Page 67 of The Defiant One
"Is that not right, Andrew? That Freckles will sleep on the bed with us?"
His reply was equally earnest. "Yes, Celsie. Freckles will sleep on the bed with us."
Williams drew out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He was going to need a drink after this one. Maybe even two. He shot a confused look at the duke, but His Grace was his usual enigmatic self. Lord Gareth was grinning, and Lord Charles was trying, and failing, to maintain a suitably militaristic expression in keeping with his splendid scarlet uniform.
As for Lord Andrew, he had a look in his eye that promised dire harm if Williams or anyone else so much as questioned his lady's wishes. Very well, then, thought Williams. If she wanted the dog to give her away, and if Lord Andrew condoned its sleeping on the bed, that was their life. He was only here to marry them, God help him.
I will never understand the aristocracy, not if I live to be a hundred.
"Witnesses, then?" he asked, with a dubious look at the old dog. If it's Freckles, I'm having three drinks. And then I'm retiring and moving back to Cornwall.
Lord Andrew glanced at his brother Charles. "Major de Montforte will witness our vows," he said tightly.
"Er . . . you do not wish His Grace to witness them, my lord?"
"I damned well don't," snapped Lord Andrew, glowering.
Williams flinched. He glanced nervously at the duke, but His Grace was gazing at the altar, his expression inscrutable, his entire manner unaffected.
The bride added, "My brother Gerald will also witness them."
Her ladyship had a brother? Why isn't he, and not the dog, giving her away?
"And where is this brother?" asked Williams, gazing rather helplessly about him.
Lord Andrew, looking more dashing than the vicar had ever seen him in an exquisitely cut suit of striped olive silk, russet smallclothes, and snowy white lace at throat and wrists, impatiently jerked his head towards the back of the church. There, in the cool, gloomy shadows, a young man sat, his expression cold, his eyes smoldering with anger. Hmm, well yes, thought Williams. I don't blame you, young fellow, for being in such an ill temper. It's not every day that a dog takes your rightful place at your sister's side . . .
"Please proceed, Williams," said the duke tightly.
Clearing his throat, the vicar picked up the Book of Common Prayer and recited the age-old words. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . ."
He saw the bride swallowing hard, wrapping and unwrapping the leash around her hand, her head bent as she stared, blinking, down at the elderly dog. He saw the concerned way Lord Andrew was watching her. She happened to look up and catch her bridegroom's gaze upon her; she offered a brave and tremulous smile, and his own flashed, briefly, wanly, in return. Seeing it, Williams let his voice fill the church, trying to drown out the reservations he had about tying these two together, trying to drown out the otherwise charged silence, trying to drown out the tension among the family members that made the very air around them seem to crackle. He was doing the right thing. Wasn't he?
He thought of all the clergymen over the centuries who'd stood in this very spot and married countless de Montfortes before him, of the dead sleeping in their tombs all around, of the last duke and duchess, their elaborate tomb a stone's toss away. Had any of theirs been . . . hasty marriages? He was aware of the way Lady Gareth and Lady Charles exchanged soft glances with their husbands as he recited the binding words of love, honor and commitment. He was aware of the duke gazing at his parents' tomb, his expression still. He was aware of the excited murmur of some three hundred villagers outside, all looking forward to spending the rest of the day feasting and drinking at the tables His Grace had set up so that all could share in the celebration. Williams must have faltered, for now the duke was turning that inscrutable black stare, which would allow no mistakes, which would tolerate no question of the soon-to-be Lady Andrew's wishes, on him, silently commanding him to continue.
He had suspected that this was no love match, but when Lord Andrew raised his deep, aristocratically accented voice for everyone — even the now-dozing dog — to hear, Williams began to wonder if maybe there was more here than met the eye . . .
"I, Andrew Mark de Montforte, take thee Celsiana Blake to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."
He noted the way Lord Andrew's gaze held hers, and the silent look — was it friendship? resolution? relief? — she returned. And then she, too, spoke the timeless words, her voice clear, high, and determined.
So, maybe it was a love match, then. That pleased him.
"The ring, please."
Heavy silence filled the church and all eyes were on Lord Andrew as he removed his signet ring and, gently taking his bride's hand, slid it partway over her finger. Lady Nerissa, standing beside the duke, sniffled loudly. Lord Charles and Lord Gareth were silent and still. His Grace the Duke of Blackheath had a look on his face that Williams didn't even try to interpret.
And at the bride's feet, the old dog began to snore, so loudly that Lord Andrew had to raise his voice to be heard over it:
"With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
The bridegroom slid the ring the rest of the way down his lady's finger. And as Williams bade the young couple to kneel, and began reciting the final words of the ceremony that would bind them together forever, he saw what could only be triumph — and weary relief — in the duke's harsh face.
Ah, yes, now he understood. God hadn't been the one to "join these two together in holy matrimony" . . . it had been Blackheath himself.
He pronounced them man and wife and watched in satisfaction as Lord Andrew kissed his bride, and Lady Nerissa wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief, and the family — all except the duke, who remained standing where he was, spurned and alone — swarmed around the newlyweds to hug and congratulate them.
"Well, now that the formalities are over, let's eat, drink, and be merry!" said Lord Andrew, looking relieved that the hard part was over.
