Page 26 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Gemma pulled back, wiping at the wet splotch on her skirts. “I thought that would excite you. I shall let Wyatt know the good news.” Another loud knock at the door sounded through the entrance hall. “Ah,” said Gemma, “and that will be the other reason I’ve come today.”
“What do you mean?”
Gemma stood, pulling Veronica to her feet. “Grandmother asked me to be here this morning because she has sent for a seamstress to come to the house.” She gave Veronica an apologetic smile. “She thought you could use a second opinion when it comes to designing your wedding dress.”
* * *
Frederick looked out the carriage window and sighed impatiently. The traffic was crawling; they had barely moved an inch in the last ten minutes. No doubt there was yet another incident on Westminster Bridge. He tapped a long finger against his chin in thought. It could hardly be more than a mile to the school building in Lambeth. Faster on foot, surely.
He rapped his cane on the roof of the carriage, and when his coachman came to a stop, he climbed out into the street, instructing his driver to go on ahead and meet him at the school.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the driver nodded. “Wise choice if you ask me.”
“Indeed.” Frederick hurried off the road and began to stride down the footpath towards the bridge, head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone he passed. And, he supposed, to avoid being recognized and having to answer any questions about his sudden betrothal that may arise.
Frederick had already glimpsed the headlines in the papers:Scandal in the Volk Family Again? The Duke of Brownwood's Shock Wedding Announcement, andDuke of Brownwood to Marry Daughter of the Wayward Earl of Volk. And these were in supposedly reputable publications like theLondon Times. He could only imagine what hurtful drivel the gossip pages were printing.
As if conjured up by his thoughts, he passed a newspaper seller on the corner, just before the bridge, hollering out to the passing crowd.
Just the sight of the boy—and the pile of papers at his feet—made Frederick’s blood boil. If there was one class of people more immoral and scheming than theton, it was the press, willing to print anything if it made them a penny or two.
He put his head down and began to walk quicker, striding over the bridge on foot—and passing the upturned milk cart that was responsible for the holdup. Coaches and wagons were clustered together on the bridge, with a large puddle of milk slowly making its way towards the river. A crowd was gathered at the scene, some helping free the horses from their tangled reins and harness, others collecting the fallen milk vats. Still others were hollering at the cart driver for his clumsiness.
Frederick hurried away from the scene, glad when he reached the relative quiet of the school building. He was relieved to escape the noise and smell of the London crowds, and the foul breath of the Thames. The city always felt this way when he returned from time in Cambridge: stifling, overwhelming, as though it had the power to swallow him whole.
He was also glad for the distraction his visit to the school would bring. Something to take his mind off his upcoming wedding, and those infernal news reports. And yet, he regretted that the school had become a mere distraction. He had jumped at the chance to invest in a school for orphans. A worthy cause, if ever he had seen one.
Being able to assist projects like this was the one upside to his title. It reminded him that there was more to life than the frippery of theton. Funding such projects gave a little meaning to his life. Allowed him to impact the world for good, at least in some small way.
The school building was close to completion. The three classrooms, once crumbling and gloomy, had been completely rebuilt, with large windows letting in plenty of light and a fireplace in each room to keep the children warm in winter. A fourth smaller room had been added to the back of the building; he assumed it was a space for the teachers to use.
Two workmen were hammering fresh paneling into place above the fireplace in the teachers’ room. They looked up as he entered. “What do you think, Your Grace?” asked one.
Frederick nodded. “I’m impressed. Truly. It looks wonderful.” It was the first time he had visited the site since its inception several months ago. Back then, it had been little more than a half-built structure, cluttered with rubble and alive with rats. But now he could imagine these classrooms full of children, learning to read and write. It would give them a real chance at life. A chance to get off the streets and move on from the tragic loss of their parents.
If only I could find the will to do the same.
He knew it was time he moved on from the loss of his mother. He knew she would not want him to spend the whole rest of his life moping about and secluding himself. But pulling himself out of the ocean of misery he had come to exist in sometimes felt utterly impossible.
Well, he thought, living a life of seclusion was about to get much harder. Because in a week’s time, Veronica Caster would be his wife.
Frederick nodded his thanks to the workers and made his way out of the school.
Turns out it was not such a distraction after all…
In truth, his head had been full of Veronica since he had left Cambridge. No—in truth, his head had been full of her since the moment he had given her that illicit first kiss. And those thoughts had only intensified with the second. He had thought almost ceaselessly about the way her lips had felt against his, the way her chest had risen and fallen with desire, that soft moan that had escaped her.
Most of all, he had thought about her warmth, her kindness, her passion for her art. Frederick could not deny that the time he had spent with Veronica in Cambridge had made him feel far more alive than he had in a long time.
But none of that meant he wished to take her as his wife.
Because Veronica Caster deserved far more than him. She deserved a husband who was just as warm and loving as she was. A husband who would cherish her as she deserved. A husband who saw the positive side of life, just as she did.
And that will never be me.
But the thing was done. In a matter of days, he and Veronica were to be married, and that was all there was to it.
Perhaps, back in the garden, he could have protested against the marriage their grandmothers were insisting on. Could have tried to convince Lady Hilt that all she had seen was him catching Veronica as she had fallen. But he had not done so. Because Frederick knew the truth. He had been doing far more than just saving her from falling. He had been physically unable to keep away from her. Perhaps he had not debased her as Lady Hilt had suggested, but Frederick knew that if the Dowager Marchioness had arrived minutes later, there was every chance he would have done. That night, with Veronica’s body pressed against his own, he had felt all semblance of control leave him.
