Читать книгу The Inconvenient Duchess - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 9
ОглавлениеThe vicar was shaking his head dourly and Marcus slipped the explanatory letter off the blotter and towards him. ‘As you can see, I was just writing to you to invite you to the house so we could resolve this situation.’ His lips thinned as he fought to contain the rest of the thought.
Of course I needn’t have bothered. You hitched up the carriage and were on your way here as soon as the sun rose. Come to see the storm damage, have you, vicar? Meddling old fool. You’ve come to see the girl and you’re hoping for the worst.
The vicar looked sympathetic, but couldn’t disguise the sanctimonious smile as he spoke. ‘Most unfortunate. A most unfortunate turn of events. Of course, you realise what your duty is in this situation, to prevent talk in the village and to protect the young lady’s reputation.’
A duty that could have been prevented yesterday, if you actually cared a jot for the girl or for silencing talk.
‘Yes,’ he responded mildly. ‘I discussed it with Miranda yesterday and we are in agreement. It only remains to arrange the ceremony.’
The vicar nodded. ‘Your mother would have been most pleased.’
‘Would she, now?’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Hmm, yes. She mentioned as much on my last visit to her.’
‘Mentioned Miranda, did she?’
He nodded again. ‘Yes. She said that a match between you was in the offing. It was her fondest hope—’
‘Damn.’
‘Your Grace. There’s no need—’
‘This was all neatly arranged, wasn’t it? My mother’s hand from beyond the grave, shoving that poor girl down the road to ruin, and you and your wife looking the other way while it happened.’ He leaned forward and the vicar leaned back.
‘Your Grace, I hardly think—’
‘You hardly do, that’s for certain. Suppose I am as bad as my mother made me out to be? Then you would have thrown the girl’s honour away in the hope that I would agree to this madness. Suppose I had been from home when she arrived? Suppose it had been just St John here to greet her? Do you honestly think he would be so agreeable?’ He was on the verge of shouting again. He paused to gain control and his next words were a cold and contemptuous whisper. ‘Or would you have brushed that circumstance under the rug and rushed her back out of town, instead of trumpeting the girl’s location around the village so that everyone would know and my obligation would be clear?’
‘That does not signify. Fortunately, we have only the situation at hand to deal with.’
‘Which leaves me married to a stranger chosen by my mother.’
He was nodding again, but without certainty. ‘Hmm, well...under the circumstances it would be best to act expediently. The banns—’
‘Are far from expedient, as I remember. We dispensed with them the last time. A special licence.’
‘If you send to London today, then perhaps by next week...’
‘And I suppose you will spirit the girl away to your house for a week, until the paperwork catches up with the plotting. Really, Reverend, you and my mother should have planned this better. Perhaps you should have forged my name on the application a month ago and we could have settled this today. You needn’t have involved me in the decision at all.’ He thought for a moment and stared coldly at the priest. ‘This is how we will proceed. You will perform the ceremony today, and I will go off to London tomorrow for the licence.’
‘But that would be highly improper.’
‘But it would ensure I need never see your face in my house again, and that suits me well. If you cared for impropriety, you should have seen to it yesterday, when you met Miranda on her way here. When I come back with the licence I will have a servant bring it to you and you can fill in whatever dates you choose and sign the bloody thing. But this morning you will see the young lady and myself married before the eyes of God in the family chapel.’
His head was shaking now in obvious disapproval. ‘Hmm. Well, that would hardly be legitimate.’
‘Not legal, perhaps, but certainly moral. And morality is what you are supposed to concern yourself with. If you don’t question the fact that you coerced me into taking her, then do not waste breath telling me my behaviour is improper. Open the prayer book and say the words, take yourself and your bullying harpy of a wife away from this house and leave me in peace. Now go to the chapel and prepare for the ceremony. Miranda and I will be there shortly.’
The vicar hemmed and harrumphed his way out of the study, not happy, but apparently willing to follow Marcus’s plan without further objections. A generous gratuity after the ceremony would go a long way towards smoothing any remaining ruffled feathers and soon the scandal of his new marriage would fade away as though there had been nothing unusual about it.
His mind was at rest on one point, at least. The interview with the vicar exonerated Miranda of any blame for the unusual and scandalous way she had appeared on his doorstep. She had hoped to make a match, but there was no evidence that she had tried to trap him by ruining herself. There was no reason to believe that she was anything other than what she appeared to be.
