Chapter Eight
The wedding breakfast could only be described as profoundly odd.
Her father was three sheets to the wind. The bishop was now three sheets to the wind as well. And her husband looked as if he wished he were three sheets to the wind.
She rather wished she was, too.
Except that would be far too much drunkenness for one room. Only she, her sister, her husband, and Lord Brookhaven were not imbibing.
It was tempting to toss back several flutes of champagne.
Instead, she gazed about the beautifully appointed small salon. Done in the French style, it hardly seemed to fit her husband.
There was nothing floral or sugary about him. No, even today on his wedding, he’d dressed in a beautiful black coat tailored to skim his Herculean shoulders and wasp waist. His dark breeches clung to his powerful thighs, and his hessians shone more brightly than the crystal.
The ruby winking in his burgundy cravat made her gasp. She’d never seen a man so beautifully attired, in something so stark…but with just a touch of artistic lavishness.
A servant swooped about the room in immaculate blue livery, carrying around a silver tray laden with perfect crystal champagne glasses.
She eyed the man like he was a lifeline. After all, she’d been cast into the wild, unknown sea of matrimony.
Just as she was about to deny herself, trying to choose control and discipline, her husband sidled up beside her and whispered softly against her ear, “You should have one. I think you’ve earned it.”
“I have done little, Your Grace,” she returned, ignoring the delicious feel of his words tickling the curve of her neck. “Except stand still as stone and speak a few words.”
“Words you never thought to utter,” he pointed out, his gaze empathetic. “Here, let us both have one.”
And with that, he whisked two glasses of champagne off the tray, handed her one, clinked his glass to hers, and downed his in one go.
She couldn’t stop the wry smile as she saluted him. “That bad, is it?”
“That surprising,” he corrected lightly. “Much like you, I had not planned on doing this.”
“That is a surprise to me,” she replied, contemplating him. “All dukes need to marry and produce heirs, don’t they?”
He tensed, then let out a sigh.
“All dukes are supposed to marry and produce heirs.” He placed his glass on the silver tray that passed again, and he looked like he was tempted to take another. He did not. “But not every duke does, you know.”
“Don’t they?” she queried before she took a long drink of the crisp, bubbling liquid. It burst across her tongue, bright, playful…seductive.
He blew out a derisive breath before folding his strong arms across his immaculately tailored waistcoat of burgundy and gold. “Well, at least not this one.”
“But what about the future Dukes of Chase?” she said.
“I have cousins,” he said, his jaw tightening. “No doubt they shall provide heirs in profuse numbers.”
She didn’t mind children, though she’d never planned to have any. She’d always assumed she’d be a splendid auntie. Even she, irregular soul that she was, knew his proclamation to be most strange.
“Men usually like to have heirs of their own.”
“Do they?” he drawled, looking above her head.
“I will not truly pretend to understand the workings of the male mind,” she replied. “But in my little experience and reading of the male of this species, it does seem to me that they are rather obsessed with producing heirs to continue on their line.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he said, his face rather grim. He dropped his gaze to her glass. “You have not taken your champagne. You should.”
“And should I be concerned?” she teased, even as her insides fluttered. “Is it going to be a particularly trying day?’