“How gracious of you,” Taviston muttered. Dunne retreated to the dressing room with a sparkle in his eye. Taviston turned back to the mirror and this time did study himself.
His Hessians gleamed in the sunlight sweeping his bedchamber. His white breeches added to the blinding light in the room. A shiny silver waistcoat accompanied the blue coat that Dunne had ensured was spotless. Taviston grinned as he imagined entering the church in a blaze of light. It would be difficult for anyone to miss the groom; he was a positive beacon on this gloriously bright day.
Peyton threw open the double doors without a knock and eyed his brother up and down.
“You’ll do, except for the cravat. I can have that neckcloth looking much more elegant in a mere ten minutes.”
“Thank you, but no,” Taviston replied.
Peyton shook his head but grinned. “It is time we left for the church. I am to be your merry escort.”
“Are you now? I don’t suppose I shall be allowed to walk?” Taviston asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, dear brother. Dunne will not allow it. Too much chance of a speck of dust landing on your person.”
“Very well,” Taviston murmured and then strode out of the room. Peyton followed and they were soon settled into the Taviston carriage, on the way to St. George’s.
Taviston had rarely ever thought about his own wedding, but he knew for certain he had never pictured it taking place at St. George’s. Under normal circumstances he would not have considered the church, known for its fashionable weddings. He would have preferred to hold the ceremony in the chapel at Taviston Hall, in northern Oxfordshire. Oh well. Nothing about his own wedding was as he would have it be, not even his bride. Fate obviously had different plans for his life.
“You did see that the other carriage set off to convey Victoria to the church?” Taviston questioned his brother.
Peyton eyed him narrowly. “Yes, Taviston. You told Halston, the coachman, and me that the carriage had better be at Somerset Street at nine o’clock. Among the three of us, we managed to carry out your orders. Are you concerned your bride won’t show up for the ceremony?”
“Of course not. She’s the one who demanded this wedding in the first place.” Or in the second place, after she had realized what she had given up.
He banished such thoughts from his mind. He and Victoria would be married today at St. George’s with a large portion of society looking on. It was no use thinking of the tranquility of Taviston Hall or the potential of a woman like Lady Tessa Colvin. Odd how he had never once seen her.
But never mind. Victoria would be his duchess. And he was beginning to warm to the idea. Despite all the nonsense she had spouted at the rout the other night, she had handled herself with aplomb. Most of the other things he thought she lacked—knowledge of running a household and being a hostess—could easily be learned. He had complete confidence in her intelligence and ability to do so.
Not only would Victoria be his duchess, but his wife as well. Their kisses that night in the gallery had only hinted at the passion that lay between them. Why, he had only explored her right breast that evening; he had so much more research to conduct on how to bring his bride to the ultimate pleasure. Even though he had never seen her so, he let his mind build an image of Victoria naked and smiling sassily. Savoring the imaginary portrait, he began to outline where his next study would take him. Perhaps he should start with her—
“Taviston.” Peyton’s voice interrupted his erotic reverie. “We’re here.”
Reluctantly, he pushed aside his plans for the wedding night.
He and Peyton entered St. George’s church through a side door and proceeded to the vestry. It was fifteen minutes before ten and Taviston wasn’t surprised to see Northfield already waiting for them.
“Ah, the bridegroom appears!” Northfield hailed him. “It isn’t like you to be late.”
“Never fear, Northfield,” Peyton answered first. “I have made it my solemn mission to see my dear brother wed on this day. I will remain by his side until the deed is done.”
“Good morning,” Taviston said quietly to his friend who leaned against the mantel, ignoring his brother completely. He looked around the room for the Reverend Hodgson, but the clergyman was not present.
Northfield swept a critical eye up and down his friend. “And, how are you? You look well for a man who is, he says, only to be wed grudgingly.”
Taviston gave him a half smile. “Peyton says I must stiffen my spine and muddle through this predicament of my own making. I am not often given to taking advice from my younger, more frivolous sibling, but since I see no other alternative. I shall undertake to follow his counsel this one time.”
Northfield gave him an encouraging nod and might have spoken, but Peyton did not give him a chance.
“Speaking of advice, I have one more piece of it for you, brother. Please, I beg of you, produce an heir as soon as possible. I cannot bear the responsibility of being your heir much longer. It taxes me considerably.”
Taviston considered his brother while walking in a circle around him. “Do you know, I believe being my heir has been about the only thing keeping you on the edge of respectability. Should my new wife bless me with a son” —he valiantly tried to keep his mind from straying to the surprisingly lovely imagine of Victoria round with his child— “I fear you might plunge right over the precipice into disreputable behavior. Perhaps I should find you a worthy position in our mighty army. I hear there is a war going on with France.”
“Give it a rest, Taviston. You were not made for teasing. Besides, I think I might behave myself, for the sake of your darling wife. I like her.”
Northfield stirred from his place by the hearth but once again did not jump in quickly enough. Peyton reached inside his coat and withdrew a silver flask and hoisted it.
“I propose we make a toast to your lovely bride.”