Unless she was dishonoured before she arrived at his home.
The letters from the mysterious Cecily said otherwise. They said she was innocent. But, of course, they would. No sane person would send a letter, claiming that the girl was a trollop but had a good heart. He struggled with the thought, trying to force it from his mind. He was well and truly bound to her by oath and honour, whatever the condition of her reputation.
But not by law. Until his name was on the licence he was not tying a knot that could not be untied, should the truth come to light soon. He would watch the girl and find what he could of the truth before it was too late. And he would protect her while she was in his home; make sure he was not worsening an already bad situation. He rang the bell for Wilkins and demanded that he summon St John to the study.
* * *
After a short time, his brother lounged into the room with the same contempt and insolence that he always displayed when they were alone together. ‘As always your servant, your Grace.’
‘Spare me the false subservience for once, St John.’
St John smirked at him. ‘You don’t appreciate me when I do my utmost to show respect for you, Haughleigh. It is, alas, so hard to please the peer.’
‘As you make a point of telling me, whenever we speak. You can call a truce for just one day. Today you will grant me the honour due a duke, and the master of this house.’ He was close to shouting again. His plan to appeal to him as a brother was scuttled before he had a chance to act on it. To hell with his quick temper and St John’s ability to reduce him to a towering rage without expending any energy.
‘Very well, Marcus.’ The name sounded as false and contemptible as his title always did when it came from his brother’s lips. ‘A truce, but only for a day. Consider it my wedding gift to you.’
‘It is about the wedding that I meant to talk to you, St John.’
‘Oh, really?’ There was the insolent quirk of the eyebrows that he had grown to loathe. ‘Is there anything you need advice on? I’d assumed that the vicar would give you the speech on the duties of the husband. Or that perhaps you recalled some of them, after Bethany. But, remembering your last marriage, I could see where you might come to me for advice.’
Marcus’s fist slammed down on the desk as though he had no control. ‘How dare you, St John? Damn you for speaking of Bethany, today of all days.’
‘Why not, Marcus? She is never far from my mind. Just because you wish to forget her does not mean that I will.’
He flexed his hands and pushed away the image of them closing on St John’s windpipe, and then placed them carefully on the blotter. ‘You promised a truce and I see how quickly you forget it. Let us pretend for a moment, St John, that you have any honour left as it pertains to this house.’
‘Very well, brother. One last game of “Let’s Pretend”, as we played when we were little. And what are we pretending, pray tell?’
‘That you are planning to go willingly from this house, today, and that it will not be necessary for me to have the servants evict you.’
‘Go? From this house? Why ever would I do that, Marcus?’
‘Because you hate it here as much as I do. And you hate me. There. There are two good reasons. I must remain here to face what memories there are. As you are quick to point out to me, whenever we are alone, I am the Duke of Haughleigh. And now I am to be married, and chances are good that I will soon have a son to inherit. There is no reason for you to wait in the house for me to break my neck on the stairs and leave you the title and the entail. I am certain that, should the happy accident you are waiting for occur before a son arrives, my wife will notify you and you can return.’
‘You are right, Marcus. I do hate you, and this house. But I have grown quite fond of Miranda.’
‘In the twelve hours you have known her.’
‘I have spent more time with her during those hours than you have, Marcus. While you were busy playing lord of the manor and issuing commands, I was stealing a march. And now, I should find it quite hard to part myself from my dear little sister, for that is how I view her.’ The smile on his face was deceptively innocent. Marcus knew it well.
‘You will view her, if at all, from a distance.’ Marcus reached into the desk drawer and removed a leather purse that clanked with gold when he threw it out on to the desktop. ‘You will go today, and take my purse with you. You need not even stop in your room to pack, for Wilkins is already taking care of that. Your things will be on the way to the inn within the hour.’
‘You think of everything, don’t you, Marcus? Except, of course, what you will do if I refuse to accede to your command.’
‘Oh, St John, I’ve thought of that as well.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You can leave for the inn immediately, and from there to points distant. Or you can leave feet foremost for a position slightly to the left of Mother. The view from the spot I plan for you is exceptional, although you will no longer be able to enjoy it.’
