Читать книгу The Complete Regency Surrender Collection - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 45

Chapter Twelve

Stephen was a nervous bridegroom.

That was all right, he supposed. According to the cliché, such nerves were expected. He had always assumed that they were in some way pre-coital.

He had no concerns in that matter. Even if they had not dispensed with the first intimacy some weeks ago, he had the utmost confidence in his abilities once the lights were out and the conversation was over.

But, the actual wedding required speaking, on cue and without hesitation. That was another matter entirely.

Since the moment he had been sure of her acceptance, he had got out the lectionary and begun to practise his part. The servants were used to the sound of him droning to himself before events such as this. On the rare times he had to speak in a crowd, he practised incessantly until the words came as second nature.

That a few short phrases should be so difficult was annoying. He supposed it was the gravity of the situation that caused the trouble. That such an important word should begin with a D made it all the worse.

And now, he was pacing in the nave, muttering softly to himself while awaiting the appearance of his bride. ‘To love and to cherish, until d-d-duh...’ He punched his fist into his twitching left hand. ‘Damn it to hell!’

The curse echoed through the high ceiling of the Abbey, bringing a shocked gasp from the bishop.

Stephen smiled to put the man at ease, then went back to his practising. At least he would not have trouble with the bit at the beginning. He took a deep breath to relax and let the two words flow from his lips. ‘I will.’

‘You will what?’

He turned to see his bride, standing in the doorway with her sister and Felkirk. She had heard him practising. But the empathy that had drawn him to her on their first meeting was gone. Today, she was annoyed.

‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly, glancing down at his watch as though obsessing over a prompt start to the ceremony.

‘Fanworth?’ Felkirk was at his side now, offering a frown of disapproval and a shallow bow. The man was still not sure whether his sympathies lay with the bride, the groom, or neither of the above.

‘Felkirk.’ Stephen bowed in response.

‘Are we ready to begin?’

Stephen nodded.

Felkirk glanced about him and gave a nod of acknowledgement to the Coltons, who had accompanied his future wife and her sister. They were the only guests. ‘I do not see your family here to witness the event.’

It was because Stephen had not bothered to inform them of the date. It would have been nice to see his mother again, so that she might meet the woman who would be the next duchess. But if Mother came, so would the duke. The interview with his father had been difficult enough without encouraging him to come and spoil the wedding.

And God forbid either of them brought Arthur. It would be a disaster.

He had told his sister, of course. She was the last person in the world he wished to offend. But she could not come alone. As a sop to Louisa, he had taken her to the jewellery shop, hoping that a violation of his promise to avoid his bride would be forgiven, so that he might make this very important introduction. But on that day, of all the days in the year, Miss de Bryun had elected to go shopping rather than man the counter of her shop.

Perhaps it was a sign that she might be ready to forgo the place in favour of married life. It would make things easier if she were just a bit more like other women of his acquaintance. Of course, none of those women had fascinated him in the way this one did.

At the moment, the object of his affections was having a whispered argument with her sister who was straightening the very attractive lace collar that adorned Margot’s ordinary work frock.

‘I thought we agreed, the blue was more becoming.’

‘And I told you that such purchases were not necessary. Your gift suits this just as well.’

‘But it is so plain,’ her sister was practically wailing at her.

‘Hush.’

It was true, he supposed. She was hardly dressed for a wedding. But it was very similar to the dress she had been wearing the first time he’d seen her. That was a day worthy of commemoration. He saw no reason to complain.

The frown upon her face now did not bode well for their future. She swept a glance over the empty church, then back at him, accusing. ‘Are we waiting for other guests?’ It was clear from her expression that she knew they were not. ‘Or might we get this over with?’

He tried to smother his annoyance. Perhaps things had not gone as either of them had hoped. But was marrying into one of the noblest families in England really such a hardship?

Then he thought of his family and gave her credit for an accurate understanding of her future as a Standish. He signalled the bishop that they were ready to begin.

Once the ceremony was underway, he breathed a silent sigh of relief. There were not likely to be any objections from the bride’s family, since they had arranged the match. The empty pews on his side would be peacefully silent. Margot was far too sensible to refuse, rather than say the vows. More importantly, she would never have gone to the trouble of leaving her shop just for the opportunity to embarrass him at the altar.

The success of the day was all on him. If he could manage to say the words, just as he practised them, there would be no trouble.

And then, the bishop began to read. ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? Her price is far above rubies.’ Why, of all topics, had he picked that one? He could not have chosen worse if he’d read all of Revelations. Stephen could feel the rage rolling from the woman at his side like a cloud of steam. She must think he’d suggested it as some sort of cruel joke. But now that they were in the midst of things, he could not demand that the officiant stop and chose a more suitable verse. He would find a way to make it up to her later. For now, they would have to brazen it out.

And then, things got worse.

The bishop began the vows. ‘Do you, Stephen Xavier, take this woman...’

Do.

