Page 33 of The Duke's Daring Bride

Thorne was in the process of propping his feet up on Alistair’s desk. “Married, Effinghell? This is sudden, is it no’?”

In answer, Alistair held up the special license. As though that answered everything. Anything.

Fawkes leaned forward and plucked it from his fingers. “Ye’re doing it for the dukedom? Ye noble bastard, ye dinnae have to give up all chances at happiness.”

The irony of his old friend calling him a bastard wasn’t wasted on Alistair.

And marrying Olivia Wilson wasn’t going to be a hardship. Well, bedding her wasn’t going to be a hardship, not at all. Marrying her was the best way to assure he didn’t have to worry about embarrassing himself.

Thorne was studying him. “I dinnae think that’s the case, Fawkes. In fact, I would wager Alistair is secretly quite pleased with his choice of a bride, hmm?”

Alistair hesitated, then nodded.

“Do ye love her?” Thorne paused. “Or do ye barely ken her?”

Alistair’s wry twist of his lips must’ve conveyed his answer, because Thorne snorted.

“Well, I wish ye the best, my silent friend.” His boots hit the floor and he made a show of brushing off his immaculate trousers. “And I wish I could stay to meet yer bride.”

It was Fawkes who asked, “Ye’re no’ staying for the wedding?”

“Well, as much as I appreciate the note…” Thorne made a show of opening the letter in his hand, the one Alistair had jotted off last night, and cleared his throat. “Dear Thornebury. I need a cleric or a priest or some such. I am to be married tomorrow at noon. Bring him to my home. Please. Effinghell. Postscript: you are invited as well.” He tossed the letter carelessly atop the desk. “I particularly appreciated the tacked-on please there, as if our friend suddenly remembered how to ask favors.”

Fawkes snorted. “Ye at least got a please.”

But his eyes twinkled, and Alistair knew his friend was glad to have been invited. As if Alistair would have left him out.

School had been…difficult for Alistair. Not only was he a duke—albeit one under his uncle’s regency—but he didn’t speak. Thanks to his illness and injury, he hadn’t attended the lower schools most of the lads had shared.

He’d been mocked mercilessly, humiliated and scorned, until he’d learned to fight. After that he’d been mostly left alone…except for two other misfits such as himself, Fawkes and Kipling.

While Fawkes was notoriously closed-lipped about his past, Kipling was the second son of a minor baron, who was himself the second son of a duke—Kip used to say he was a spare’s spare. They had become Alistair’s best friends. When Kip had surprised everyone by running off to France several years ago, Alistair had floundered, and Fawkes had…become darker.

Kipling might not be here, but at least Fawkes could stand beside Alistair on his wedding day.

Not that this would be much of a wedding. Alistair fully intended to be back in his study all afternoon, then visit his wife in her chambers after dark tonight. Tonight, and every night.

His cock ached for it.

He might not have any experience in the bedroom, but it couldn’t be so difficult. He’d spent a lifetime reading up on techniques, after all…

“Any word from Kip?” Fawkes asked, his tone light but his brows showing his concern. “He’d be here if he could.”

Alistair shook his head once, then raised a brow to Fawkes. Would his friend stand beside him?

The auburn-haired man sighed. “He should be here, but I’ll be happy to stand in his place.”

If Kipling had been home, Alistair would have asked both of them to stand beside him. Although Fawkes had trouble accepting it, he was Alistair’s other closest friend. He was quiet, private, with a mysterious past of which he rarely spoke. But Kip had brought them together and kept them together.

Thorne, on the other hand…

“I shall console myself by weeping into my tea, since ye obviously dinnae care if I’m standing beside ye. My job was to find a vicar.”

“Which was good, because I ken fook-all about holy men,” Fawkes pointed out dryly. “Did ye find one? Is there an agency? Vicars For Hire? Priests ‘R’ Us? There wasnae time for an ad in the paper.”

Thorne swatted at him. “I called in a favor. Hiro placed him in one of the parlors, and Alistair’s mother is waxing poetic about the joys of marriage at him.”

Thorne, on the other hand, knew everyone, and everyone liked him. It was, frankly, impossible not to. His cheerfulness could be grating, but he was so good-natured it was difficult to begrudge him. He could tease and cajole and influence, and always seemed to be in the center of a web of favors and connections.

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