A Marriage Deal with the Viscount--A Victorian Marriage of Convenience Story

by Bronwyn Scott

  She heard the snap of bone and the meeting of fist with flesh. Her eyes flew open. Conall was there, standing between her and the henchman, the henchman grabbing his nose in pain, blood spurting between his hands. But Conall wasn’t done. His fists struck the man again, once to the stomach, once to the face and repeated until the man was doubled over, the knife clattering away. Conall took a final swing at the man’s face, rendering him unconscious.

  He turned to her, breathing hard, his body bristling with fury, his face filled with rage. She’d never seen a man so fierce on her behalf. ‘Sofia, what happened? I’ll get the constable.’ His eyes raked her form, searching for signs of injury.

  ‘He broke the children’s pencils,’ she stammered, shock taking her. ‘No constable, please.’ She gripped the lapels of his jacket, pleading. She didn’t want to give explanations, didn’t want to create a scandal. Good Lord, that seemed to be all she did. Even when scandal didn’t follow her, she managed to create one.

  Conall’s hands bracketed her face, forcing her to focus. ‘Sofia, are you hurt? I saw him drag you into the alley, I came as fast as I could. I was at the other end of the street. Dear Lord, Sofia, when I saw him knock you over and put his hands on you...’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. I’m all right,’ she assured him, desperate now not for herself, but for Conall. She did not want him embroiled in this. She could only imagine what he would have done if she had been hurt. Her jailer would be dead. She knew that with a painful, stunning clarity. Conall would not have hesitated to kill him. Conall had been her warrior and it could not happen again. She could not risk him. Giancarlo was here, somewhere near. His minion was his warning just as the burglary had been his calling card. Giancarlo was closing in and he would stop at nothing, not even a chivalrous viscount. Giancarlo would kill Conall to get to her.

  Conall would not die for her. She began to shake in earnest now, the seriousness of the attack and its aftermath overwhelming her. She collapsed in Conall’s arms, finally giving in to shock, her body cold, her mind numb. Giancarlo had found her in the most personal of ways. He was tightening his net. The last few moments had changed everything.

  Chapter Seventeen

  They must marry right away. It was the one thought that had run through his mind since the attack. Conall paced the length of the Dower House parlour, all his agitation and pent-up anger taking up residence in his strides. He’d brought Sofia home and promptly called for reinforcements against Sofia’s protests that she was fine. She was far from fine and in no condition to be on her own. He knew from experience it was times like these when one needed to draw one’s family close about them.

  She’d barely spoken a word on the drive back, staring blankly at the passing scenery. He’d allowed it, choosing not to press her on the details of the episode immediately. He was already regretting his decision not to call for the constable. But Sofia had been insistent she didn’t want the attention and, in his desire to see her home safely, he’d let her have her way on the subject. Now, Sofia sat in a chair by the window, dressed in a clean gown, her hair loose, his sister beside her, his mother in the opposing chair and Freddie at the cold mantel.

  Conall went to the decanter on the sideboard beneath the window and poured himself a drink. He had his own nerves to settle. Sofia had been assaulted. The episode was imprinted on his mind. He could see the incident happen in slowed motion. He’d begun to run the moment she’d fallen, prepared to fight when the man dug his hands into her hair and yanked her into the alley, making it clear this was no accident, but a targeted attack. Which led Conall to a troubling conclusion: the man had known her, had been following her, waiting to make his presence known.

  ‘Who was he, Sofia?’ The man looked more like a street thug, the kind hired to retrieve a gambling hell’s unpaid debts, than an Italian marquis’s servant. Conall toyed with his glass, his mind full of recriminations. He shouldn’t have left her alone.

  ‘A man who works for my husband.’ Sofia’s hands were clenched, white and tight in her lap, evidence that shock and fear still lingered.

  ‘You knew him, then?’ Conall pressed gently.

  She looked down at her hands. ‘Yes, I knew him. He is in Il Marchese’s employ. When I was married...’ She hesitated over the word, her gaze coming up and darting to his family.

