“No.” Why had she agreed to marry him? There had been a reason, a very compelling reason….
“Sylvan, this is an interesting subject and one I intend to explore further, but of more moment—why are you here now?”
Rand sounded patient, but his brow knit, and with a jolt, Sylvan recalled her mission. “Why are you up so late?” she demanded again.
Exchanging an irritable glance with Betty, he said, “Betty needed help organizing two separate feasts in such a short time. Every noble neighbor within driving distance is invited to our wedding, and we have to fete them properly. In addition, it’s traditional for the Malkins to host a feast for the villagers and the poor as part of a wedding celebration. In addition to that, you need a tentative marriage contract drawn up, and I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“Why not?”
Leaning forward, he examined her intently. “Sylvan?”
“Has Betty been with you the whole time?”
“Yes.” He clipped the word.
She looked at Betty for confirmation, and Betty said, “Yes, miss. Been here ever since I finished speaking to the tradesmen about the food. The meals are going to be an embarrassment, I say, but they’ll be the best I can manage on such short notice.” Sylvan made a soft, impatient sound, and Betty said rapidly, “I’ve been here since about nine o’clock, I suppose.”
Baring his teeth, Rand demanded, “Now what’s the matter?”
“Where’s Jasper?” Sylvan asked.
“He’s running my errands,” Betty answered.
Disbelief sustained Sylvan. “At two in the morning?”
Betty’s soft voice strengthened. “Miss, we’re out of time! It’s all very well for His Grace to command the wedding be in the morning and know that all will be taken care of, but he’s the duke and worse, a man, and hasn’t the slightest notion of the work involved.”
Wit now freed itself from the soft confines of sleep, and Sylvan blushed to realize the labor her misconduct had produced. Yet at the same time, she didn’t know Jasper’s location, nor Garth’s, nor James’s. She only knew Rand’s, and that news could wait no longer. “I beg your pardon, Betty.”
She drooped like a flower deprived of water, and Betty hurried to her side. “I beg yours, miss. I had no right to scold you so. Is there anything I could do for you?”
“Well…” Sylvan thought feverishly, then suggested, “I’m thirsty and hungry. Could I trouble you for a light repast?”
“Of course,” Betty said heartily, and started for the door. Then she stopped and glanced between them. “I don’t like to leave you alone at this time of night. You’ve proved your need for a chaperone.”
“That’s true,” Rand agreed. “But Sylvan will swear not to attack me this time. Won’t you, Sylvan?”
“I didn’t—” Sylvan began. But she had. Yesterday morning, it was her kiss that had precipitated the whole messy, magnificent lovemaking. If only Rand didn’t wear his smug amusement with such pride. “I won’t touch him. And that’s a promise I will keep.”
Betty hovered, torn in her duty, but at last she bobbed a curtsy and whisked from the room.
“She’ll return as quickly as she can,” Rand warned, clearly not duped by Sylvan’s pretense. “Now why are you here?”
Leaning forward, she touched his knee and in a low voice, said, “The ghost paid me a visit.”
Rand said, “The ghost—”
“Paid me a visit,” she repeated. That wasn’t the strict truth. Two ghosts had paid her a visit, but she found herself unable to speak of the silver-clad ghost, the one that had vanished before her eyes.
Snatching her hands, he brought her to her feet and looked her over. “You weren’t hurt?”
She brushed his query aside. “The ghost paid me a visit. That’s the final confirmation. It’s not you!”
“I understand, but I knew I wasn’t the culprit this morning when you told me I was not and demonstrated your faith in me so touchingly.”
What did he mean? Did he have so much faith in her opinion?
No. She reseated herself to avoid his gaze. He couldn’t have, for if he did, it meant he had that much faith in her.
Rand examined her hands, then folded them inside his. “Now that that’s out of the way, tell me—were you hurt?”
Did he feel the tremor that shook her? “When?”
“When the ghost paid you a visit.” He sounded insistent, as if he could ask forever.
