‘In his prime. Robust. And the men in his family are reported to have healthy appetites. Too healthy, some might say.’ She sniffed in disapproval.
Miranda looked at the vicar’s wife with what she hoped was an appropriately confused expression, and did not have to feign the blush colouring her cheeks.
‘And the baby that his first wife was delivering when she died was said to be exceptionally large. A difficult birth. He will, of course, insist on an heir. But if his demands seem excessive after the birth of the first child...many women find...a megrim, perhaps. A small lie is not a major sin when it gains a tired woman an occasional night of peace.’
* * *
Miranda stood at the back of the chapel, waiting for the man who was to seal her destiny. When the knock had sounded at her door, she’d expected the duke, but had been surprised to see St John, holding a small bouquet out to her and offering to accompany her to the chapel. The gown she’d finally chosen for the wedding was not the silk, but her best day dress, and, if he thought to make a comment on the state of it, it didn’t show. It had looked much better in the firelight as she’d altered it. Here in Devon, in the light of day, the sorriness of it was plainly apparent to anyone that cared to look. The hem of Cici’s green cotton gown had been let down several inches to accommodate her long legs, and the crease of the old hem was clearly visible behind the unusually placed strip of lace meant to conceal it. The ruffles, cut from the excess fabric of the bodice when she’d taken it in, and added to the ends of the sleeves, did not quite match, and the scrap of wilted lace at their ends made the whole affair look not so much cheerful as pathetic.
‘There now, mouse. Don’t look so glum, although I could see where a long talk with the vicar’s wife might not put you in the mood to smile. Did she explain to you your wifely duties?’
She blushed at St John’s boldness. ‘After a fashion. And then she quizzed me about my parents, and about the last twenty-four hours. And she assured me that whatever you might have done to me, if I felt the need to flee, they would take me in, and ask no questions.’
His laugh rang against the vaulted ceiling and the vicar and his wife looked back in disapproval. ‘And God does not strike them down for their lies when they say they wouldn’t question you. At least my brother and I make no bones about our wicked ways. They cloak their desire to hear the salacious story of your seduction in an offer of shelter.’
‘My what?’
‘They hope for the worst, my dear. If you were to burst into tears at the altar and plead for rescue, you will fulfil all of their wildest dreams and surmises.’
‘St John.’ She frowned her disapproval.
‘Or better yet, you could fall weeping to my arms and let me carry you away from this place, as my brother rages. I would be delighted to oblige.’
‘As if that would not make my reputation.’
‘Ah, but what a reputation. To be seduced away from your wedding by the duke’s roguishly handsome younger brother and carried off somewhere. Oh, but I see I’m upsetting you.’ He pointed up to the window above the altar, where the bleeding head of St John the Baptist rested in stained glass. ‘I don’t know what my mother was thinking of, naming me for a saint. If it was to imbue me with piousness and virtue, it didn’t work.’
‘Was the window commissioned in your honour, then?’
‘Can you not see the resemblance?’ He tilted his head to the side, tongue lolling out of his mouth and eyes rolled to show the whites. And, despite herself, she laughed.
‘No, it’s an old family name, and the window was commissioned after some particularly reprehensible St John before me. Probably lost his head over a woman, the poor soul.’ He touched his blond hair and admitted, ‘There is a slight resemblance, though. Most of the art in this room was made to look like family. It is my brother who looks more like my mother’s indiscretion than my father’s first child.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she remarked, pointing at a marble statue. ‘That scowling martyr in the corner could well be him. See the profile?’
St John laughed. ‘No, my brother was never named from the bible. He was named for a Roman dictator. Quite fitting, really.’
‘What are you doing still here?’ St John was right. It was an imperious voice, and its owner did nothing to hide the contempt in it as he spoke to his brother.
‘You needed witnesses for this little party, Marcus. And how could I miss my brother’s wedding?’
‘You could miss it because I ordered you to,’ growled Marcus. ‘I believe I told you to vacate your rooms and be off this morning.’
‘But you meant after the ceremony, certainly. I doubted you’d allow me as best man, but surely someone must give the bride away.’
She frowned. She’d already been given away, certain enough. She didn’t need any presence of her father to remind her of that.
‘And I suppose that is why, when I went to Miranda’s chamber to fetch her, I found it empty.’
‘Dashed bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.’
‘For you as well as me.’ There was a murderous tone in her future husband’s voice.
‘Please, your Grace,’ she interceded. ‘Would it be so wrong of St John to stay for just one more hour, if I wish it so?’
‘If you wish.’ The short phrase seemed as though it was being wrenched from the heart of him. The duke pointed down the aisle and towards the altar and muttered to his brother, ‘If you insist on being party to this against my specific instructions, then try my patience no further. Walk her to the altar and we can commence.’
St John linked his arm with hers and set off on the short walk to the front of the chapel at a leisurely pace, with Marcus a step behind. She could feel him behind her in a cloud of irritation as thick as incense. St John twitched next to her as his brother’s hand prodded him to speed up.
‘In a rush, Marcus? I could see why, of course, with such a lovely bride awaiting you. But we must try to respect the solemnity to the occasion. No need to race up the aisle, is there?’
‘Just walk.’ He almost spat the words. She was afraid to turn and face him, but could already guess his expression. It was the one he got right before he began to swear.
They reached the front of the chapel and the vicar looked down at them with a beneficent smile. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God, and the face of this congregation...’ He faltered as he looked out over the empty pews and a snort escaped from St John.
His voice rose and fell monotonously. ‘...nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly...’
She bit her lip. Taken into unadvisedly, indeed. What could be considered unadvisable about this?
‘...let him speak now, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
There was a loud and disapproving sniff from the vicar’s wife in the front pew, to fill the dramatic pause.
He turned back to