  ‘We know, Conall has told us everything.’ Cecilia took her hand in a sweet gesture of feminine alliance. ‘You are among friends here and family,’ Cecilia added with a modest blush. ‘We’ll be sisters soon.’ Conall was never more proud of Cecilia than he was in that moment. It was exactly the support Sofia needed.

  Sofia offered Cecilia a faint smile. ‘His name is Andelmo. He was my bodyguard, at least that’s what my husband called him. I was never without him.’ A jailer, then. He understood the unspoken words she could not share, not even in front of family. She transferred her gaze to his, a hot flush staining her skin, her eyes warning him not to ask for more. She was remembering difficult times. He felt like a cad to poke at memories she so obviously wanted buried.

  ‘So, the Marchese is here.’ The word carried a more dangerous, more explicit meaning than it had just a day ago with the arrival of Helena’s letter. Il Marchese was not simply here, as in England, or even here as in London. He was in Somerset, or soon would be. Andelmo was his harbinger. He shared a look with Sofia. They’d been lucky today; he’d meant to take her. Instead, he’d merely warned her, merely tipped his master’s hand.

  ‘I can pack and be gone by morning,’ Sofia spoke with fierce determination. ‘If he means to come, he cannot be here sooner than tomorrow afternoon.’ Assuming Andelmo caught the afternoon train to London. ‘La Marchesa di Cremona can vanish.’

  ‘Damn right she’ll vanish,’ Conall growled, not caring if his family heard. Despite Sofia’s word to the contrary, he’d expected one last opposition from her, one final but misguided attempt to protect him and his family. ‘But not on the train. By tomorrow morning, La Marchesa will become Lady Taunton. Only marriage can protect you now.’ He turned to Freddie. ‘Perhaps you could persuade the vicar to come after supper, we can do it in the drawing room.’

  His mother rose to her feet. ‘I will hear of no such thing, Conall Charles Everard.’ For a moment the intensity of her glare startled him. He did not need one more fight on his hands. Then she softened. ‘No daughter-in-law of mine will be married in such indecent haste. We need at least the evening to make some arrangements. Cecilia can see to flowers and I can see to a dress. Cook will need time for a cake and Freddie will need to ride out with invitations.’

  ‘I don’t need all that fuss,’ Sofia began to argue, but his mother had her well in hand, too.

  ‘Perhaps not, but you deserve it.’

  ‘Mother, really, it’s not necessary.’ But Conall’s argument got no further than Sofia’s.

  She put a firm hand on his arm. ‘It is necessary. You are Taunton now. Your people need to be included. Your wedding is for them as much as it is for you.’ She winked. ‘And I still know how to throw a party, even on short notice.’

  * * *

  Conall’s mother was as good as her word. Even the weather obeyed her dictates, Sofia mused as an open-air landau pulled up in front of the Dower House promptly at eight o’clock the next morning beneath blue skies.

  Cecilia disembarked, waving up to her, a pair of maids piling out of the carriage behind her with a box in tow. ‘I’ve brought the dress!’ Cecilia called up exuberantly. ‘We’ve only got an hour, so we’ll have to hurry.’

  An hour. Before she married. Her stomach was a ball of knots this morning, not all of them bad. Much to her surprise, the thought of marrying Conall was not a thought that filled her entirely with fear or worry or anxiety. It should—wasn’t this what she’d vowed never to do again? Never to give a man control of her life? And yet, not to do this thing would give another man a type of control she did n
ot want him to have: the ability to control where she went and how she lived. Conall was right, if she did not stand and fight now, she would never have the type of control she wanted, never have the life she wanted. She could have that life with Conall.

  Upstairs, Cecilia was a whirlwind of orders. Maids laid out white-silk petticoats and satin slippers. They unearthed a gown from layers of tissue that took Sofia’s breath away. ‘Wherever did you find this?’ The dress was elegant simplicity itself, done all in white after the fashion set by Queen Victoria. The bodice of heavy white satin tapered into a deep vee at the waist, the décolletage off the shoulder with tiny puffs of sleeves banded around the arm with a delicate drip of lace.

