“Really?” She brightened.
Peter was surprised. He would have assumed a woman would think having no ambition beyond teaching would be tedious. He nodded. “Unfortunately, Arthur was killed in a riding accident. That meant I was suddenly the heir.”
“That must have been jarring.”
He sent her a weary smile. “It was. Not only did it mean my ambitions in academia were over, my father also decided I should join the army in order to learn discipline and gain the contacts I would need when I became earl.”
“Did he purchase a commission for you?”
“He did,” he answered flatly. Although his resentment wasn’t entirely fair. “I didn’t hate the army,” he went on. “I made a great many friends that have remained friends all these years.”
“Like my father,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“Lifelong friends are hard to come by.”
“True.”
He drew in a breath of country air, reminding himself to be grateful for friends like Albert Tennant, Alexander Croydon, Basil Waltham, and Malcolm Campbell. They had helped him through more dark patches than he cared to remember.
“Father also decided that I needed a bride of suitable rank and fortune to be the mother of the future earl,” he went on.
“And that was Anne?”
He nodded. “Anne was the youngest daughter of Adolphus Barkley, the Duke of Bedford. She was charming, accomplished, and widely regarded as a beauty. I knew her slightly, but it was our parents who decided on the union.”
“That sounds familiar,” she said with a smirk.
Peter chuckled. “Everyone thinks they know better than we do when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Mariah blinked, then grinned up at him. He felt as though he’d said something that had won him points, but wasn’t entirely sure how.
“Anne and I got along well enough,” he went on, feeling more at ease as they reached the edge of the river. The path there was lined with stones and looked well-traveled. “Of course, war broke out in the Crimea, and suddenly my commission was more than just a formality.”
“So you fought in the war?”
He nodded. “Fought, retreated, fought again, was wounded, fell ill, and nearly died in a flea-infested field hospital, just like most of the Englishmen caught up in that wretched travesty of a war.”
“You were wounded?” She pressed a hand to her chest.
“Only a little,” he said with a sidelong grin. “I have a scar on my thigh from where I was struck by shrapnel during an explosion. But you only get to see it if you marry me.”
Mariah laughed. It was a clear, genuine sound, and it set him even more at ease. She didn’t resent him. She didn’t think he was repulsive. Her laughter said all of that and brought him face to face with his old enemy, hope.
That sobering thought wiped the smile from his face. “Anne was newly with child when I left for the war,” he explained, “but she miscarried shortly after I left.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mariah said, squeezing his arm slightly.
He managed a half-smile. “She became pregnant again shortly after I returned home, but miscarried again.”
He glanced down, the rest of the story sticking in his throat. It baffled him that even now, after all this time and all the disappointment he had endured, the pain was still as fresh as that letter he had received about the first baby while languishing in a Turkish hospital.
They reached a worn bench that sat under a spreading tree, and Mariah gestured for them to sit. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him with her full attention, waiting for him to go on.
“I don’t suppose there’s a delicate or sensitive way to put it,” he said, watching a pair of ducks near the riverbank instead of looking at her as he confessed. “Anne never did give birth. But she was pregnant—” He swallowed, feeling ill at the thought. “—fifteen times.”
Mariah gasped, reaching out to touch his hand.
Peter looked at her long, narrow fingers, then dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes. “It was difficult when she was young, but we kept trying, convinced next time would be different.” He paused and looked back to the river. “As she passed thirty, however, each…failure had a greater impact on her health. Physical and mental.” He closed his eyes. “Every doctor we consulted offered only one piece of advice: stop trying. And I begged Anne, pleaded with her to stop. But she refused.”
Quietly, without pity or comment, Mariah slipped her hand into his. Peter opened his eyes, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
“I did everything I could to—” He stopped. Now was not the time to confess to years of attempting to stay out of his wife’s bed. He would have to explain far too many things about the darker side of the world, and himself, how he had failed Anne on every level imaginable in his attempts to save her. No one, least of all Mariah, should be forced to listen to those confessions.
“How did she die?” Mariah asked at last, her voice filled with compassion.
He shook his head. “The hemorrhaging from that last miscarriage was too much for her. She was past forty at that point, and never should have—” He shook his head. He was the one who never should have touched her again.
A long, heavy silence settled between them. The sounds of the breeze ruffling the grass and the ducks splashing in the river were soothing, but it would take a great deal more than the wonders of nature to bring solace to his disappointed heart.
“So you never had a child,” Mariah said at last.
He shook his head.
“And you desperately wanted one.”
He glanced to her in surprise only to find understanding in her eyes. “I need an heir or the estate and title will go to my nephew, William,” he said.
“No, I think it’s more than that.”
Something warm and pulsing broke loose in Peter’s soul. For so long, he had been able to convince so many people that his disappointment over remaining childless was for inheritance reasons only. It was widely recognized that his nephew, William, was an irresponsible reprobate and that he would likely ruin everything generations of the deVere family had worked to build if he inherited. Claiming that as his sole concern had spared him the awkwardness of being seen as overly sentimental in a world where men were prized for their aloofness and rationality. But Mariah saw through that, and because of it, Peter was seized by an aching need to have her accept their union, even though it had been presented to her in the most clumsy and shocking way possible.