“Oh, that.” She looked away from him. “No.”
Rand insisted, “He didn’t attack you?”
“No!” He had attacked Bernadette. That was a lie of omission, but faith such as his would be a burden, and she couldn’t carry it. Too many men had entrusted their lives to her, and she’d failed them.
“What did he do?”
“He tried to frighten me!”
Gazing into her eyes, he articulated clearly. “Where was he?”
“I saw him in the hall outside my room.” That was the truth, anyway. He had been in the hall when he ran out of her room. And Rand was frightening her with his interrogation, as if he had the right to ask these questions. As if he owned her, body and soul.
Her fingers clutched, and her nails bit his flesh.
“I’ll send the footmen after him.”
“He’s gone.”
“And I’ll post a guard at your door.”
Jerking her hand free, she snapped, “With orders to shoot if I show myself at an inappropriate moment?”
“The guard is to protect you, not imprison you.” He sounded so sincere, she was ashamed, but she didn’t like it when he took her hands again. “I worry about you, Sylvan. I’ll be happier when we’re wed.”
She shuddered, and he gripped her tighter. “You are going to marry me in the morning.” It sounded as if he were making a statement, not asking for reassurance.
Quickly, impatiently, she answered. “I said I would.” But she hadn’t meant it. She wanted to be here to care for Rand. She wanted to be here to see him walk in the daylight. She wanted to sleep in his arms.
But she didn’t want to pay the price of remaining and never the price of passion.
“Why are there so many rules, and why are they so easy to break, and why do I have to be the one who gets caught breaking them?”
“The rules were made by men like me who want to hold on to women like you.” He unfurled her clenched hand and kissed the palm. “Besides, someone has to rescue your virtue.”
“I had no trouble hanging on to my virtue until you happened along,” she said. Then, “Uh-oh.” That hadn’t been the thing to tell him. He had more conceit than any ten men, and she’d just admitted that he, and only he, had been capable of moving her to a response. His grin filled her with disgust. “Oh, stop beaming. All of the ton believes me to be a wanton, and you know they have the only opinion that matters.”
He laughed aloud. “You don’t understand men at all, do you?”
“I understand more than I like.”
“If I—and everyone in the ton—thought you were chaste, and I married you, and it was revealed that you had had experience, then I would feel deceived, and our marriage would possibly flounder. If I—and everyone in the ton—believed you had had worldly experience, and I married you knowing about that experience, I would have no cause for complaint and I would, in fact, be looking forward to a long and glorious wedding night. But in your case, the ton thinks you’re wanton, and I have discovered you are unjustly accused. On my part, the wedding night will be”—he took a breath—“restrained. Yet at the same time, I am delighted to know that what you experience with me is unique.”
“Yes,” she muttered, trying to rise. “Well, if that’s all…”
He still held her hand, the palm of which had grown sweaty, and he didn’t let her go. Earnestly, he said, “We will have a good marriage, I promise, but I’ll need your cooperation.”
She couldn’t help her wary response. “My cooperation?”
> “You do realize I’ll need your cooperation to perform my conjugal duties?”
“Have I given you any reason to think I might not cooperate?” she demanded impatiently, then jerked her hand back when he chuckled.
“Not at all, but I understand there’s more to deflowering a virgin than simple pleasure.”
She jumped to her feet and walked toward the door. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I can’t make you stay and talk about it.”
His words stopped her in her tracks.
“If you choose to walk away from me, I’m helpless to stop you.”
She chewed on her lip. He was right, and her sense of fair play would hardly let her take advantage of his paralysis. He was going to be her husband, and he was just talking to her. He was probably like her, and concerned about all aspects of their life after the wedding. Communication between them would ease their later differences, and she shouldn’t run away from communication just because it was about…it. She could handle this. Briskly, she returned and seated herself. “As you say. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything. I just want you to promise you’ll trust to my experience in the performance of our connubial duties.”