  ‘It’s mine,’ Cecilia said over her shoulder, busy laying out brushes at the vanity. ‘It was meant to be my come-out gown next year, but I thought you could make better use of it. I am sorry it’s not a wedding dress, in truth. It’s a bit plain for a viscount’s bride, I suppose. We altered it last night.’

  Sofia drew a finger over the soft satin of the skirt. ‘I can’t accept this. It is too much and I have other dresses I can wear that will do.’ She would not take this sweet girl’s debut gown. Her throat tightened at the thought. Perhaps Cecilia believed there would be no need for it, if her brother married her. ‘Have I ruined your chances, Cecilia? Will you not go to London next spring?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, I did not mean to imply—’ Cecilia broke off and came to her side, taking her hands. ‘No, of course you haven’t ruined my chances. In fact, you might just make me interesting enough to notice.’ She laughed.

  But Sofia had to be sure. ‘Do you mind terribly, me marrying your brother?’ She’d come to care deeply for this passionate young girl with her ideas and ideals. ‘I don’t want my happiness to be at the expense of yours.’

  Cecilia shook her head. ‘Nonsense. We’ll worry about next year, next year. Today, we worry about you. Besides, if alpaca wool takes off as Conall expects, he can buy me another gown. But now we need to get you dressed.’

  Sofia had taken precautions against that occasion already. She had her undergarments and corset on and was decently covered. There were only the petticoats and the gown to see to. Her last secret would be safe a while longer. At least until her wedding night. The butterflies fluttered again as the maids helped her with the petticoats. There would be no crinoline today. The gown came next, the satin slipping over her head as her thoughts focused on that one idea and all it meant: her wedding night with Conall. She would be his wife. She would be safe from him. She would have the chance to live out her dream of making a safe place for those with no voice in society. If it sounds too good to be true... No. She didn’t want to think about that today.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Cecilia breathed in awe beside her. ‘Conall will just die when he sees you!’ She paused, her eyes shining. ‘I think you make him happy, and that’s something he hasn’t been in a long while. I think he’d want to marry you even if it weren’t for the situation with Il Marchese.’ She sighed. ‘I do so want to see my brother happy again. He’s different since our father died.’ She shrugged, shaking off the darker thoughts. ‘But you will make him better, I just know it.’ Sofia hoped Cecilia was right.

  They did her hair next, braiding it up in a coronet before settling a long, filmy veil crowned with a wreath of fresh summer flowers on her head. When she saw herself next in the mirror, she looked like a bride in truth, no longer just a woman in a pretty gown. The enormity of what she was about to do settled on her shoulders in a new, profound way after Cecilia’s words. This wasn’t just about her and her old life. It was about Conall and the new life they’d make together, marriage of convenience or not.

  Cecilia retrieved her pearls from the vanity. ‘These should do it. Something borrowed—that’s my dress—something blue—that’s the ribbon on your corset—or...’ she giggled ‘...your eyes. Something old—these pearls—and something new...’ She frowned. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘The slippers?’ Sofia suggested. ‘Even if they’re borrowed, they’re new.’ But the old rhyme had different meaning for her as she took a final look in the mirror. Today she exchanged the old life for the new. She would not have to rely on the borrowed graces of the Treshams, kind as they were.

  ‘Ready?’ Cecilia asked as the clock downstairs chimed ten.

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time since Conall had insisted on this marriage, she was ready to accept it. Ready to be his bride in truth and in trust. She indulged in the wave of elation that swept her. This was her wedding day. For a moment, a happier bride had never existed.

  * * *

  He was as ready as he’d ever be. Conall stood with Freddie in front of the carved, oak mantel in the drawing room, in his best morning suit—a blue superfine jacket, white linen and slim, dove-grey trousers, every inch of him brushed to sartorial splendour until he positively gleamed. He looked out over the ‘crowd’ gathered in their Sunday best: the squire and his wife, the squire’s son’s family, the doctor who lived in Taunton, neighbours like the Withycombes and the Hardwickes, all country families he’d grown up with. It might not be St George’s in London, packed to the roof, but these guests were sincere. They wished the best for him no matter how hastily arranged it might be.