“I will absolutely respect your wishes if you decide not to marry me,” he said, pivoting to face her, their knees bumping. “I will not fault you one bit if you decide the surprise of this whole thing is too distasteful, or if you deem me too old to be a good match for you. But if we do marry, it must be with the understanding that we have children, or at least try.” He couldn’t discount the possibility that Mariah too would have miscarriage after miscarriage.
“So if you find me physically repulsive because of my age or in any way at all,” he went on, “I will not force you to go through with this marriage. I would never force you to do anything.” He hoped she understood exactly what he meant. “But sharing a bed would be imperative.”
She took in a breath and squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze—which had probably become far too intense—with a calm look. Then, completely unexpectedly, she burst into laughter. It lightened everything about her, turning her cheeks pink and making her brown eyes sparkle. Before Peter had a chance to be nervous, she said, “What a change to have a fiancé who wants to bed me rather than one who would rather tumble with a milkmaid in a barn.”
As relieved as her statement made him, Peter cringed. “Is that what happened?”
“Yes,” she all but wailed, blinking rapidly, as if fighting tears. She recovered quickly, gesturing as though brushing away the past. “But that was five years ago. I never thought I’d have another chance—” She pressed her lips shut and
swallowed, looking up as her eyes grew glassy again.
Peter reached for her hand, but before he could say anything, she let out a breath and asked, “Will you let me purchase poetry by Walt Whitman?”
Peter flinched in surprise. “Walt Whitman?”
She blew out a frustrated breath. “Yesterday, shortly before I learned of your existence and our impending nuptials, I attempted to purchase a book of poetry, but was denied.”
“Why would anyone refuse to sell a book of poetry?” he asked.
“Because the bookseller deemed it inappropriate for a single woman. Because in the eyes of the world, were I to remain unmarried, I would be nothing more than a perpetual child, always at the mercy of my father. I have been a child long enough, but I have no wish to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
Understanding dawned, and Peter nodded. “I seriously doubt any bookseller would deny Walt Whitman to a countess,” he said, grinning. “Or anything else, for that matter. I certainly wouldn’t.”
She gulped, and a tear escaped at last. She was quick to wipe it away, beating him to it before he could indulge in the sentimental gesture of touching her face. “Then yes,” she said. “Even though I didn’t know about you until yesterday, and even though we just met, and in spite of the fact that my parents are being ridiculous in this whole thing—” She took a breath and smiled. “I would be honored to marry you, Lord Peter deVere, Earl of…oh, I’ve already forgotten.”
“It’s Dunsford,” he laughed, taking both her hands in his. “But I insist, from here on out, you call me Peter. As a friend.”
“All right,” she said, still blinking up a storm as though to stop her eyes from leaking. “Peter. And it goes without saying that you call me Mariah. As a friend.”
“Not ‘your ladyship’?” he joked.
She laughed and shook her head. “No. Whatever we do, we must proceed as friends. Because I have a feeling we’re going to need to combine our forces to survive my parents.”
Chapter 4
The wedding would proceed. Mariah couldn’t think of a single reason why she should reject Peter, and after his confession about his first wife as they sat beside the river, the sentimental part of her wanted nothing more than to marry him and wipe away the sadness of his past, like a heroine in a novel. Her parents were, of course, thrilled. And Victoria was beside herself with misery. But as unexpected and overwhelming as the whole things was, Mariah was certain she was doing the right thing.
Which was all well and good when it came to sitting across the supper table from Peter and talking about the weather in Cornwall, but as Mariah brushed her hair out that night, the night before her wedding, wearing her nightshift and robe and nothing more, contemplating what was about to be asked of her on an intimate level, a cold burst of trepidation filled her.
“What am I doing?” she asked her reflection, her hands and hairbrush frozen mid-stroke. She glanced down at the loosely-tied ribbon holding the front of her shift together. In less than twenty-four hours, a man whom she’d never met before that afternoon would have every right to her body.
A knock sounded at her door, and Mariah jumped. It couldn’t be Peter. He was unfailingly polite and wouldn’t possibly anticipate their wedding vows—unlike Robert—or so she assumed—but Mariah trembled as she turned to her bedroom door all the same.
“Are you decent?” Victoria’s impatient whisper sounded from the hall.
Mariah let out a breath and shook her head at herself, then stood. “Come in.”
Victoria opened the door, rushed inside, shut the door behind her, and launched into, “You cannot marry him, Mariah. You absolutely cannot marry that decrepit old man.” Her expression was filled with fiery determination, which, considering she too was in her nightgown and robe, painted quite a picture.
Mariah relaxed and crossed to hug her sister. “I know it’s unexpected, and it will be a huge change when I move away so suddenly.”
“It’s not that.” Victoria squirmed out of her arms and started pacing. “If you were marrying someone young and handsome, I’d be the first one in line to bless the vows and throw coins at your wedding.”