He had read the prayer book for hours, until he knew the entire ceremony by heart. Apparently, he knew it better than the bishop. The phrase was supposed to begin... ‘Will you...?’ And to that, he could answer effortlessly. But this sudden, unexpected move to the present tense made everything impossible.

He could answer, ‘I will’, just as he’d expected to. But would she think there was some doubt about his willingness of the moment? The more he thought about it, the harder it was to say anything at all.

The church was silent. The bishop had got to the end of his part and was waiting for an answer. It was his turn. He must say something, and say it immediately. ‘Yes.’

For a moment, the bishop paused, as if about to correct him.

So Stephen chased the single word with a scowl of such ferocity that the man immediately turned to Margot and repeated her part.

At the end of it, she gave the same dramatic pause that he had done, while fumbling for his words. Then, very deliberately, she said, ‘I do.’

The next few minutes were a nightmare. He staggered through the few sentences of his next speech, omitting some words, slurring others and making bizarre substitutions that turned sacred vows into nonsense.

The bishop watched in shocked silence. His soon-to-be wife stood frozen at his side. The back of his neck burned with the heat of Felkirk’s angry gaze. There was no way to turn back the day like a clock and start it over again. So Stephen glared back at them all, daring them to challenge him out loud.

With one more slight hesitation, the bishop moved on to Margot’s vows.

After a single, resigned sigh, she spoke them perfectly.

Now it was time for the rings. This would go better, he was sure. It sometimes helped when he could connect his statements to some solid object. He reached into his pocket and clutched the ring tightly in his palm, imagining the delicate ridges along the silver band and the amethyst set artfully between them.

She had designed it herself, at his request. He had asked her for a ring for the most beautiful lady in England. Then he had suggested that she use her personal taste as a guide, hoping she would understand his meaning.

When she had presented him with the finished project, she’d admitted that she was quite proud of it. Then she had assured him that there was not a female alive who wouldn’t fall at his feet should he offer it. When he presented it to her, here, on this most important of days, she would understand that this marriage was no mistake. It had been his intention all along.

And then, she would forgive him for the mess he’d made of things. Most importantly, she would not notice if he worshipped with self and not body, and endowed her with things and not goods. ’Til death was the most important bit. He barked the words, almost like a curse. But he got it out, once and clearly, sending the ‘us do part’ rushing after it.

There. Finished.

He had been too busy to notice her reaction. Apparently, she had lied when she had extolled the virtues of her work. There was at least one woman breathing who was totally unimpressed by the ring. The woman who had made it was staring down at it with disbelief.

For a moment, he still hoped that her expression would change to the surprised smile he’d been expecting. Instead, he saw disappointment, disgust and anger. He could feel the faint pull as her hand tried to escape his grasp, twisting as though trying to gain release from something particularly unpleasant.

He held even tighter, until the struggling stopped. It was an instinctive response and it embarrassed him. He should not be holding the woman he had just promised to love and cherish like she was a prisoner on the way to the gallows.

But she had just promised to love him as well. It should not be necessary to detain her. None of this was as it should be. Nor was the cheek she offered him to kiss, before they turned to leave the silent sanctuary. They were married, just as he’d hoped it would be—yet it was all wrong.

Perhaps the worst was over. He had done his best to see that, despite the lack of guests, their marriage would be a festive occasion. For the wedding breakfast, he’d reserved the front parlour of the most fashionable hotel in Bath. The food was excellent. The fish melted on the tongue like butter. The ham was so thinly sliced as to be near transparent, but smoky and wonderful. The fruit bowls were heaped high with grapes, strawberries and oranges straight from Seville. He had chosen the wines himself, the most exclusive vintages from his own cellars. Even though the party was small, the cake towered above them, draped in real ivy and sugar roses.

Despite all this, Margot glanced impatiently about her and ate as if the food had no flavour at all.

‘Is there somewhere else you wished to be?’ he drawled, taking a sip of his wine. These words were clear and unhalting. Why was sarcasm was so much easier than normal speech?

‘Yes,’ she said, not bothering to elaborate.

Anywhere but here, he supposed.

‘It is not as if there is any real reason for celebration,’ she said. ‘You are as trapped in this marriage as I.’

‘For the sake of the others, we must smile and...’ be polite...gracious... He gave up and shrugged, glancing in the direction of her sister.

‘I do not see why,’ she said, with almost masculine bluntness. ‘They know the circumstances as well as we do.’

‘Then for the strangers walking by on the street,’ he said, with an expansive gesture that almost knocked over his wine glass.

‘Because you had us seated near a front window on the most travelled street in town,’ she said, obviously disgusted by his choice.

Because he was proud of his new wife and wanted to make it clear that their affair had been no casual flirtation with a woman of a lower class. He had fallen in love with Margot de Bryun and did not care who saw it. He shrugged again. ‘Everyone loves a wedding.’

‘Everyone,’ she said. It was both a statement and a question.

‘At least those who have never married,’ he said, thinking of his own parents.

‘But no one in your family, apparently,’ she said. So she was thinking of them as well.

