Vicar Primrose asked her to repeat her vows. She complied, voice smooth and sure, holding his eyes captive the entire time.
The final words of the vicar binding them together resounded through the library. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Gratified, he listened to the vicar pronounce them man and wife. That had gone better than expected.
“Lady Calydon,” he drawled, and slid his left arm about her waist drawing her close. He took her mouth with deliberate gentleness, aware of their audience. Her lips parted, and her taste, hot and sweet, sank into him. And slowly the kiss became deeper, hungrier. Only the discomfited squeaks of the vicar’s wife and daughter pulled him from his bride.
He lifted his head, drinking in her beauty, anticipating the upcoming night. A blush reddened her cheeks, but her eyes glittered with heat. He felt like he was holding fire in his arms, and he wanted her with a ferocity that stunned him.
Not good. This was the way of folly. The path to losing one’s heart, only to have it broken.
He stepped away from her, hardening himself against such treacherous emotions. She was a means to an heir, and a willing body to sate his needs, nothing more.
…
She was the Duchess of Calydon.
The lush countryside, the fresh bite of air did nothing to soothe Jocelyn’s shattered nerves. She was still a little confused at what had happened in the library. The powerful Duke of Calydon had married her.
Her heart thumped in fright as she wondered for a moment if the marriage was legitimate, or if he had somehow seized a winning hand about which she knew nothing. She dismissed the notion as a product of the stress of the day. What could that possibly serve him?
When she had demanded marriage from him, it had been sheer recklessness that had driven her—and the bitter taste of failure. Never had she expected Sebastian to summon the vicar and actually wed her. She had been hoping to drive a harder bargain and have him offer two hundred thousand pounds. She still could not believe she went along with a marriage. In his many recounts of his brother, Anthony had repeatedly stressed how much the duke hated scandal, and how withdrawn he was from the glittering throng of society. Jocelyn had prayed for strength and hoped on that account he would affiance her to Anthony. She had also logically realized he would most likely offer monetary compensation in lieu of that, but while making the cold morning trip from Lincolnshire to his ducal estate in Norfolk, Jocelyn had been quite determined to secure marriage—to Anthony. Her family needed more than money. She needed Anthony’s connections, a sponsor into society, if she had any hopes of giving her three sisters a semblance of a future away from the genteel poverty they had all been living in.
But to Calydon himself? The thought had never entered her mind. Not until the moment it had blurted out of her mouth. Last night she had visited her cousin, Rosamund, in Cringleford, and it had been difficult for her to partake in conversation and tea. She’d felt certain he was playing some cruel jest and had braced herself for disappointment when she arrived at Sherring Cross this morning. She’d been both elated and scared witless that he really intended to wed her.
The elegant Calydon chaise rumbled and rocked along the rough country path, the horses’ whinnying jarring her from her thoughts. The carriage was pulled by a magnificent team of six. She knew the duke owned one of the finest stud farms in England, and the sleek, powerful grace of his horses mesmerized her. She leaned forward, peering out the windows as her home—former home—came into view. As usual, her breath caught at its majestic grace, and a smile pure and joyous came to her face for the first time in days.
Somehow, she really had done it!
Not only was her family truly saved, but her childhood home had been saved, as well.
Even though a grand manor with sixty seven rooms, Stonehaven, with its rustic design, paled in comparison to the duke’s country home. The grounds of Sherring Cross, Sebastian’s palatial estate, were stunning. The rolling lawns, the rings of gardens, and the several lakes her carriage had rumbled past had taken her breath. The land had been softly dotted with snow, and the many gardens made up of blood-red roses against the snowy backdrop had made Jocelyn feel as if she were in a fairytale land. But it was the sheer size of the estate that had amazed her. Anthony had boasted it had one hundred and fifty rooms and sat on over forty thousand acres of land.
And she would be its duchess.
Jocelyn hugged herself and grinned. And refused to let the thought that tonight she must dance to Sebastian’s tune mar her joy.
I am looking forward to our wedding night.
She swallowed, recalling the parting words he had whispered against her lips. She had been so nervous when the vicar had made the final pronouncement that bound them together for life. For some reason she had pictured Sebastian whisking her off and ravishing her right then and there. She had been so relieved when he acquiesced to her request to return to Lincolnshire immediately to inform her family.