‘Fratricide? You have become quite the man of action in the ten years we’ve been parted, Marcus.’
‘Or a duel, if you have the nerve. The results will be the same, I assure you. I can only guess how you’ve spent the intervening years, but I’ve studied with the best fencing masters in Italy, and am a crack shot. I’ve allowed you a period of mourning and have made what efforts I could to mend the breach between us and put the past to rest. It has been an abject failure. After today, you are no longer welcome in my home, St John. If you do not leave willingly, I will remove you myself.’
‘Afraid, Marcus?’
‘Of you? Certainly not.’ He shifted in his chair, trying to disguise the tension building within him.
‘Of the past coming back to haunt you, I think.’
‘Not afraid, St John. But not the naïve young man I once was. There is no place for you here. What is your decision?’
St John leaned an indolent hand forward and pulled the purse to himself. ‘How could I refuse your generosity, Marcus? I will say hello to all the old gang in London, and buy them a drink in honour of you and your lovely new wife.’
Marcus felt his muscles relax and tried not to let his breath expel in a relieved puff. ‘You have chosen wisely, St John.’
* * *
Miranda waited politely as Mrs Winslow and Polly examined the gown. ‘But it’s grey.’ Mrs Winslow’s disappointment was obvious.
‘It seemed a serviceable choice at the time.’ Miranda’s excuse was as limp as the lace that trimmed the gown.
‘My dear, common sense is all well and good, but this is your wedding day. Have you nothing more appropriate? This gown appears more suitable—’
‘For mourning?’ Miranda supplied. ‘Well, yes. My own dear mother...’
Had been dead for thirteen years. But what Mrs Winslow did not know would not hurt her. And if the death seemed more recent, it explained the dress. The gown in question had, in fact, been Cici’s mourning dress, purchased fifteen years’ distant, after the death of a Spanish count. While full mourning black might have been more appropriate, Cici had chosen dove grey silk, not wanting to appear unavailable for long. It had taken some doing to shorten the bodice and lengthen the skirt to fit Miranda, but they’d done a creditable job by adding a ruffle at the hem.
‘Your mother? You poor dear. But you’re well out of mourning now?’
‘Of course. But I’ve had little time to buy new things.’ Or money, she added to herself.
‘Well, now that the duke will be looking after you, I’m sure that things will be looking up. And for now, this must do.’ Mrs Winslow looked at her curiously. ‘Before your mother died...did she...?’ She took a deep breath. ‘There are things that every young woman must know. Before she marries. Certain facts that will make the first night less of a...a shock.’
Miranda bit her lip. It was better not to reveal how much she knew on the subject of marital relations. Cici’s lectures had been informative, if unorthodox, and had given her an unladylike command of the details. ‘Thank you for your concern, Mrs Winslow.’
‘Are you aware...there are differences in the male and the female...?’
‘Yes,’ she answered a little too quickly. ‘I helped...nursing...charity work.’ Much could be explained by charity work, she hoped.
‘Then you have seen...’ Mrs Winslow took a nervous sip of tea.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Well, not good, precisely. But at least you will not be surprised.’ She rushed on, ‘And the two genders fit together where there are differences, and the man plants a seed and that is where babies come from. Do you understand?’
Cici had made it clear enough, but she doubted that Mrs Winslow’s description was of much use to the uninitiated. ‘I...’
‘Never mind,’ the woman continued. ‘I dare say the duke knows well enough how to proceed. You must trust him in all things. However, the duke...is a very—’ words failed her again ‘—vigorous man.’
‘Vigorous?’
‘In his prime. Robust. And the men in his family are reported to have healthy appetites. Too healthy, some might say.’ She sniffed in disapproval.
Miranda looked at the vicar’s wife with what she hoped was an appropriately confused expression, and did not have to feign the blush colouring her cheeks.
‘And the baby that his first wife was delivering when she died was said to be exceptionally large. A difficult birth. He will, of course, insist on an heir. But if his demands seem excessive after the birth of the first child...many women find...a megrim, perhaps. A small lie is not a major sin when it gains a tired woman an occasional night of peace.’