Duties? That sounded funny coming from him. Somehow, she hadn’t imagined he thought of them as duties.
“I’m just afraid that I won’t be able to do the things normal men do to ease your fears.”
“Like what?”
“My father and mother used to gambol together like two lambs in the spring.” An affectionate smile lit his face. “They’d chase and tickle and giggle, until they disappeared into their bedchamber, or…well, they were once caught in our town house in London in a state of complete undress by the lord mayor.” He laughed out loud.
“You’re bamming me.” Her parents had never behaved in such a manner. Not in front of her nor, she was sure, when they were alone. For them, marriage was serious business.
“Later, of course, there’ll be the times we quarrel, and you’ll be able to stomp off in a huff and sleep elsewhere for as long as you like. I’m at your mercy.”
“You’ll have to trust to my mercy, then, won’t you?”
“Your mercy I trust, but I’ve had a taste of your temper, and you’ll have to admit you can be unreasonable when you’re angry.”
Bending her head, she pleated the robe into elusive folds that slipped between her fingers. “I don’t have to admit anything.”
“My parents spent every night of their marriage in the same bed, and sometimes half the day.”
He was coaxing now, and the more she heard about his parents, the more she thought she’d like to have such a union. “As you say.”
It was a grudging agreement, but he jumped on it. “So you promise to acquiesce to all my conjugal demands?”
“Ye…es.”
“And we’ll sleep in the same bed every night for all the time of our marriage?”
“As long as we’re in the same town.”
Relaxing into his seat, he lounged, his arm crooked over the back, and looked her over. “I think when we are married, I would very much like you to wear my robe to bed.”
His eyes glowed like blue-hot coals, and she shifted in her seat, suddenly self-conscious within the confines of the clinging black robe. “Why?”
“When I think about rubbing that silk across your—” He checked himself.
She pulled her hands away from his, and he let them go. She rose, and he watched. She backed away, sure that somehow, he’d grab for her, but he made no move. He just watched and waited. Waited for tomorrow night.
11
The heavy signet ring Rand placed on her finger almost crushed it. Sylvan could feel the band shrinking as her skin warmed it; any tighter and it would cut off her circulation completely.
In a deep, expressive voice, Rand repeated the words honoring her as his wife and the ring as the symbol of their union, and he cupped her hand between his two palms.
He sounded sincere, and Sylvan supposed he was. She supposed that few men married with the intention of crushing their wives’ spirits and turning them into creatures without will or fire. But it happened.
Lifting her drooping head, Sylvan looked around the terrace. The Reverend Donald had expected to perform the ceremony in the confines of the church, but Rand insisted on the open air. He’d insisted on providing a feast for all who attended, for he wanted everyone in the manor and beyond to witness their marriage.
Sylvan thought he had his wish. The vicar stood with his back to the door, prayer book in hand. She and Rand were in front of him, and the Malkin family stood in a semicircle around them. Gail and her governess were off to the side. Neighbors, the nobility who kept country manors in the area, formed a tight knot behind the family, and craned their necks in ignoble curiosity as they tried to get a view of Rand’s bride. The house servants, Jasper and Betty at the front, formed a looser assembly that covered the terrace, and down the stairs and beyond were villagers from Malkinhampsted.
Too many people. Too firm a bond.
Someone thrust an equally ponderous ring into Sylvan’s hand. She was to place it on Rand’s finger. That would be the final part of the ceremony, the moment at which Sylvan Miles ceased to exist as a person and became an extension of Rand Malkin.
She didn’t want to do it. Her mother had done it, and ever since Sylvan could remember, her mother had been a pale, sighing soul who lived to try and placate her husband.
Clover Donald had done it, and in the time since Sylvan’s arrival, she hadn’t heard Clover do more than echo her husband’s sentiments.
“Sylvan.” Lady Emmie nudged her in the back. “You need to place the ring on Rand’s finger.”
Sylvan looked dumbly at the ring.
“If you don’t, he’ll probably do it himself.”
