His gaze ran over her slowly, like a warm caress. “And that dress . . .” Her mouth dried. Her skin felt suddenly hot and tight.

“Y-yes?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. How could a look affect her as potently as a touch?

“It’s stunning. You look glorious.”

Glorious? “You don’t mind the color?”

“I gather it was in the nature of a statement.” For whom, he didn’t specify.

Dumbfounded by his calm acceptance—and his understanding of her reasons—and distracted by the confusion of her feelings—she just nodded.

“The color suits you wonderfully. Much better than those whites and pastels you usually wear.”

“I hate wearing white, but Aunt Agatha insisted.” She mimicked the old lady’s dry pedantic tone. “Do not argue with me, Georgiana. All young unmarried gels—decent, highborn gels, I mean—wear white.”

He laughed. “I can imagine it.” He actually laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before. Who was this man?

She’d almost bolted at the church door, not because she had second thoughts about marrying him but because she didn’t want him to think the dress was aimed at him.

Her anger with him had drained away long ago. The duke wasn’t responsible for all the nasty gossip. He might have caused it—some of it; she was also responsible. But though the spite and vitriol had been directed solely at her, he had stepped up to support her.

But she’d ordered the dress in a fury, and even afterward, she’d wanted to make a stand. And so she had. And had been prepared for the backlash.

His face as she’d walked down the aisle—she’d never forget the expression. That light in his eyes. And that moment when he’d kissed her hand—in front of the entire disapproving congregation. And then placed that kiss in the center of her palm.

Her heart had given a great big thump then and cracked wide open. It had taken all her self-control not to cry.

He’d understood, he’d actually understood what she’d been trying to say. And he’d given society the clear message that he would support her, even honor her.

She’d given him every chance to reject her and he hadn’t. Instead, he’d made a push to understand her. How rare was that? It was as if the duke saw who she really was—not simply Aunt Agatha’s conveniently unmarried great-niece, an earl’s daughter, but George, plain and simple, with all her many faults. And accepted her.

Married her.

The carriage turned a corner and for the first time George noticed where they were. “Where are we going?”

“To my house.”

“But what about the wedding breakfast?” It was to be held at Ashendon House. The servants and Emm had been working for days to arrange it all.

“We have time,” he said tranquilly.