Page 88 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Two minutes later, arm in arm with her mother and Pru, with Lydia and Anthi practicing their veil-holding skills and bringing up the rear, the bridal party, missing only Demon, slowly descended the stairs.
In the front hall, Fletcher, the butler, was returning through the front door, no doubt having assisted Horatia and George into their waiting carriage. Fletcher saw the group as they reached the landing. He beamed, then darted into the drawing room to alert Demon and Glengarah.
Managing her skirts down the stairs took concentration. Meg and her party were only halfway down the last flight when her father and brother-in-law strolled out of the drawing room. Each carried glasses, and Glengarah held a magnum of champagne.
Meg smiled down at the pair, noting both wore expressions of approbation and appreciation.
Her older brother Nicholas, his wife, Adriana, and Toby had volunteered to oversee matters at the church, so the group currently in the front hall included all the rest of her immediate family.
When she stepped down to the second-last stair, her father waved. “No—stop there. That’s perfect.” He beamed at her, and his blue eyes, courtesy of the two steps level with hers, were alight with paternal love and pride.
He beckoned to the others. “Come down and get your glasses.”
Meg’s mother and Pru slipped their arms from Meg’s and complied, while Lydia and Anthi carefully laid down her train, then scampered down to join the others.
Deaglan and Demon handed around glasses of champagne, then with a delighted smile, Deaglan presented one to Meg.
Her smile a trifle wobbly, she accepted it.
The instant she had, Demon raised his glass. “A toast!” He lowered his arm, and his gaze captured Meg’s. “To my darling girl. Today, you do us and the entire family proud! May you and that devil Wylde enjoy a long and happy marriage.” He looked at Meg’s mother, then caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed her fingers. Lowering their now-linked hands, he looked back at Meg and raised his glass. “As we have.”
“To Meg and Drago,” Deaglan called, and everyone else, including all the staff who had gathered to see her leave the house, echoed the words.
Minutes later, wrapped in the warmth of good wishes, Meg was helped into the carriage that would take her to her wedding.
* * *
Drago and Dentontook refuge in the vestry of St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. Warley had elected to escort Drago’s mother into the church, and two minutes after arriving in the vestry, the brothers were joined by George and Harry, whom Drago had asked to stand with him on this most momentous occasion.
“Saw Warley and your mother come in and guessed you must have arrived.” Harry closed the vestry door on the babel of voices filling the body of the church.
“It’s already shoulder to shoulder out there.” George grinned. “That’s one good thing about standing alongside you—we won’t have anyone breathing down our necks.”
Drago scoffed, but he was already starting to feel a trifle nervous. Not a common occurrence for him.
He’d also asked Thomas to stand up with him, but after some thought, Thomas had begged to be excused. Aware that, although as well-born as the rest of them, Thomas sometimes felt the weight of his relatively penniless state when exposed to the haughtily arrogant and judgmental upper echelons of the haut ton, Drago hadn’t pressed.
“Lots of Cynsters and also your cousins looking alert out there,” Harry told him. “Don’t think you need fear anything will get past them.”
George nodded. “Very much on watch and looking every which way at once.”
Toby had seen Drago and Denton on their way in and assured them there were eyes and ears everywhere, including in the church’s long colonnaded porch, and knowing that Meg would be accompanied to the church by her father and brother-in-law, plus their various coachmen and grooms, Drago felt somewhat relieved on that score. Nevertheless, he hadn’t called off his trusted men—grooms, stable hands, and footmen from the Wylde House staff—who were circulating among the considerable crowd that had gathered outside to watch the procession of haut-ton carriages and exclaim over the ladies’ gowns. “Hopefully,” Drago said, “once today is over and our marriage is set in stone, whoever our villain is will accept defeat and retreat and leave us alone.”
George, Harry, and Denton murmured agreement.
“I can’t see what he could possibly hope to gain by continuing his campaign,” Harry said.
George stirred. “And besides, it’s not as if you and Meg will be easy to get at down at Wylde Court, surrounded by your exceedingly loyal and devoted staff.”
Drago was counting on that.
The minister joined them. A connection of the Helmsfords, he was decked out in full regalia in honor of the occasion. He smiled at Drago, then extended the gesture to include the other three. “Gentlemen, I’ve just received word that the bride has arrived outside the church. It’s therefore time we took our places.” He met Drago’s eyes. “If you will follow me, Your Grace?”
Drago inclined his head in acquiescence.
Immediately the minister exited the vestry, the noise in the church started to fade, replaced by the rustle of clothing as people shifted, searching for a better view.
As Drago walked out in the minister’s wake, he reflected that if, two months ago, anyone had asked him how he expected to feel at this particular moment in his life—about to vow to cleave to a single female for the rest of his days—his answer would have been some combination of resignation and the acceptance of his doom.