‘This event is no concern of theirs.’ At the last minute, he’d almost changed his mind on inviting Arthur. His brother owed Margot an apology. And the little sod deserved to see that his scheme, in the end, had come to nothing. If from spite alone, Stephen had forced circumstances around to the way he’d planned them to be.

It had been like trying to turn a barge with a birch twig. But, by God, it had been done.

‘If we’d made our plans according to whom and whom did not have a legitimate stake in this union, we need not have done it at all,’ she said. ‘You had but to release me from my bargain with you and I could have returned to my shop as if nothing had happened.’

‘Nothing?’ he said. Was that what their love making had been to her, then?

‘There was no harm done.’ She took a hurried sip of wine. ‘Despite my fears, there is no child imminent. While there has been a negative impact upon the business from my notoriety, I am sure, by next summer, it will be forgotten. To the next crop of holiday goers, I would have been nothing more than a merchant.’

‘That is all that matters to you, is it? Your shop?’ A normal woman would have lamented for her lost honour.

‘It is my only source of income and therefore a primary concern,’ she said, using the masculine logic upon him again.

‘That is no longer true,’ he reminded her. ‘You are married. The value of the shop pales in comparison to the rest of my holdings.’

‘The rest...’ There was an ominous pause as she considered his words. ‘Because it is yours now, of course. And what do you mean to do with this shop of yours, now you have gained it?’

It would have to close, of course. But only a fool would begin that conversation right after the wedding. ‘Now is not the appropriate time to speak of it,’ he said.

‘When, then?’ she said, looking up into his face with more interest and intensity than she had during the ceremony.

‘I will tell you when I have come to a conclusion.’ The conclusion was foregone. But it must be delivered in a way that would not lead to a screaming row in a public room.

‘And until that time, what am I to tell my employees? There are seven people who...’ She paused. ‘Six people,’ she amended. ‘After whatever you said to him the other day, Mr Pratchet has fled.’ She gave him a sharp look. ‘It was most unhelpful of you. The lack of a skilled metal worker could severely limit the business I am able to do. I am training up a clever girl who had been working the back counter and sweeping the floor. But what is the point to designing, if there is no one there to execute—’

‘You could not stand Fratchet,’ he reminded her, purposely mispronouncing the name so she would not hear him stammer.

‘That is not the point,’ she said.

‘You are b-better off without him.’ The man had been in the thick of the true conspiracy against her. And today, she took his side against Stephen.

She looked at him in surprise. ‘Jealousy does not suit you, Lord Fanworth.’

‘I am not...’ he began, and felt an annoying prickle of irritation at the thought of Pratchet’s smug and possessive attitude towards Margot.

‘You are,’ she accused. ‘It is why you are keeping me here, in the middle of a business day, when I should be working.’

‘It is our wedding,’ he pointed out, in what he thought was a reasonable way. ‘When else would we have had it but the morning?’

‘Any time we wished. You had a special licence. You were not limited to the conventional place and time. We could have married quietly, in the evening.’

‘I sought to honour you,’ he said, gritting his teeth.

‘By taking me away from my work? We are short staffed in the front of the shop. And if I am gone as well?’ She took a deep drink of her wine and set her napkin aside, pushing away from the table. ‘The clerks have no idea how to go on without some kind of instruction. Yet, here I sit, with you, nibbling cake.’

Only a few weeks ago, she had been eager to take time out of her schedule to talk with him. Why was it so different now? Perhaps it was because, when he spoke to her now, his voice sounded very like the one the Duke of Larchmont might use to put a tradeswoman in her place. ‘You have known this event was coming. You should have readied them for your absence.’

‘Do you question my ability to run a business that has been in my family for generations?’

‘I question the need for it,’ he said, even more annoyed than he had been at the mention of Pratchet. ‘You are my wife. You can do anything you wish. Yet you speak as if you mean to leave in the middle of your wedding feast to return to that shop.’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘Two simple words, Lord Fanworth.’

For such a small answer, it cut like a knife. Even at his worst, she had never mocked him, before this moment. She had never smiled as he stuttered, or grown impatient as he struggled and tried to finish the sentence.

She had saved it for this moment, when it was too late to get away. She had no right to speak so to the scion of one of the noblest families in Britain. ‘You will return to my rooms as soon as the shop is closed.’

‘To celebrate our wedding night?’ She gave him another of her horribly blunt looks. ‘At no time did I agree to that.’

‘On the contrary. At the altar...’

‘I believe the agreement already in place stated that I owe you two more nights, not a lifetime.’

‘Things have changed.’

‘Not as much as you seem to think,’ she said. ‘We married because my family left me no choice in the matter. But I like you even less than I did yesterday. If you insist, I will return to your rooms this evening. It will reduce the number of nights I must spend in your bed to one. I suggest you save it for a special occasion. A birthday, perhaps. Or Christmas.’

‘Go!’ His strength had returned to him in a rush of rage so strong it turned the command into a curse. But the relief was short lived. Suddenly, she chose to obey him, as a good wife should, and quit the room.