With a sigh, Jane picked up her bouquet—White Roses of York and cowslips—and took her place by the king’s side. Arm in arm, they entered the great room. It was filled with people, all of them staring at her. What she wouldn’t give for a book to hide behind. She’d have brought a spare book for Edward, too, though perhaps he was more used to the attention, what with being king.
Hundreds of candles lit the great room, a line of them illuminating a path to the altar, where a priest and the groom waited. There were even more candles behind them, which made it impossible to really get a good look at her betrothed.
Together, Jane and Edward made a slow, stately march down the aisle, ignoring the murmurs about how the king seemed sickly, and how the color of her gown made her hair look court-jester red, and how odd and hasty this wedding was. Jane tried to shrink into The Gown.
Then, much too soon, they’d reached the altar and Edward took one of Jane’s hands. “To you, Lord Gifford Dudley, I give my cousin and dearest friend, Lady Jane Grey.” Before Jane’s hand was passed from one man to the other, she gave Edward a light squeeze and blinked away the tears prickling at the backs of her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. Not really.
“Thank you.” Gifford’s voice was deep, but his tone completely bland as he took Jane’s hand and helped her up the step where she stood before him at last.
She looked up. And up. And nearly crushed her wedding bouquet.
Gifford Dudley was unfairly handsome: impressively tall and well shaped around the neck and shoulders, with glossy chestnut hair tied into a short ponytail, and expressive brown eyes. And his nose. His nose. It was perfectly shaped: not too long or short, not too plump or skinny, and even the pores were discreet. There was no trace of the Dudley Nose Curse.
Praise all the gods and saints, Lord Gifford Dudley may have had an unfortunate name, but he did not have the nose. She wanted to sing. She wanted to spin around to where Edward was taking a seat in the front and tell him all about Gifford’s perfect nose.
It was a miracle. A marvel. A wonder. A relief. After all, she would be expected to kiss this man by the end of the ceremony, and the last thing she needed was to lose an eye. Then again, she might have expected he’d be free of the curse, or there would be a lot of one-eyed women in England.
The elation drained out of her.
Well, so he was handsome. Good for him. It wasn’t as though there weren’t other handsome men in the world—men who didn’t spend every night with a new woman. His perfect nose did not excuse his poor behavior.
For his part, Gifford did not seem to find her appearance remarkable. Of course not. Few did, unless they were commenting on the hair.
The wedding continued, and Jane dared a glance at the guests. Edward sat stiffly in his chair, his mouth drawn tight like he was in some kind of pain. Her mother sat with the groom’s family; Jane recognized Lord Dudley and his wife, who leaned away from each other, which did not bode well for the marriage Gifford must have grown up observing. Lady Dudley sat close to a young girl, who clutched a doll in one arm and gave a shy wave. Then there was Stan and his wife, both with stiff postures and haughty faces, and a young child between them, toddling on the pew. If Stan remembered his crass assumptions about Jane the other day, he gave no indication, but Jane allowed her eyes to narrow at him slightly as the priest began declaring the all wonders of holy matrimony.
First, true love. No danger of that here. Gifford was staring over her shoulder, a bored, put-upon look on his face. Still bitter about what he and Edward had talked about, undoubtedly.
Second, virtue. Jane snorted, drawing Looks. From her mother especially, who developed another gray hair.
Third, progeny. Jane blanched and went cold. She’d almost managed to forget about that part of marriage. Children. The making of. She would be expected to produce a child. Children. Plural. After all, Jane had no brother, which meant it would be her job to conceive heirs for the Grey estate. The fact that women often died having babies, or shortly thereafter—she was thinking of Edward’s mother, who’d lived only a few days before departing this world—was alarming enough, while having multiple children was just tempting fate multiple times. Especially considering her deficiency in the childbearing-hips department.
But even that was a worry for another time. Because as the priest droned on about the joy of children, how every child would strengthen the bond between the parents, Jane realized that tonight there would be . . .
That was, she—they—would have to . . .
Gifford looked rather stricken, too, as though the idea of the two of them . . . creating offspring had not yet occurred to him, either.
Jane clenched her jaw. So she had red hair and he preferred brunettes. Was she that unattractive that even someone as questionably virtuous as Gifford the Carouser would not want to— She couldn’t even think it. Not now. What had her mother called it?
The very special hug.