it was fertility they should be feting. That was, after all, the desired point to a union such as this: the production of children.
Ah, well, he was finally married, and perhaps he should lay aside cynicism and look no further than that fact. Yesterday, whilst riding toward London, he’d begun to wonder if he’d left off returning for too long. What if Miss Fleming had grown weary of being ignored? What if she didn’t even bother showing up at the church to give him his congé? He’d been detained in Oxfordshire far longer than he’d planned. There always seemed to be something more to delay his return there—another field his land steward wanted to show him, a road that badly needed repair, and, if he was honest with himself, the very steadiness of his fiancée’s gaze. She seemed to see right through him with those tilted brown eyes, seemed to look beyond his surface laughter and saw what he hid in the depths of his soul. At Lady Eddings’s musicale, when he’d turned and saw Melisande Fleming watching him and Matthew Horn, he’d had a moment of stark terror—fear that she knew what they talked about.
But she didn’t know. Jasper took a swallow of ruby wine, reassured on that point. She didn’t know what had happened at Spinner’s Falls, and she would never know if, with God’s grace, he could help it.
“Jolly good wedding, what?” an elderly gentleman leaned forward to shout down the table.
Jasper hadn’t a notion who the gentleman was—must be a relative of his bride’s—but he grinned and raised his wineglass to the fellow. “Thank you, sir. I rather enjoyed it myself.”
The gentleman winked hideously. “Enjoy the wedding night more, what? I say, enjoy the wedding night more! Ha!”
He was so taken with his own wit that he nearly lost his gray wig laughing.
The elderly lady sitting across from the gentleman rolled her eyes and said, “That’s quite enough, William.”
Beside him, Jasper felt his bride still, and he cursed under his breath. Some of the color had finally returned to her cheeks. She’d gone quite white at the ceremony, and he’d prepared himself to catch her should she faint. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d stood like a soldier before a firing squad and grimly recited her marriage vows. Not quite the expression a bridegroom hoped for on his bride on her wedding day, but he’d learned not to be particular after the last fiasco.
Jasper raised his voice. “Will you tell us the story of your own wedding, sir? I feel we shall be quite entertained.”
“He doesn’t remember,” the old lady said before her husband could recover enough to speak. “He was so drunk he fell asleep afore he even came to bed!”
The guests within earshot roared.
“Aw, Bess!” the elderly man shouted above the laughter. “You know I was plumb worn out from chasing you.” He turned to the young lady beside him, eager to recount his memories. “Courted her for nigh on four years and . . .”
Jasper gently replaced his wineglass and glanced at his bride. Miss Fleming— Melisande —was pushing her food into neat piles on her plate.
“Eat some of that,” he murmured. “The duck is not nearly as bad as it looks, and it’ll make you feel better.”
She didn’t look at him, but her body stiffened. “I am fine.”
Stubborn girl. “I’m sure you are,” he replied easily. “But you were as white as a sheet in the church—for a while, you were even green. I can’t tell you how it shattered my bridegroom’s nerves. Indulge me now and have a bite.”
Her mouth curved a little, and she ate a small piece of the duck. “Is everything you say in jest?”
“Nearly everything. I know it’s tedious, but there it is.” He motioned to a footman, and the man bent near. “Please refill the viscountess’s wineglass.”
“Thank you,” she murmured when the man had poured more wine. “It’s not, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“Your jesting.” She looked
Ah, well, he was finally married, and perhaps he should lay aside cynicism and look no further than that fact. Yesterday, whilst riding toward London, he’d begun to wonder if he’d left off returning for too long. What if Miss Fleming had grown weary of being ignored? What if she didn’t even bother showing up at the church to give him his congé? He’d been detained in Oxfordshire far longer than he’d planned. There always seemed to be something more to delay his return there—another field his land steward wanted to show him, a road that badly needed repair, and, if he was honest with himself, the very steadiness of his fiancée’s gaze. She seemed to see right through him with those tilted brown eyes, seemed to look beyond his surface laughter and saw what he hid in the depths of his soul. At Lady Eddings’s musicale, when he’d turned and saw Melisande Fleming watching him and Matthew Horn, he’d had a moment of stark terror—fear that she knew what they talked about.
But she didn’t know. Jasper took a swallow of ruby wine, reassured on that point. She didn’t know what had happened at Spinner’s Falls, and she would never know if, with God’s grace, he could help it.
“Jolly good wedding, what?” an elderly gentleman leaned forward to shout down the table.
Jasper hadn’t a notion who the gentleman was—must be a relative of his bride’s—but he grinned and raised his wineglass to the fellow. “Thank you, sir. I rather enjoyed it myself.”
The gentleman winked hideously. “Enjoy the wedding night more, what? I say, enjoy the wedding night more! Ha!”
He was so taken with his own wit that he nearly lost his gray wig laughing.
The elderly lady sitting across from the gentleman rolled her eyes and said, “That’s quite enough, William.”
Beside him, Jasper felt his bride still, and he cursed under his breath. Some of the color had finally returned to her cheeks. She’d gone quite white at the ceremony, and he’d prepared himself to catch her should she faint. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d stood like a soldier before a firing squad and grimly recited her marriage vows. Not quite the expression a bridegroom hoped for on his bride on her wedding day, but he’d learned not to be particular after the last fiasco.
Jasper raised his voice. “Will you tell us the story of your own wedding, sir? I feel we shall be quite entertained.”
“He doesn’t remember,” the old lady said before her husband could recover enough to speak. “He was so drunk he fell asleep afore he even came to bed!”
The guests within earshot roared.
“Aw, Bess!” the elderly man shouted above the laughter. “You know I was plumb worn out from chasing you.” He turned to the young lady beside him, eager to recount his memories. “Courted her for nigh on four years and . . .”
Jasper gently replaced his wineglass and glanced at his bride. Miss Fleming— Melisande —was pushing her food into neat piles on her plate.
“Eat some of that,” he murmured. “The duck is not nearly as bad as it looks, and it’ll make you feel better.”
She didn’t look at him, but her body stiffened. “I am fine.”
Stubborn girl. “I’m sure you are,” he replied easily. “But you were as white as a sheet in the church—for a while, you were even green. I can’t tell you how it shattered my bridegroom’s nerves. Indulge me now and have a bite.”
Her mouth curved a little, and she ate a small piece of the duck. “Is everything you say in jest?”
“Nearly everything. I know it’s tedious, but there it is.” He motioned to a footman, and the man bent near. “Please refill the viscountess’s wineglass.”
“Thank you,” she murmured when the man had poured more wine. “It’s not, you know.”
“What isn’t?”
“Your jesting.” She looked
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