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“Tolerance is a fine quality in any married woman, but once married, your husband will provoke you sooner or later. You simply learn the knack of keeping your judgments to yourself—most of the time. Not that I don’t love my James, because I do, of course.”
    She fell silent, and Thea endured another spike of panic, for loving Noah Winters was difficult to imagine—assuming the wedding happened. She’d yet to find a moment to pull him aside and have a frank discussion with him. Since accepting his proposal, Thea hadn’t been alone with the duke, and now they were to be wed.
    Now, within the next couple of hours, and then their life together would begin.
    Duke and duchess.
    Man and wife.
    The two becoming one flesh.
    Gads. Thea could imagine respecting Anselm, yes, certainly, and maybe thirty or forty years from now harboring some affection for his irascible old self. But loving him? The notion was as peculiar as the idea of—what had he said?—doting on him a bit?
    Once they’d had their frank discussion, what would his reaction be? How did a lady even broach such delicate matters?
    “Can we not simplify this style?” Thea asked as her coiffure became an increasingly complicated arrangement of braids, curls, and hairpins.
    The maid aimed a commiserating look at Patience, who had been the soul of graciousness thus far.
    “It is your wedding day,” Patience said. “In olden times, you would have worn your hair down. You should have it as you wish.”
    “Down, then.” The style would surprise Thea’s groom, and any lady who’d been consigned to His Grace’s Concluded Business heap would find that notion appealing.
    When they arrived at St. George’s and Thea’s gaze met that of her prospective husband, she saw the surprise go through him, followed by that little softening of the eyes she suspected meant he was amused. His amusement was tempered by something else though, something she couldn’t quite fathom, but it inspired him not to offer his arm to her as she approached the altar, but rather to take her gloved hand in his.
    Anselm held Thea’s hand throughout those parts of the ceremony that allowed such liberties, the celebrant not daring to even raise an eyebrow. More remarkable still, when the service was concluded, Noah indulged in the modern display of kissing his bride in public. Had Thea known the duke would get up to such tricks, she might have taken evasive maneuvers, but he’d caught her unawares with another soft, almost tender kiss.
    What had she got herself into?
    “Having second thoughts, Duchess?” the duke asked as he handed her up into an enormous coach drawn by four spanking-white horses.
    To whom could he possibly be— Oh .
    “Second thoughts regarding?”
    “Our holy matrimony,” he said, helping her shift the yards of material of her wedding gown. “Why do females insist on donning such splendid finery when travel will immediately follow?”
    Thea had worn her last truly good dress. “Was that a compliment on my gown?”
    “Suppose it was.” Anselm plopped down on the seat as if he’d just rowed five miles of the Thames upstream. “Will you wear your hair down all day?”
    “I’ll do something with it before we sit down to eat.” Perhaps Thea and the duke would be given a moment’s privacy before the guests arrived, and then she’d find a way—
    “Turn a little.” He’d taken off his gloves and moved Thea by putting his hands on her bare shoulders. “Hold still.”
    Carefully, he drew off her veil and coronet, then smoothed his hands through her hair.
    “You are presuming, Your Grace.”
    “I’m tending to my bride. Who would have thought you had all this hair, so tightly do you coil it up.” Gentle tugs and twists accompanied this ducal scold to Thea’s tresses.
    “You’re braiding my hair?”
    “When a mare is ridden into the hunt field, she has her mane and tail braided. Keeps the brambles and burrs from plaguing her.”
    His Grace had a decided