Читать книгу The Complete Regency Surrender Collection - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 44

Chapter Eleven

‘My lord, his Grace is waiting for you in the salon.’ The butler in Fanworth’s London town house announced the visitor with the barest trace of sympathy, for he knew of the strained relations between peer and heir. Stephen had hoped that his visit to the city to get a special licence would pass unnoticed. Obviously, this was not the case.

Usually, he made it a point to avoid any city where Larchmont was staying. The duke remained in London long past the point when fashionable people had quit it for summer. So of course, Stephen spent early summer in Bath. By the time Larchmont arrived to take the water and bathe his gout, Stephen would be on his way to Derbyshire again. If the duke came home for Christmas, Stephen went to London. So passed the year.

Because of his impending marriage, a temporary intersection of their schedules was inevitable. But Stephen had hoped that it would be postponed until after the ceremony when there was less the duke could do to influence matters. Still, if it occurred now, his bride might be spared the meeting with her father-in-law until the man had grown used to the idea. ‘Thank, you,’ he answered to the butler. Then he braced himself for battle as the servant opened the door to the receiving room.

Larchmont had aged. But who had not? It had been nearly five years since their last meeting. His hair was more grey than brown and the lines on his face had deepened. Five years ago, the ebony walking stick he always carried had been little more than a vanity. But as the door opened, he was using it for support. When he realised he had been caught in a show of weakness, the duke straightened and twirled it in his hand as if to prove that it had been nothing more than momentary fatigue.

Stephen did not bother with a greeting. He had learned long ago that to speak was to open himself to ridicule. As a child, he’d had no choice in the matter. But now that he was a grown man, he did not have to put up with it in his own house. He stood before the duke and offered a respectful, but silent bow.

His father dispensed with cordiality as well and went immediately to the matter at hand. ‘I suppose you know why I am here.’

‘No idea,’ Stephen replied, with an insolent shrug.

‘The word is all over London that you have gone to Doctors’ Commons for a special licence. You mean to be married. To some shop girl in Bath.’

The temptation was there to offer correction about Margot’s position. Shopkeeper would have been a more accurate term. Since it would not have changed his father’s opinion, Stephen held his tongue.

‘I forbid it.’

‘I am of age,’ Stephen said, without raising his tone.

‘It does not matter. You should act in regard to my wishes, since you continue to spend the money I send you.’

How like his father, to bring up the stipend he was awarded each month. The money was largely symbolic. He had long ago learned to invest his inheritance in such a way that a supplement was not needed. ‘I will manage without,’ he said.

‘Do you mean to give back the house as well? You live quite comfortably on my estate in Derbyshire. Perhaps it would be better if I put it up for rent.’

It would be dashed inconvenient. Stephen had grown quite fond of that house and the properties around it. Though the income generated went into his father’s pocket, he had been acting as landlord since his majority and considered it almost his own.

But he would relinquish it if he must. He chose the counter-attack most likely to madden his pater familias. ‘Then I shall have to live off my wife’s money. She owns her shop. It is quite successful.’

His father gave a growl, part-frustration, and part-anguish. ‘No Standish has ever needed to marry for money.’

As far as Stephen could tell, none had married for love either. ‘I shall be the first,’ he said, answering both conditions.

‘You bring shame upon our good name,’ his father said, in disgust,

‘So you always tell me,’ Stephen replied.

‘I should have drowned you like a puppy, the minute I realised you were foolish. Instead, I endured years of your squalling and yammering and stuh-stuh-stuttering. When I think of the heir I could have had...’

Which meant Arthur, he supposed. He was the son that Larchmont deserved: drunken, dishonest and disrespectful. But at least he had a silver tongue to talk his way out of the trouble he caused. ‘It was not my request to be spawned by you. Nor to be first. Though I share your regret, I cannot change it.’

‘But you could modify your behaviour,’ the duke suggested. ‘As you did your abominable penmanship.’