  Although the hastiness was not in evidence outside the arrival of the invitations last night, written in his mother’s hand as if they were ordinary letters. His mother and Cecilia and the entire household had outdone themselves—as a way of thank you for bringing jobs to the estate, one maid had told him this morning when he’d complimented the decorations. There were large urns of fresh flowers on the mantel, a beautiful mantel cloth of old lace his mother had found somewhere in the attic and long white tapers. Even the banister of the staircase was dressed in a garland of summer flowers and greenery, lending the house a festive atmosphere.

  He was glad his mother had insisted on the effort. He wanted the day to be perfect for his family, for his people, for Sofia, in the hopes that perhaps this wedding day would put the other wedding day behind her. This was the start of their life together and he would make it as good for her as he could so that she would never regret the decision of putting her life in his hands.

  Outside, the landau drew up and Conall felt his pulse speed. She was here. Sofia. His bride. Did every bridegroom feel this way? He’d not expected to. He was not marrying her for love. He respected her. He wanted to help her. He was physically attracted to her, but he’d promised himself that those things, while they could equate to feelings for another, did not have to equate to love. And yet here he was, sweating, pulse racing, palms clammy as the vicar’s wife played an old, familiar hymn at the pianoforte.

  Sofia appeared at the doorway and breathing became difficult. Beside him, Freddie whispered in adolescent awe, ‘You’re so lucky, Brother.’ Lucky was indeed the right word. Sofia was stunning as she walked the short distance to him, satin skirts swaying softly, the gauzy veil over her face, the bouquet of summer flowers he’d sent down this morning in her gloved hands. He would take those gloves off soon enough to put a ring on her finger.

  Conall lifted back the veil. Sofia’s hair was shining like the sun itself, her eyes glimmering with bridal tears. ‘“Thou burning sun with golden beam...”’ he murmured the lines of the familiar hymn.

  ‘“Thou silver moon with softer gleam,”’ she whispered with a smile. ‘Your grey eyes have always been my steadying point.’

  After that, Conall remembered very little of the service. He supposed it was a beautiful service, but in truth he was focused only on Sofia, only on the promises he made to her and the ones she made to him, the tremble of her hands when he slid the ring on. He remembered the words pronouncing them man and wife, and he would remember that kiss for as long as he lived; the warm response of her lips as he claimed her. Their first kiss together. A kiss of hope. Then it was done. La Marchesa di Cremona was no more.

  Outsi
de on the back lawn white tents full of trestle tables and food welcomed guests from town. A country orchestra played reels at a makeshift dance floor, games were set up, races for children and contests for adults. Servants had been up since dawn erecting those tents and everyone had contributed to the food, from the butcher to the baker.

  Hand in hand, he and Sofia moved from table to table, greeting everyone, talking to each guest and, above all, thanking them. The effort made on his behalf was overwhelming and Conall was touched, often beyond words.

  ‘Thank you for bringing the jobs to the estate, milord.’ He heard it over and over as men shook his hand and women hugged him. The words differed but the message was the same:

  ‘We won’t have to leave, thanks to you.’

  ‘I was afraid we’d have to go and live with my brother.’

  ‘I can support my family now.’

  ‘Your people love you,’ Sofia commented softly as their circuit through the tables ended. ‘I imagine rumour of this party will spread far and wide.’ She said it laughingly, but Conall heard the question beneath it. They had not been discreet.

  ‘I am counting on it,’ he replied, squeezing her hand. He wanted Il Marchese to hear of it, to know that Sofia could never belong to him again in the eyes of the church and the law. With luck, it would drive the man away without him making an appearance in Somerset. He smiled at his bride. ‘But that’s not what this party is for. It’s for you, for my family, for my people.’

  Sofia’s soft hand stroked his face. ‘Is it for you as well?’

  He captured her hand and kissed her palm. ‘Tonight is for me,’ he whispered wickedly. ‘For us.’ He’d given her all he could: his name, his body, his material possessions such as they were. She had her own limits. Surely, she would understand that he had his.