little boy wriggling in Amanda’s arms. The always dour Prime Minister Gladstone. A grim-faced Napoleon III, badly reduced in health after his recent defeat by the Prussians. Her brothers and sisters: Affie, then Alice and Vicky with their noble spouses. A predictably bored-looking Arthur, always solemn Lenchen, and young, fidgety Leo. Bertie’s lovely Danish wife, Alix, clasped a hand over each of their two little boys to keep them quiet.
Louise lifted her gaze to the raised box to her left where she knew her mother would be seated. Beatrice, youngest of Louise’s eight siblings, sat close by the queen, gazing down wide-eyed at the ceremony. Victoria herself, a plump figure in black mourning muslin ten years after her husband’s death, her grim costume relieved only by the rubies and blues of the Order of the Garter star clipped over her left breast, looked down on the wedding party as though a goddess from Mount Olympus.
They’d all come to witness Louise’s union with the striking young man waiting for her at the chapel’s altar. The Marquess of Lorne. John Douglas Sutherland Campbell. A stranger to her in many ways, yet soon to be her wedded mate. Beside him stood his kinsmen in striking Campbell-green kilts, sword scabbards strapped to hips, hats cocked forward.
Louise felt an almost equal urge to rush into her intended’s arms . . . and to turn around and run back out through the chapel doors. Into the fresh spring air, breaking through the crowd to escape down Windsor’s famous Long Walk and into the countryside. To freedom.
But was that even a possibility now?
All of the country had lapped up news of her betrothal as eagerly as a cat does cream. Hadn’t the newspapers been chock full of personal details for months? The chaperoned carriage rides through Hyde Park. The elaborate French menu for the wedding feast. Everything—from the details of her gown to advertisements placed by a London perfume manufacturer announcing their newest fragrance, Love-Lorne—had been gossiped about in and outside of the court.
And then all of that fled her mind as Bertie deposited her before the archbishop and beside Lorne. Her husband-to-be stood breathtakingly handsome in his dark blue dress uniform of the Royal Argyllshire Artillery with its bits of gold braid, burnished buttons, and shining black leather boots that shaped his long legs to above the knees. A silver-hilted sword hung from the wide black patent belt that encircled his narrow waist. His hair, a glorious pale blond mane brushed back from his face, long enough to feather over his collar, looked slightly risqué and tempted her fingertips.
He took her hand in his. At his touch, she finally settled inside herself.
During the ceremony Louise was aware of her bridegroom’s eyes turning frequently to her. She did her best to meet his gaze, to bring a little smile to her lips and hope that some of it slipped into her eyes for him. Like her, he had blue eyes. But while hers were a soft shade, the mesmerizing sapphire brilliance of the young marquess’s eyes never failed to startle people on meeting him for the first time. He was a Scot, one of her mother’s northern subjects. When his father passed, he would become the Duke of Argyll. A minor title, but better than none at all in her mother’s view. For Louise’s part, titles were of no consequence. They marked a man as neither good nor bad, kind nor cruel, rich nor poor.
She had every reason to believe they’d get along well, even though they’d not once been left alone together. Still, their escorts had been discreet, allowing them to speak freely. Lorne had even shyly kissed her on the cheek, last night. In time, they might fall in love. She’d like that. And even if they didn’t, he would give her the children she so longed for. Life was full of compromises.
The archbishop was speaking in that singsong voice of his that was at once soft yet somehow carried to the very back of the grandest church. Louise let the words wash over her, a warm and calming stream. She daydreamed of her honeymoon—Lorne making tender love to her, his soft hands opening her gown to touch the places on her body that most longed for his caresses. And she would discover ways to please him.
The images in her mind brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. She raised her eyelashes shyly to glance up at him in anticipation.