appearance.”
“And a grand wedding breakfast always follows at Stockwood House,” the duchess added. “It is what
we
had, and it is what your mother and father had, Ralph. However . . .”
Miss Muirhead’s pale complexion had turned paler, Ralph saw when he glanced at her. His grandmother’s eyes were resting upon His Grace, and she looked troubled again.
“It would take a month for the banns to be called,” she continued. “It would mean a move to London and endless visits to dressmakers and tailors. It would mean dinners and parties and the prewedding ball we had and your father had, Ralph. And Stockwood House would be turned topsy-turvy for the ball and then for the wedding breakfast. I am not sure I would be able to summon the energy to do it all.”
As though, Ralph thought, she would be the one called upon to do the planning and the hosting, not to mention the scrubbing and polishing and cooking. As though she and His Grace could not simply arrive in London the day before the wedding and leave again the day after. But he understood what she was up to and held his peace. Miss Muirhead was holding the sides of her dress. The folds of her skirt failed to disguise the fact that two fingers on each hand were crossed for luck.
“Eh?” his grandfather said inelegantly. “A ball? And a wedding breakfast? Both at Stockwood House?”
“They always have been held there,” Her Grace said. “It would be expected of us. It would be considered not at all the thing if we broke with tradition.”
“Harrumph. I’ll not have you bothered with all that fuss and faradiddle,” His Grace said. “It is out of the question, Berwick. You will have to be married here.”
As though it were his own original idea.
“During the month of the banns,” Her Grace said, one finger tapping against her lips as she frowned inthought—and glanced once, sharply, at the duke—“there will be time to send out invitations to every relative and friend and acquaintance in England. Every guest room here will be filled and every room at every inn for miles around. There will be all those mouths to feed for several days and all those people to be entertained. And there will still be the expectation of a ball and a wedding breakfast.”
Ralph sat back in his chair and did not even try to contribute to the conversation. It seemed to him that his grandmother had it well in hand. He caught the eye of Miss Muirhead—Miss
Chloe
Muirhead. He did consider for a moment winking at her and was sorry he had not done so a moment later when she pursed her lips slightly and he realized that she understood too. Her hands had disappeared from sight and he could not tell if she had uncrossed her fingers.
He thought of her as she had looked on the bank of the river earlier while he had picked his way to the middle of it to find her a stone that would be a good bouncer—though, come to think of it, what the devil had possessed him to do something so impulsive? He would have felt like a prize ass if he had slipped and got a thorough dunking, especially if he had also gone sailing away over the falls. She had looked anxious and prunish. She had been almost vibrating with the urge to scold him. And he had found himself almost liking her.
And why, after all, should he
not
? He had no strong feelings for her and never would. But if she was to be his wife, if they were to spend the rest of their days, not to mention their nights, in almost constant proximity to each other, if they were to share children and theirupbringing, then surely it would be better to like her than not.
“If Berwick has brought a special license with him,” the duke said, “why wait a whole month? Why wait a week? Why go to the bother of inviting a houseful of guests merely so that they can keep us awake at night with their dancing and carousing and eat us out of house and home? Why wait a
day
?”
“You think Ralph should speak to the Reverend Marlowe as soon as we have
“And a grand wedding breakfast always follows at Stockwood House,” the duchess added. “It is what
we
had, and it is what your mother and father had, Ralph. However . . .”
Miss Muirhead’s pale complexion had turned paler, Ralph saw when he glanced at her. His grandmother’s eyes were resting upon His Grace, and she looked troubled again.
“It would take a month for the banns to be called,” she continued. “It would mean a move to London and endless visits to dressmakers and tailors. It would mean dinners and parties and the prewedding ball we had and your father had, Ralph. And Stockwood House would be turned topsy-turvy for the ball and then for the wedding breakfast. I am not sure I would be able to summon the energy to do it all.”
As though, Ralph thought, she would be the one called upon to do the planning and the hosting, not to mention the scrubbing and polishing and cooking. As though she and His Grace could not simply arrive in London the day before the wedding and leave again the day after. But he understood what she was up to and held his peace. Miss Muirhead was holding the sides of her dress. The folds of her skirt failed to disguise the fact that two fingers on each hand were crossed for luck.
“Eh?” his grandfather said inelegantly. “A ball? And a wedding breakfast? Both at Stockwood House?”
“They always have been held there,” Her Grace said. “It would be expected of us. It would be considered not at all the thing if we broke with tradition.”
“Harrumph. I’ll not have you bothered with all that fuss and faradiddle,” His Grace said. “It is out of the question, Berwick. You will have to be married here.”
As though it were his own original idea.
“During the month of the banns,” Her Grace said, one finger tapping against her lips as she frowned inthought—and glanced once, sharply, at the duke—“there will be time to send out invitations to every relative and friend and acquaintance in England. Every guest room here will be filled and every room at every inn for miles around. There will be all those mouths to feed for several days and all those people to be entertained. And there will still be the expectation of a ball and a wedding breakfast.”
Ralph sat back in his chair and did not even try to contribute to the conversation. It seemed to him that his grandmother had it well in hand. He caught the eye of Miss Muirhead—Miss
Chloe
Muirhead. He did consider for a moment winking at her and was sorry he had not done so a moment later when she pursed her lips slightly and he realized that she understood too. Her hands had disappeared from sight and he could not tell if she had uncrossed her fingers.
He thought of her as she had looked on the bank of the river earlier while he had picked his way to the middle of it to find her a stone that would be a good bouncer—though, come to think of it, what the devil had possessed him to do something so impulsive? He would have felt like a prize ass if he had slipped and got a thorough dunking, especially if he had also gone sailing away over the falls. She had looked anxious and prunish. She had been almost vibrating with the urge to scold him. And he had found himself almost liking her.
And why, after all, should he
not
? He had no strong feelings for her and never would. But if she was to be his wife, if they were to spend the rest of their days, not to mention their nights, in almost constant proximity to each other, if they were to share children and theirupbringing, then surely it would be better to like her than not.
“If Berwick has brought a special license with him,” the duke said, “why wait a whole month? Why wait a week? Why go to the bother of inviting a houseful of guests merely so that they can keep us awake at night with their dancing and carousing and eat us out of house and home? Why wait a
day
?”
“You think Ralph should speak to the Reverend Marlowe as soon as we have
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