If he was not careful to wear gloves in summer, the sun still brought out the white scar across his knuckles that marked the reason Stephen had finally learned to use his right hand to make his letters. God knew what his father intended to break to improve his taste in women. ‘I am satisfied with the way things are,’ he said, with a calm that was sure to annoy Larchmont.

‘Because you are an idiot. And like all idiots, you cannot control your lust. Tear up the licence, give this girl a bank draft and send her away. Then, perhaps we can find someone from a decent family who is thick-witted enough to have you.’

Stephen could think of a myriad of responses to this, involving his marks at Oxford, the shrewdness of his investments and the circumspection he employed when navigating the slew of marriage-minded young ladies who were more than willing to overlook his speech impediment for a chance to be the next Duchess of Larchmont. And then, of course, there was the genuine feeling he had for the woman his father wished him to cast off.

But as it always did, after a few minutes arguing with his father he could feel his tongue tiring. It was ready to slur or stick on even the simplest words, as it had done when he was a child. So he remained silent.

His father held a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that, boy? I did not hear your answer.’

So he gave the only one necessary. ‘No.’

The old man glared at him in shock. ‘I beg your pardon? I do not get your meaning.’

At this, Stephen laughed. ‘And you call me idiot. Even I understand a word of one syllable.’ It would feel good to say it again, so he did. ‘No.’

‘You seriously mean to defy me in this?’ his father said, as always surprised that the world did not turn at his pleasure.

‘Yes.’ The fight was grinding to a halt, as it always did, when he had run out of words. Though the duke sometimes made up for the silence with one last, protracted rant, Stephen was down to monosyllables and weighty silence. He stared at the old man, barely blinking, with the same look of disdain he used on the rest of England. It was an expression that said that the person before him had nothing more of interest to contribute. The unfortunate presence would be borne with as little patience as was necessary, until the interloper withdrew.

The look was one of the least painful lessons he had received from his father. He had been on the receiving end of it since he’d said his first, malformed words. He had learned to ignore it. While a glare might frighten, it did not hurt nearly as much as a stout cane across the knuckles. But he had learned to use it as well. Now, he was every bit as skilled at hauteur as his father.

The duke was not impressed. ‘Do not think to turn stubborn on me now. Call off this wedding or I will see that you and your bride are banned from society.’

What hardship would that be? he wondered. He had no use for society and Margot had not yet been introduced to the people who might snub her. ‘As you will.’ Then he continued to fix his father with the direct stare that informed him that the conversation was at an end.

The duke stared back at him, in a silent battle of wills.

This was a new tactic. It was doomed to failure, Stephen was sure. Silence was his oldest friend. He could remain wrapped in it indefinitely, quiet as a rock, still as an open grave. But Larchmont was an orator, an arguer, a speechifier. He could not not talk any more than he could hold his breath and wait to grow gills.

A minute passed. And then another. It was an eye blink for Stephen and an eternity for his father. And then, the duke erupted in a stream of curses, elegant and un-repetitive. He damned his son, his shop girl, resulting children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He damned the whole Larchmont line from Stephen until the end of time and then, with a final shake of his cane, he turned and stormed off, trailing invective like a stable boot trailed muck, all the way down the hall and out into the street.

* * *

It was the middle of a workday and Margot was trapped, against her will, two roads down from Milsom Street. While the sign on the shop insisted, in delicate gold letters, that it was a beau jour, she found nothing particularly beau about it. She had a new goldsmith to train and shrinking receipts from a sudden lack of custom. She did not have time to shop.

She swatted at the hands of the seamstress, trying to coax her into yet another style fresh from London, and glared at her sister. ‘I told you, this trip is unnecessary. I have gowns enough. Any of them will do.’

‘You would wear an old gown to your wedding?’ Justine looked at her in amazement. ‘Surely that is bad luck.’

Fine words from a woman who had eloped to Scotland after several months of pretending marriage to the man she eventually wed. Justine had been too much in love to care what she wore to the brief ceremony. And Will Felkirk had been so bewitched, he’d have declared her radiant though she had been wrapped in a grain sack.