Mariah crossed her arms. She couldn’t argue that Peter was young, so instead she said, “He’s not as repulsive as you make him out to be. I found him quite handsome when we were on our walk.” In fact, a bit of sunlight had improved his complexion immensely. That or else getting away from the awkwardness of her parents had done wonders for his state of mind.
“But that hair,” Victoria protested. “The lines on his face. Ugh. Imagine what he looks like in other places.”
Mariah instantly went hot, not only out of embarrassment over the mention of other places, or the fact that her sister’s thoughts would head straight in that direction, but because when she had placed her hand on his leg for a moment during their heartfelt conversation, the muscle she had felt was firm and impressive.
But rather than letting her thoughts linger there, she said, “White hair can happen to a man—or a woman, for that matter—at any age. Michael Morgan was grey at the temples before he was twenty-five, like his father before him. And remember how the Johansen’s poor maid, Henrietta, went completely white after her mother’s house burned to the ground?”
Victoria made an impatient noise and waved her argument away. “He’s old, and you know it. I cannot let my dearest, darling sister throw herself away to a gnarled old—”
“Please stop trying to compare Peter to a villain in a fairy story,” Mariah barked, surprised at the vehemence of her tone and her defensiveness. “I believe he is a good, kind man who has endured a great deal of romantic tragedy in his life.”
“Romantic tragedy?” Victoria snorted. “Now who’s trying to make the man into a character in a fairy story? Lord Peter doesn’t look as though he has a romantic bone in his body.”
Mariah was certain her sister was wrong, although the only thing she had to base that on was her hope that it was so.
She opened her mouth to scold Victoria for her lack of manners, but there was another knock at her door.
“Mariah, it’s me, Mama.” A moment later, her mother opened the door and popped her head in. “Oh. Victoria. I didn’t expect to find you here.” She came all the way into the room, shutting the door behind her. She too was dressed for bed, with her hair covered by a floppy mobcap.
“I’m here trying to convince Mariah to put her foot down and refuse to let you and Papa drag her into this travesty of a marriage,” Victoria declared, her chin tilting up.
Their mother started, blinking at Victoria as though she’d grown a second head. “Lord Peter is an earl,” she said. “His fortune dwarfs our own.”
Victoria let out a frustrated growl and flopped dramatically on Mariah’s bed. “Why must everything be about money?”
“Because comfort in life and position in society are more reliable than affairs of the heart, my dear,” their mother said, crossing to sit on the bed as well. She patted the space next to her, indicating that Mariah should join them.
“Mama, I do believe you read too many Jane Austen novels when you were young,” Victoria scolded. “Single men of good fortune are not necessarily in want of wives. Particularly if they are old and shriveled and their prospective wives are still young and vibrant.”
“Lord Peter is far from shriveled,” their mother protested as Mariah sat gingerly beside her, wondering how much lower the conversation could sink. “He has taken very good care of himself, if what your father tells me is correct. He has never indulged in food or drink, has remained active in the administration of his land and mines, and is an important and respected member of the House of Lords.”
“But he’s so dull,” Victoria sighed, leaning back on the pile of pillows at the head of Mariah’s bed with a dramatic flourish. “The best years of his life are behind him. He’ll be walking with a cane in no time, and poor Mariah will be responsible for wiping the dribble from his chin.”
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��Fifty is not a hundred,” their mother snapped. “I myself am fifty-two.”
Victoria gaped, sitting up suddenly. “You want Mariah to marry a man who is the same age as you?” She made a disgusted sound and buried her face in her hands.
Mariah cleared her throat. “Was there a specific reason you wanted to see me, Mama?”
“Yes, dear.” Her mother grew suddenly squirrelish as she turned to face Mariah. “Seeing as it is the night before your wedding, I believe there are a few things we should talk about.” Her eyes flashed with anxious mischief. “Victoria, it’s time for you to return to your room.”
Mortification threatened to swallow Mariah, particularly when Victoria threw her hands down and said, “Absolutely not. Under no circumstances will I leave this room. Especially if you are going to talk to Mariah about…about married things.” Victoria’s stubbornness took on a flash of curiosity.
“Victoria, you are not ready to hear what I have to say,” their mother insisted.
“I think I am.” Victoria’s chin tilted up again. “I think I have every right to know what kind of torture my dear sister is about to endure.”
“It’s hardly torture,” their mother said, her cheeks pinking.
The conversation wasn’t going to end well or go smoothly, so Mariah let out a sigh, stiffened her spine, and said, “All right, Mama. Tell me everything I need to know to prepare for my wedding night.”
“Victoria?” Their mother arched a brow at Victoria.
“No.” Victoria pounded Mariah’s pillow. “I’m not leaving. I will hear what you have to say.”
Their mother threw her hands up. “Fine. On your head be it, then. But if you dare to share a single word of what I am about to say with your friends, and if word gets back to their mothers and therefore to me that you were the fountain of information on this topic—”
“It won’t,” Mariah said, tired of the endless prevarication the conversation had become. “Please just get it over with.”
“Fine.” Their mother cleared her throat, picked at the embroidery of her robe, and blushed even darker. “Well….” She cleared her throat again, then glanced from Mariah to Victoria, then back again. “Men and women are formed differently.”
December Heart Page 4