral line, but I won’t ever lose my head over a woman as you have obviously done.”
“I don’t know,” Heath interjected. “I think it would be intriguing to find a woman who could make me lose my head.”
His blithe tone, however, suggested that he wasn’t entirely serious. While Heath loved the fair sex in general, he was convinced he would never encounter the woman who could cause him to willingly relinquish his cherished freedom and settle down in staid matrimony.
Drew was even more determined to retain his bachelorhood, as Marcus knew very well.
“Before meeting Arabella, Drew, I was nearly as cynical as you,” Marcus remarked amiably. “I fully understand your reticence to marry. You see all eligible females as the enemy.”
“They are the enemy. I have yet to meet the eligible female who doesn’t view me as prey.”
“Arabella’s sisters won’t. You will find them refreshingly indifferent to your rank and consequence.”
Drew’s gaze narrowed on Marcus. “You aren’t possibly thinking of playing matchmaker, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, old sport,” Marcus said jovially. “Even if Arabella’s middle sister does have the qualifications to make an admirable duchess.”
Drew uttered a mild curse at the deliberately provoking jibe, while Heath laughed out loud.
His eyes glinting with amusement, Marcus ended his baiting. “Never fear, Drew. I know nothing I could say would persuade you to give love a chance. But if you are supremely fortunate, you will discover the joys for yourself.”
It most certainly wouldn’t be with Marcus’s wards, Drew rejoined silently. He was determined to steer clear of the two remaining Loring sisters.
Just then they finally heard the sound of carriage wheels announcing the bride’s arrival. Shortly, three vehicles swept up the drive. Drew recognized Arabella Loring in the first one, but not the two young ladies who accompanied her.
Beside Drew, Heath straightened, his gaze focused on the beauties sitting with Miss Loring in the open barouche. “Those are Arabella’s sisters?” he asked Marcus.
“Yes. The dark-haired one is the youngest spitfire, Lilian. And the blonde is the lovely Roslyn.”
Drew’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he caught sight of the golden-haired Roslyn. There was something vaguely familiar about her…the graceful shoulders, the elegant bearing, the slender, delicate figure with the high, ripe breasts. And her face…He had glimpsed those perfect, fine-boned features in the moonlight not so very long ago.
Drew slowly straightened from where he was leaning against the column, his stomach muscles clenching in recognition. What in blazes?
At his irrepressible start of surprise, Marcus smiled with knowing amusement. That, however, was the last consideration he gave his friends for some time. As soon as the cavalcade rumbled to a halt before the front entrance, Marcus bounded down the steps and went to meet his bride and her sisters.