Of course, Lord Fanworth was not similarly blinded by love. Someone of his rank probably expected that she would dress for the nuptials. It made her want this even less. ‘The situation is unlucky enough already. I doubt my choice of gown will make it worse.’

‘Nonsense,’ Justine said, turning her sister and unfastening the current unsatisfactory choice. She had all but dragged Margot by the hair to get her to the modiste’s. Perhaps she sought to make up for her own lack of a wedding gown by choosing her sister’s. ‘You got on fine with Fanworth before. Whatever problems you are having now will pass as quickly as they’ve arisen.’

For a moment, Margot felt that fleeting hope as well. It had been so good, when they had just sat together and talked. Of course, that was before she had seen the man he really was. Now, they seemed to get on best when the lights were out and no talking was necessary. But what was she to do with him, when the sun was up? Were they destined for a lifetime of sitting across the breakfast table from each other in uncomfortable silence?

‘At least I will not have to sit in his house, day in, day out, pretending that I am content. I will still have the shop.’ Not really, of course. Once they married, it was his. But surely, he could allow her this one small thing, after casually disrupting her entire life.

‘You are not planning on continuing with this.’ Justine’s expression was incredulous, as though the possibility had never occurred to her.

‘Have I said anything, at any time, about a wish to give it up?’ Surely she had sacrificed enough since meeting Fanworth. She had given him her innocence. She had tarnished her reputation. And now she was marrying him to keep the peace. But she had no intention of moulding herself into a new person, just to gain approval from him or society. It was simply too much to ask.

Justine opened her mouth to argue, then smiled. ‘That is something you must discuss with your husband, not with me. I am only here to find something suitable for a future marchioness to wear to her wedding.’

‘Discuss it with Fanworth? What a ridiculous notion. Once he got what he wanted from me, he no longer had a reason to speak. If there is to be a discussion over my future, I will have both sides of it, while he stands in the corner and glares.’

Her frank admission that there had been something more than polite courting involved in the match caused the seamstress to drop her pins in shock. Then she scooped them up, slipped a few between her lips and pinched them shut in a tight, disapproving line.

And now, if she did not spend according to her new station, there would be more gossip. Margot sighed and pointed to several of the most expensive gowns in the catalogue and requested they be made in equally expensive fabrics.

Justine and the modiste gave mutual sighs of satisfaction, both convinced that they had won the battle of wills.

Perhaps they had. When she did not focus on the reason for the purchase, she was rather enjoying the attention. It had been ages since she’d spent time or money on herself. Since she could afford the purchase, what harm would it do her to look nice?

And she had to admit, if Justine was an indication of this woman’s skill, this shop would be an excellent place to start. Her sister’s gown was neither as gaudy as Mr Montague had encouraged, or as overly simple as she’d chosen for herself. Since she had married, Justine favoured styles that were well cut and elegant, often trimmed with the lace she made with her own hands.

Now that Margot looked at it, the frock they had all but forced her into was really quite charming. A bit of colour in her wardrobe would not be a bad thing. The pale blue of this silk suited her well, though it could have used some sort of ornament on the bodice.

As if she had guessed what Margot was thinking, Justine removed a small parcel from her reticule and set it on the counter in front of them. ‘And you will do me the honour of wearing this as well,’ she said. Then she unwrapped the tissue to reveal the most splendid lace fichu Margot had ever seen. ‘I made it for your wedding day.’

‘But when did you find the time?’ There had to be many hours of work in the little triangle, for the threads that made up the knots were as fine as cobweb.

‘I have been making things for you for years.’ Justine gave an eager smile. ‘Mother’s old trunk is full of them.’

Margot did not like to think of the hundreds of hours her sister must have spent, preparing for a day that she had been doing her best to avoid. It was clear that Justine had pinned all her hopes on a favourable match for her little sister, ending in a proper, church wedding. Despite her misgivings, Margot owed it to her to at least attempt the part of happy bride.

It would be interesting to see Fanworth’s reaction should she appear, for once, smartly turned out. He had only seen her dressed for work.