Sylvan looked at Rand. He probably would. For the first time since she’d arrived at Clairmont Court, his hair was combed, his face was washed, his boots shone, his coat was brushed and buttoned, and his cravat was tied impeccably. He was the epitome of a wealthy English nobleman in appearance, and in manner. He tried to appear comforting, but he didn’t fool her. The bright sunlight sculpted his face and showed his determination. Nothing would stand in his way today. Certainly not her puny and incomprehensible desire to remain a spinster.
“Put it on my finger, Sylvan.” He captured her gaze and kept it prisoner. “Then it’ll be over, and all will be well. You’ll see. Put it on my finger.”
Reluctantly, she lifted the sculpted gold and matched it to his outstretched hand. The Reverend Donald intoned words that made no sense; she repeated words that made too much sense. She committed herself to Rand in the greatest gamble of her life. She became his wife.
A great collective sigh swept the assembly.
She leaned down to give Rand the kiss of peace, and he waited until she was off-balance and tipped her into his lap. The sigh of relief became a laugh, then a cheer as Rand leaned her back and kissed her. It was a very pleasant kiss, a kind of meat-and-potatoes kiss meant to sustain her through the rest of the day.
It would probably succeed. During her sojourn at Clairmont Court, she had been Rand’s nurse, supporter, and advocate. Somehow, for today at least, it seemed the roles had been reversed. She didn’t like it—she didn’t ever want to depend on anyone so wholly—but she derived strength from the touch of his lips, his firm hug, and the buttress of his shoulder.
Why had she married him?
Now she remembered. Because she recognized the fury that drove him to do what was right, regardless of the cost to himself. It was the same fury that had driven her in Brussels.
And, worst of all, because she loved him.
Rand pressed little kisses on her neck and murmured, “You’re the bravest woman I know.”
“Don’t be foolish.” She pushed him away and stood up, straightening with elaborate motions her magnificent lace-encrusted skirt.
>
The family rushed forward. Garth embraced her first, the duke of Clairmont providing his official approval of his brother’s wife. “I prayed for this from the first,” he said. “You’ve brought him back to life.”
It wasn’t she who had brought him back to life, Sylvan wanted to say, but the knowledge of his own innocence. Before she could speak, Lady Emmie elbowed her son out of her way and clasped Sylvan to her capacious bosom. “My dear, I always wanted a daughter.”
Sylvan nodded, dumb before such enthusiasm.
Aunt Adela hugged her more gingerly, but agreed. “She did. I always told her it was foolish to fancy a girl who’ll marry away from the family, but she wanted one anyway.”
“They don’t marry away from the family,” Lady Emmie said.
“Sylvan’s mother isn’t here,” Aunt Adela retorted.
“We’ve already invited Lord and Lady Miles to come and visit. They’ll be welcome at all times.”
Sylvan moaned slightly, but Garth reassured her. “We’ll send you and Rand on an extended honeymoon should your father overstay his welcome.”
After he had slipped his prayer book into the pocket of his black coat, the Reverend Donald took Sylvan’s hand and shook it. “I cannot imagine Lady Sylvan being anything but pleased at Lord Miles’s visit.”
“You haven’t met—” Garth cut himself off sharply and folded his lips tight.
Sylvan sympathized with the duke. Her father had been at his most obsequious when Garth arrived at their home, then at his most obnoxious when he realized Garth wished only to persuade Sylvan to nurse Rand. Her mother, of course, had been pathetically eager to please, then pathetically agitated by her husband’s outrage. The memory of a farce could only underscore Sylvan’s fears, and she turned from the vicar’s scrutiny.
Obviously, not soon enough, for he pressed the hand he still held. “My father, also, was a difficult man who failed to realize that my higher destiny lay with the clergy, but I look back on my early ordeals as the furnace that hardened the steel of my character.” He waved his free hand across the vista of people, trees, and ocean. “The sun shines on this day of holy rites. Lift your heart and be glad.”
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