The only thing he had been unbending about was that she must return tonight. Then he had summoned one of the most beautiful carriages she had ever seen, and unceremoniously loaded her in it, uttering those compelling parting words. Anticipation? Or a warning…?
She forced her thoughts from her new husband, and let her plans for restoring Stonehaven occupy her mind. Only a skeleton staff operated the estate and had done so for years. She relished filling it with the full staff that was sorely needed. Her father had faced the looming threat of debtor prison, but no more. Joyous relief pulsed through her once more, overshadowing the worry that she must soon return to Sherring Cross.
The chaise rumbled into Stonehaven’s courtyard, and she flew out the door as Flemings, the manor’s sole footman, opened it for her. “Welcome back, Lady Jocelyn.”
She smiled warmly at Flemings then hurried inside the massive oak door already held open by their butler, Cromwell.
“Welcome back, milady.” He took her coat and smiled back—a rare thing. Her happiness must have been contagious.
“Where is my father, Cromwell? I am most anxious to speak with him.”
“He is anxious to speak with ye as well, milady. He has been awaitin’ your return in the green parlor.”
Her steps faltered when she saw Cromwell’s wrinkled forehead. His brown, rheumy eyes gazed at her with concern.
Oh, dear. “My father knows of my journey to Norfolk?” she asked.
“I believe so, milady.”
“I see. Have Mrs. Winthrop bring tea and cake.”
“Yes, milady.”
She smiled tightly and hurried to the parlor. She blew into the room and saw her father, Archibald Grayson Rathbourne, the seventh Earl of Waverham staring out the window pensively at the east gardens, gardens that her mother had tended so lovingly. It was why Jocelyn had ensured they always had a gardener to maintain the exquisitely designed grounds that her mother had poured so much loving energy into, and to furnish her grave with fresh flowers at all times.
Her father was a portly man, more scholarly than physical. His hair had just begun to pepper with gray, and glasses were perched on his aquiline nose. He rose at her entrance and his eyes, so much like her own, lost their worried expression
“You’re back, my dear! Now tell me where have you been since yesterday? I was concerned when you didn’t appear for breakfast, and have been gone all these long hours. I received your note that you would spend the night with Cousin Rosamund, but it all sounded so mysterious and unexpected.”
“Oh, Father.” She rushed over and threw herself into his arms, hugging him tightly.
“You are trembling, Jocelyn.”
She did not lift her face from the crook of his neck as the door opened. She listened to the footfalls of Mrs. Winthrop and the clanks of the china as she laid out the tea and cakes.
“Come, come. Let us sit down.”
He led her to the sofa that was in desperate need of upholstery, its green color faded and discolo
red. She gratefully sank into its depth and smiled tenderly at the sight of her father pouring her tea and arranging her favorite sweet cakes on a plate. It bespoke how worried he must have been. She gratefully accepted the teacup, curling her hands around it, loving the warmth that flowed into her.
The sofa creaked as he sat. “Now tell me, my dear, what has happened to put such a strange glint in your eyes?”
Jocelyn did not hesitate. The words tumbled from her lips, unstoppable as she poured out the day’s events to her father. She paused several times to compose herself, and at last she met his gaze as she ended her tale. Her father’s expression could only be described as flummoxed.
“Are you saying, my dear child, that you are now the Duchess of Calydon?”
“Yes, Father.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You are married to the Duke of Calydon, Sebastian Jackson Thornton?”
“Yes, Father!”
She fidgeted under his intense scrutiny.
Then his shoulders slumped. “My God. I have failed you.”
With a gasp of distress, she leapt to sit beside him and clasped his hands. “You have not failed me, Father. Please do not say such a thing.”
“You are obviously unaware of the reputation of the Duke of Calydon. He is very powerful, and Sherring Cross is one of the richest estates in the realm. But there were rumors that circulated about him years ago. Rumors of stunning depravity, of a duel, and of him killing his mistress.”
Jocelyn recoiled in shock, withdrawing her hands from his. “What utter rubbish! The duke has never been embroiled in a scandal. Even so removed in the country, we would have heard about it.”