Page 7 of The Best Husband Money Can Buy

Face pale, she said, “The honor will be mine, Anthony.”

The deal was done.

Heavy silence fell between them. Having agreed to marry, what came next? Anthony said, “I must call on your solicitor and discuss the financial settlements. I’ll also go to Doctors’ Commons for a special license, and arrange for the ceremony to take place day after tomorrow. Do you have any preference as to place or time?”

She shook her head. “Whatever is convenient. I’m staying at Grillon’s Hotel. You may notify me of your arrangements there.” She pulled paper and pencil from her reticule and printed out a name and address. “My solicitor.”

After handing him the paper, she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you now. You have much to do.”

She was right, and he was going to have to do it while suffering from the prince of hangovers. He stood, thinking there should be something more to commemorate such a significant occasion. He took her hand again. “Until our wedding day, Emma.”

She flinched when he dropped a light kiss on her hand. He hoped that she wasn’t one of those women with a constitutional dislike of physical intimacy. Well, it was too late to worry about that now. He would have to hope that his proven expertise with the fair sex would not fail him.

Taking her arm, he escorted her to his front door. Several of his friends were beginning to wake up, usually accompanied by low moans. His valet, Hawkins, had wisely set basins near the afflicted. Emma did a fine job of ignoring the whole decadent scene. Really a most sensible woman.

He squeezed her hand meaningfully at the front door, and she left him with a shy smile. Halfway back to his bedroom, one of his rackety friends, Matthews, muttered, “That must be the ugliest whore in London. Very proper of you to throw her out.”

A surge of unexpected anger burned through Anthony. He bent over and grabbed Matthews’s shirt front in both hands, lifting him half off the floor. “You are speaking of my affianced wife,” he said in his most menacing tone. “Do I make myself clear?”

Matthews’s eyes widened until they resembled bloodshot gooseberries. “S…sorry, Verlaine! No insult intended, upon my word, no indeed!”

He was still babbling apologies when Anthony dropped him back to the floor and returned to his bedroom. Mercifully, Hawkins had left a pitcher of hot water on the washstand. As Anthony splashed water on his face, his spirits began to rise. Canfield was saved. The Lord moved in mysterious ways His wonders to perform, and the Deity had outdone himself today.

* * *

Two days later, Emma donned her Sunday best dress for her wedding. Becky suggested a more elaborate hairstyle, but Emma rejected it on the grounds that she would look silly. She did spare a wistful thought for her childhood dreams of a romantic courtship, an adoring bridegroom, and a ceremony in the Harley chapel where she would be surrounded by fond relatives. But those things were trivial. What mattered was that she was marrying Anthony, a fact so wonderful that she had never dreamed about it, at least not seriously.

At eleven o’clock punctually, Mr. Evans came for Emma and Becky. He had agreed to be a witness to the ceremony, while Becky would be maid of honor. On the short ride to the local parish church, Emma asked, “What did you think of Anthony?”

The solicitor said cautiously, “While I cannot approve of such haste, I was not unfavorably impressed by the young gentleman. He has a good head on him, and he was very reasonable about the settlements. Very reasonable indeed.”

High praise from a lawyer. The carriage halted in front of the church, and she descended into drizzly rain. It would have been nice if the sun had come out, she thought wistfully. Everything about this wedding was drab and hurried.

Telling herself again that the details didn’t matter, she entered the church, and saw that Anthony had already arrived with a friend to be groomsman. Elegantly dressed in a dark blue coat and immaculately starched cravat, he was so handsome that she almost bolted from the church. How could a barnyard hen mate with a lordly peacock?

Then Anthony saw her and came down the aisle with a smile. He was carrying a small nosegay in one hand. Presenting it to her, he said, “I thought you might like these.”

The flowers were tiny winter roses, white mixed with palest pink and bound together with a silver ribbon. Heaven only knew where he’d found them in December. The exquisite blossoms made the rest of the ceremony’s shortcomings fade into irrelevance. “Oh, Anthony,” she breathed. “They’re perfect.”

All doubts gone, she took his arm and they walked together to the vicar. This marriage was right. She knew it.

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