On the steps before the altar, they lined up beside Rand, with Ryder to Rand’s right, Kit next to him, and Godfrey the last in the line. As they took their places, a wave of hushed feminine whispers rippled through the crowd. Kit straightened and, clasping his hands before him, exchanged a cynical look with Godfrey.
It wasn’t often society saw the four brothers all together, displayed in such a way. Although Kit stood just over six feet tall in his stockinged feet, Ryder and Rand both had several inches on him, and over the last months, Godfrey had nearly caught up, although he was still an inch or so the shortest. While Godfrey had inherited the lean, lanky build of their maternal grandfather, Ryder, Rand, and Kit had been blessed with the broad shoulders and powerful, athletic physique of their father; having all four brothers in their perfectly tailored morning coats and dark-gray trousers lined up with their backs to the congregation was setting quite a few of the females—and not just the young ones—tittering.
In his mind’s eye, Kit envisioned what the congregation saw. Viewed from the back, Rand, Ryder, and he were, in body, very similar, but the color of their hair instantly distinguished them one from the other. Although the way their hair grew and the styles they favored for their faintly wavy locks were similar, Rand had dark-brown hair, Ryder’s mane was a tawny mixture of golds and brown, while Kit’s hair was a rich mid brown. Godfrey had inherited their mother’s shade—a dark brown with russet tints, a true auburn—a feature he shared with their sister, Stacie.
As if Kit thinking of Stacie had called her into being, the organist changed his tune to a processional wedding anthem, and together with his brothers, Kit turned and watched the bride’s attendants walk up the aisle. Stacie led the way, a relaxed smile on her face suggesting she was glad to be there, although Kit had his doubts.
Possibly even more than Rand, Stacie had had her mind and certainly her view of marriage manipulated and impacted on by their mother and her doings. Stacie was already twenty-six years old and, to date, had shown no interest in marriage—and that wasn’t an issue her brothers, or even Mary, bossy as she was, sought to push. Kit thought it very likely Stacie would never marry. That conclusion stemmed not so much from a judgment on any likely suitors as a suspicion that Stacie would never trust herself in such a union; she’d seen all too clearly what their mother had become.
He might be her brother, but Kit was also a man; as his gaze took in Stacie’s artfully arranged dark-auburn hair and her figure stylishly gowned in pale-violet silk, he couldn’t help but admit that his sister bade fair to being as voluptuously attractive as their mother had been.
As Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh, Stacie hailed from an ancient noble lineage and was well-dowered and well-connected. Kit cynically mused that the grandes dames had to be severely exercised over the prospect of such an eligible bride insisting on placing herself beyond their reach.
As Stacie neared the end of the nave, she met Rand’s eyes, and her smile brightened with patent sincerity—then her gaze skated along the line of her brothers, fleetingly meeting each of their gazes. Kit allowed his lips to curve as his eyes met Stacie’s, then as she turned to take her place along the bride’s side of the steps, he looked up the aisle at the second bridesmaid.
The young lady who would, he realized, be his partner in much of what followed.
Gowned in the same pale-violet silk as Stacie, the unknown lady was tallish, slender—distinctly willowy—with golden-blond hair piled in a neat knot on the top of her head. Her face was heart-shaped, her complexion pale with just a hint of color in her cheeks. Her forehead was wide above finely arched brown brows; her eyes were large and well-set beneath those brows, but Kit couldn’t guess their color, and somewhat to his surprise, he discovered he wanted to know. His gaze lowered to her lips...and, for several heartbeats, lingered there. Perfectly sculpted in pale rose, the curves drew his gaze even when he tried to look away.
Following in Stacie’s wake, the young lady’s figure was nothing in comparison, yet...
Kit drew in a breath and shifted his gaze and his attention to the determined lines of the lady’s nicely rounded chin. As she walked, she looked ahead, but, apparently, without focus, yet as she neared the steps, she smiled sweetly at Rand.
Kit waited, but she—whoever she was—didn’t glance his way.
He felt vaguely cheated; she had to know that he would be her partner for the rest of the ceremony and the associated events.
Surreptitiously, he nudged Ryder. When Ryder cast him a sidelong glance, Kit murmured, “Who is she—the other bridesmaid?”
As Mary, a delighted smile on her face, was presently walking down the aisle, “the other bridesmaid” could mean only one person.
“A Miss Sylvia Buckleberry—a distant cousin and childhood friend of Felicia’s,” Ryder murmured back.
Mary reached her place, then the music swelled, and the bride—an utterly radiant golden-haired young lady gowned in ivory silk—walked down the aisle on the arm of a gentleman Kit realized must be her brother, William John Throgmorton.
The brother halted before the altar and, with an insouciant grin, placed his sister’s hand in Rand’s.
Even though Ryder’s bulk was between them, Kit would have sworn he literally felt Rand’s and Miss Throgmorton’s—Felicia’s—joint happiness, an incandescent joy like a small sun casting its rays over everyone near.
As one, the bridal party faced the altar and, with the congregation, gave their attention to the reverend as he commenced the service.
Kit had stood beside Rand at Ryder’s wedding; he knew the ropes. Having sensed the nature of the connection Rand and Felicia shared, Kit wasn’t surprised by the clarity and sincerity that rang in their voices as they made their vows.
This, Kit inwardly acknowledged, was ho
w marriage ought to be. He felt both glad and humbled that Rand had found his way to Felicia and had had the courage to embrace love and thus secure all it would bring them.
Kit knew himself well enough to admit that he also felt just a tad jealous. Not over Felicia herself, but over the future Rand now had a chance at creating with her.
On the one hand, he would dearly like such a chance himself, but, on the other hand, after all he’d learned of his mother and her doings—in actuality, far more than Rand, Stacie, or Godfrey had ever known, and a great deal more than Ryder had ever guessed—marriage was an entanglement he couldn’t see himself ever risking.
Then the reverend pronounced Rand and Felicia man and wife, and they shared a kiss before God and the congregation. Kit found himself grinning, infected with the newly-weds’ happiness as the pair drew apart, then, arm in arm, their faces glowing, led the bridal party up the aisle.
With a proud smile, Ryder offered his arm to his marchioness. Mary took it, and they fell into step behind Rand and Felicia—slowed by the well-wishers on either side, all wanting to press their congratulations.
Kit duly paced to the center of the step and offered his arm to his enigmatic partner. “Miss Buckleberry.” He watched, waiting to catch her eyes if, finally, she glanced at him.
She did, and he discovered her eyes were a soft violet blue—periwinkle blue.