West sat up straighter. “I wasn’t aware that I was marrying into a political family.”

“Mr. Chandler is to become a senator.”

“He didn’t mention it to me in our meeting the other day.”

“He’s very modest.”

Or, Mr. Chandler had no political ambitions, and his wife was pushing him into the public arena. West thought that far more likely.

“Will marrying a British duke increase your husband’s chances?” asked Belinda. “I thought Americans sometimes held a less-than-flattering opinion of our nobility.”

“They may profess to, but our society in Boston emulates yours down to the most finicky details. When my daughter is a duchess, everyone will know her name, and not only in Boston.”

Perhaps West should have done more digging into the Chandler family ambitions before he agreed to marry. Too late now. They said never to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Not that his fiancée was in any way equine. She was a very attractive woman. Very artfully arranged. Her hair braided and pinned into an elaborate bow atop her head, ringlets hanging down on the sides of her face. Very vivacious and animated. Every coquettish tilt of her head, every shrug of her shoulders that lifted her breasts, every move she made was calculated to inspire adulation.

Her clothing was all shining silk, layers of lace, and little bows everywhere. The fashions for women these days seemed designed to make them appear as though they were Venus, emerging from a frothing pile of lace and silk, instead of an ocean.

Miss Beaton didn’t follow the fashion. She was a young lady of reduced circumstances. Her father had squandered his money and hadn’t composed anything new in years. She couldn’t afford layers of lace. Somehow, he couldn’t picture her wanting to wear such frills. Her adorable dimples, the natural curl to her hair (what he could see of it under those silly caps she wore), the musical way she spoke, and the rolling melody of her walk . . . those were the only ornaments she required, and he’d balk if she ever wore more than two ribbons.

What Miss Beaton wore, or didn’t wear, was no business of his.

Miss Beaton not wearing anything. Now that was a thought to inspire a man to . . .

“Your Grace.”

He reentered the room, giving himself a mental shake. “Mrs. Chandler.”

“I wanted your opinion on the flavor of ices to serve at the wedding breakfast. It will be summertime and the guests will want a cooling refreshment.”

Why was there all this fuss about weddings? All that was required was a chapel and a bishop. “Something sugary. Conduct the wedding however you please. Tell me where and when it will occur, and I’ll be there.”

“I’ve always been partial to lemon or Seville orange–flavored ices,” Birdie said.