And naked, of course.

‘Would the mademoiselle like a glass of lemonade? Or water, perhaps. She is quite flushed.’

‘Thank you,’ Margot said, trying to find an explanation for her sudden blush. ‘The stays are just a bit too tight for me.’

‘Of course.’ The woman loosened the lacing and paused in the fitting to bring the promised refreshment.

Margot took a sip, but it did nothing to cool the heat as she thought of the marquess, gazing at her in surprise. Perhaps he would be moved to comment on how well she was looking. Even if he did not respond with the effusive compliments he had paid her in the past, it would be nice to see him smile again.

Or perhaps he would give her the same cold stare he had used lately, as though he could not quite remember what had moved him to speak in the first place.

She dragged her mind back to her sister, who had draped the lace around her shoulders and was tucking it into the neckline of the gown. Margot ran her finger along the picot edge of the scarf. ‘It is too beautiful. With all the trouble I have caused, I am not worthy of such a gift.’

‘You must accept it, for I have made you an entire trousseau,’ Justine said, with a happy sigh. ‘I cannot tell you what a relief it is that you are getting married. I have been planning for this day for as long as I can remember. When I had no hope for my own future, I dreamed of yours. And I made sure that you would have all the things I would not. It gave me hope.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ Margot took another sip from the crystal glass of lemonade, which seemed overly sweet compared to the bitter taste in her mouth. She’d had only one wish for her own future: a successful jewellery shop where she could design and sell pretty things she had not even planned to wear for herself. That dream had come true, through her own hard work and stubbornness.

And through Justine’s sacrifices, of course. She had been the one to endure the advances of the repellent Mr Montague while Margot had stayed safe at school, oblivious to what was happening. Even after she had learned the truth, she had been no help in rescuing Justine from her predicament. All that Justine asked in return was that she be happy.

And married.

‘I am sure your current nightgowns are very sensible.’ Her sister was still talking, Margot’s lack of enthusiasm ignored. ‘But I have made things for you, Margot. For your wedding night.’ Justine gave a sly smile. ‘Soft fabrics. Lace as delicate as a moth wing. You will look beautiful. And I am sure the marquess will find them very flattering.’

‘The marquess,’ Margot repeated. At least she knew what to expect from him, on their wedding night. Perhaps he was not the kind, friendly man who had visited her shop. But neither was he the odious Mr Montague, or pompous Mr Pratchet.

Fanworth was young, handsome and virile. Would a man like that find a lace nightrail flattering? Like the wolf in the fairy story, he would lick his lips and swallow her whole. And it was a shock to realise what a willing victim she would be. She could already imagine his hot breath on her skin.

Her sister pushed against her arm to wake her from the daydream. ‘You are so busy thinking about your husband to be that you cannot see him right before your eyes. He is walking on the street, opposite.’

And so he was. She had not seen him since the curious day of his proposal. But then, she had not really expected to. Will had mentioned that he would be gone for at least a week, since he must go to London for the licence. When he had returned, he’d abided by her request for privacy, sending the date and time of the ceremony in a message to her brother-in-law.

If he were to break his vow and walk past her shop, this was his usual time to do so. But instead, he was several streets away and walking in the wrong direction. And he was not alone.

He walked arm in arm with a lady she had not seen before. She was a dark-haired beauty, nearly his equal in height, and moving with the grace and poise of the finest society ladies.

Stephen was absorbed in conversation with her, totally unaware that his future wife watched from a dress-shop window. But then, why would he expect her here, in the middle of a workday? She should be in her shop, nearly a quarter of a mile away from where he talked with this beautiful stranger.

The easy flow of his words was something she had not seen in weeks. While she watched, he tipped his head skyward and laughed out loud at something the woman said to him. It was not the usual behaviour of the Marquess of Fanworth, who had no time or desire to speak or be spoken to.

What she was witnessing today was annoyingly familiar. From her concealment, she watched Stephen Standish, at his most charming. And he was using that charm on his next conquest.