The church was in a small, quiet lane. Marylebone was almost in the country, and the air was cleaner, the sound of birdsong more easily heard. Bella jumped down from the coach first, and Juliana gathered up her skirts, praying that she would manage this maneuver without disaster. It would be typical of her luck to catch her heel on the footstep and tumble headfirst to the ground.
But the duke appeared in the open doorway. He was looking grave and held out his hand to assist her.
Juliana took the hand and managed to extricate herself and her skirts through the narrow aperture without mishap. "Where's your cousin?"
"Waiting at the altar." He straightened her veil with a deft twitch.
"Do I pass muster, my lord duke?" She couldn't manage to keep the sting from her voice, but he merely nodded.
"You look just as I expected." While she was still trying to decide whether that was a compliment or not, he had tucked her hand into his arm. "Ready?"
As I'll ever be. Juliana lifted her head boldly and faced the open church door. Bella, with an air of great self-importance, bent to straighten the bride's skirts, then solemnly stood back and watched, dabbing a tear from her eye as the Duke of Redmayne and Juliana disappeared through the church doors to meet her bridegroom.
Lucien, standing at the altar with Quentin, looked impatiently toward the door, shuffling his feet on the cold stone. Lawyer Copplethwaite sat in the front pew, staring intently into the middle distance. The elderly priest flicked nervously through the pages of the prayer book as if looking for the right section.
"I can't think why you wouldn't officiate yourself," Lucien muttered. "Keep it in the family."
Quentin's face was carved in granite. "I'd not commit such sacrilege," he responded in a clipped whisper, wondering why he was there at all. Except that he had never been able to refuse his brother anything. And he felt a compulsion to stand by the girl. She was in need of a friend, however much Tarquin might swear that she would not be hurt . . . would indeed only be better off by lending herself to his scheme.
He turned toward the door as the couple entered the dim nave, Juliana a shimmer of white against the duke's dark red.
"Tall, isn't she? Quite the Long Meg." Lucien observed in an undertone. "Hope she's not some hatchet-face into the bargain. Don't want to be the laughingstock of town."
Quentin's mouth tightened, and his fingers closed over the simple band of gold in his pocket. The bride and her escort reached the altar, and Quentin nudged Lucien to step forward. Juliana, still on the duke's arm, stepped up beside him. Quentin could detect no hesitation in her manner, but he could see nothing of her face beneath the veil.
Juliana peered through her veil at her bridegroom. Her first impression was of a curiously shrunken figure, hunched and hollow-chested. She felt very tall and robust beside him. It gave her a comforting sense of advantage. She couldn't see his face too clearly, but his pallor struck her powerfully-the dead whiteness of a fish's underbelly. And his eyes were just sockets, deep-set, burning holes as he glanced incuriously at her when the priest began the service. A little prickle of apprehension lifted her scalp, and without volition she turned toward the duke on her other side. He placed his hand on hers as it rested on his arm and smiled reassuringly.
Juliana licked suddenly dry lips. How would she feel at this moment if she were marrying the Duke of Redmayne? Not apprehensive, certainly. It could surely be said that she knew all there was to know about him already.
She wasn't marrying him, but she was inextricably twining her life with his. He intended to be the father of her child. How much closer could two people get? Much closer than any counterfeit marriage could afford. The idea gave her courage, and she heard herself make her responses in a clear, firm voice.
Lord Quentin handed his cousin the ring. Only then did the duke remove the support of his arm from Juliana. She extended her hand. It was not quite steady, but not as shaky as it might have been. The viscount's fingers, however, trembled almost uncontrollably as he tried to slide the ring on her finger. He cursed savagely, muttering that it was deuced early in the day and he needed a drink to steady him. The undertone readied the priest, nervously nodding and smiling as he oversaw the ritual. He looked shocked and uttered a faint protest as the fumbling continued.
The duke moved swiftly. In the blink of an eye he had taken the ring from Lucien and slipped it onto the bride's finger. The priest, still clearly shocked, pronounced them man and wife in a quavering voice.
"Thank God that's over," Lucien declared as soon as the priest's voice had faded into the shadows. "Am I to be vouchsafed a look at this wife of mine?"
"Sir … I beg you . . . must you . . ." But Lucien ignored the stammering, violated priest and reached for Juliana's veil with his violently shaking hands. He threw it back and then surveyed her critically in the gloom.
"Better than I expected," he commented. "I need a drink. I bid you join me, madam wife, in a toast to this auspicious event." With a mocking bow he proffered his arm.
He was dressed impeccably and lavishly in emerald-and-gold brocade, but Juliana shuddered at the thought of touching him. Some infection seemed to emanate from him, from his caved-in chest and his thin shoulders, his burning eyes and ghastly green-white complexion. Like some graveyard maggot, she thought, feeling queasy. Some loathsome, crawling inhabitant of the tombs. He was supposed to be sick. But what could he have that would waste him so, would produce this waft of corruption, as if he were rotting from within?
Juliana's eyes darted in almost frantic appeal to Quentin, then up at the duke, as she hesitated. "I imagine we would all like some refreshment." Quentin said before Tarquin could move. "Come, my dear." He took her hand, tucked it under his arm, and Viscountess Edgecombe walked back down the aisle after her wedding on the arm of her husband's cousin. Her husband lounged after them, taking snuff, and Tarquin moved into the sacrist, with the priest and Lawyer Copplethwaite, to settle the business side of the ceremony.
Outside Juliana breathed deeply of the sultry air and forced herself to look again at her husband. In the bright sunshine his color looked even worse. The greenish skin was stretched taut on his skull, showing every bone and hollow. He looked as old as Methuselah and as young as Juliana herself. Suddenly he doubled over with a violent coughing fit, his thin chest heaving, perspiration gathering on his brow. She gazed in sympathetic horror while he coughed as if he would vomit up his lungs.
"Can't we do something?" she said to Quentin, who was standing beside her, his face tight and furious.
"No," he said shortly. "He needs cognac."
"What is the matter with him?" she whispered. "The duke said he was ill . . . but what is it?"
"He didn't tell you?" Quentin's eyes flashed with anger, and he looked remarkably like his half brother.
"Didn't tell her what?" Tarquin's voice came from the church steps behind. He glanced at the still-convulsed Lucien, then came down the last step.
"The child does not know what ails her husband," Quentin said harshly. "For shame, Tarquin!"
"Juliana will have nothing to do with Lucien, so what does it matter to her what ails him?" Tarquin said, drawing out his snuffbox. "Your husband is riddled with the pox, mignonne. But I promise he will not lay so much as a finger upon you."