* * *
Miranda stood at the back of the chapel, waiting for the man who was to seal her destiny. When the knock had sounded at her door, she’d expected the duke, but had been surprised to see St John, holding a small bouquet out to her and offering to accompany her to the chapel. The gown she’d finally chosen for the wedding was not the silk, but her best day dress, and, if he thought to make a comment on the state of it, it didn’t show. It had looked much better in the firelight as she’d altered it. Here in Devon, in the light of day, the sorriness of it was plainly apparent to anyone that cared to look. The hem of Cici’s green cotton gown had been let down several inches to accommodate her long legs, and the crease of the old hem was clearly visible behind the unusually placed strip of lace meant to conceal it. The ruffles, cut from the excess fabric of the bodice when she’d taken it in, and added to the ends of the sleeves, did not quite match, and the scrap of wilted lace at their ends made the whole affair look not so much cheerful as pathetic.
‘There now, mouse. Don’t look so glum, although I could see where a long talk with the vicar’s wife might not put you in the mood to smile. Did she explain to you your wifely duties?’
She blushed at St John’s boldness. ‘After a fashion. And then she quizzed me about my parents, and about the last twenty-four hours. And she assured me that whatever you might have done to me, if I felt the need to flee, they would take me in, and ask no questions.’
His laugh rang against the vaulted ceiling and the vicar and his wife looked back in disapproval. ‘And God does not strike them down for their lies when they say they wouldn’t question you. At least my brother and I make no bones about our wicked ways. They cloak their desire to hear the salacious story of your seduction in an offer of shelter.’
‘My what?’
‘They hope for the worst, my dear. If you were to burst into tears at the altar and plead for rescue, you will fulfil all of their wildest dreams and surmises.’
‘St John.’ She frowned her disapproval.
‘Or better yet, you could fall weeping to my arms and let me carry you away from this place, as my brother rages. I would be delighted to oblige.’
‘As if that would not make my reputation.’
‘Ah, but what a reputation. To be seduced away from your wedding by the duke’s roguishly handsome younger brother and carried off somewhere. Oh, but I see I’m upsetting you.’ He pointed up to the window above the altar, where the bleeding head of St John the Baptist rested in stained glass. ‘I don’t know what my mother was thinking of, naming me for a saint. If it was to imbue me with piousness and virtue, it didn’t work.’
‘Was the window commissioned in your honour, then?’
‘Can you not see the resemblance?’ He tilted his head to the side, tongue lolling out of his mouth and eyes rolled to show the whites. And, despite herself, she laughed.
‘No, it’s an old family name, and the window was commissioned after some particularly reprehensible St John before me. Probably lost his head over a woman, the poor soul.’ He touched his blond hair and admitted, ‘There is a slight resemblance, though. Most of the art in this room was made to look like family. It is my brother who looks more like my mother’s indiscretion than my father’s first child.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she remarked, pointing at a marble statue. ‘That scowling martyr in the corner could well be him. See the profile?’
St John laughed. ‘No, my brother was never named from the bible. He was named for a Roman dictator. Quite fitting, really.’
‘What are you doing still here?’ St John was right. It was an imperious voice, and its owner did nothing to hide the contempt in it as he spoke to his brother.
‘You needed witnesses for this little party, Marcus. And how could I miss my brother’s wedding?’
‘You could miss it because I ordered you to,’ growled Marcus. ‘I believe I told you to vacate your rooms and be off this morning.’
‘But you meant after the ceremony, certainly. I doubted you’d allow me as best man, but surely someone must give the bride away.’
She frowned. She’d already been given away, certain enough. She didn’t need any presence of her father to remind her of that.
‘And I suppose that is why, when I went to Miranda’s chamber to fetch her, I found it empty.’
‘Dashed bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.’
‘For you as well as me.’ There was a murderous tone in her future husband’s voice.
‘Please, your Grace,’ she interceded. ‘Would it be so wrong of St John to stay for just one more hour, if I wish it so?’
‘If you wish.’ The short phrase seemed as though it was being wrenched from the heart of him. The duke pointed down the aisle and towards the altar and muttered to his brother, ‘If you insist on being party to this against my specific instructions, then try my patience no further. Walk her to the altar and we can commence.’
St John linked his arm with hers and set off on the short walk to the front of the chapel at a leisurely pace, with Marcus a step behind. She could feel him behind her in a cloud of irritation as thick as incense. St John twitched next to her as his brother’s hand prodded him to speed up.
‘In a rush, Marcus? I could see why, of course, with such a lovely bride awaiting you. But we must try to respect the solemnity to the occasion. No need to race up the aisle, is there?’
‘Just walk.’ He almost spat the words. She was afraid to turn and face him, but could already guess his expression. It was the one he got right before he began to swear.
They reached the front of the chapel and the vicar looked down at them with a beneficent smile. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God, and the face of this congregation...’ He faltered as he looked out over the empty pews and a snort escaped from St John.
His voice rose and fell monotonously. ‘...nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly...’
She bit her lip. Taken into unadvisedly, indeed. What could be considered unadvisable about this?
‘...let him speak now, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
There was a loud and disapproving sniff from the vicar’s wife in the front pew, to fill the dramatic pause.
He turned back to them. ‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment...’
Dear God, forgive me for what I am doing today. I swear that I will be a good and faithful servant to this man, she prayed fervently. And do not punish me for the secrets in my heart, for I swore to keep them. It was wrong, I know, but I swore to Cici and to my father...
She felt her husband’s hand tighten on hers even as she was praying. Without realising it, he had pulled her closer to him and she leaned against his arm, which was as solid as a marble pillar. Perhaps this was some sort of sign, his strength guarding and upholding her as she faced her fears.
The vicar led them through the vows, the duke answering with a firm, ‘I will’, and maintaining the grip on her arm that inspired her to manage the same.
He plighted his troth with equal confidence, although his eyes barely flickered in her direction as he said the words, and she promised ‘to love, cherish, and obey’.
Then the vicar called for the ring, and the duke looked down at her with a dazed expression, clearly having forgotten. He glanced once at an amused St John, then slipped the signet from his own finger and handed it to the vicar to bless. When he muttered, ‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow’, his voice was a self-conscious apology for everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. And he kissed the ring once before slipping it on to her finger.
He folded her fingers into a loose fist to keep the ring from slipping off and for a moment she felt as though she had trapped the kiss in her palm and could feel the warmth of it seeping through her.
The vicar droned the ceremony to its conclusion and she clung to the kiss in her hand. Cici had been correct all along. It was going to be all right. He might be gruff, but there was a tenderness in the way he’d said the vows and made her believe the words, and supported her when she was afraid, and given her his ring.
Then it was over, and her hand was firmly trapped in the crook of her husband’s arm as they turned to accept the congratulations of the congregation. All two of them.
The vicar’s wife sniffed politely and allowed that it had been a lovely ceremony, such as it was, and wished them happiness in a tone that stated she thought the chances of it were remote.
St John’s smile was as bright as ever, if a trifle sad. He clasped his brother’s hand, and Marcus accepted stiffly. ‘Good luck, Marcus. Once again you have more good fortune than you deserve.’ He turned to her. ‘Miranda, dear sister.’ He reached out to grip her hands as well and said, ‘I must be going this afternoon, as my brother wishes. But if there is ever anything I can do for you, the innkeeper in the village will know where to reach me. And now—’ his eyes sparkled ‘—let me be the first to kiss the bride.’
And before his brother could object, although she saw the storm gathering in his eyes, St John’s lips had come down quickly to buss her own. It was sweet and harmless, and she couldn’t help but smile at his impertinence.
‘St John, I believe it is time for you to be going. Long past time, as a matter of fact. And you...’ He looked down at her and she realised again how massive a man he was and shrank away from him, but he pulled her close. ‘You must learn to take care whom you kiss, madam.’
He stared into her eyes and his own grew dark. She was lost in them, paralysed with nerves and anticipation. Then his mouth covered hers and his hand went to the back of her neck, stroking her hair and sending shivers down her spine. Despite herself, she relaxed and leaned against him, running her hands under his lapels to feel the solidity of his body, letting it support her as his other hand slipped to her waist.
This was wrong. It must be. The ideas rising within her had no place in a chapel. She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue dipped into it, stroking her tongue and thrusting again, simulating... And she felt the feeling rushing through her in a great shudder.
She fought for control of her emotions. Dear God, no. She mustn’t respond so. What must he think? She pulled herself out of his arms and stood back, staring up at him in shock. He smiled down at her, one eyebrow raised in surprise. And then he turned away, staring past her at St John’s retreating back.
