by Jane Feather
Petra’s world shattered. She lost all sense of herself, of her physical presence, of the rhythmic clatter of the train’s iron wheels on the rails, she fell forward, her head dropping onto his shoulder until the ecstatic tempest finally rode itself out.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all afternoon,” Guy said as she raised her head from his shoulder. He traced the curve of her cheek with a fingertip. “Heaven help me, my sweet, but I can’t seem to get enough of you.”
The train whistle shrilled and the train began to slow. Hastily he dropped his hands to her waist again. “Lift up now.”
She did so, yanking up her drawers and smoothing down her silk skirts. “I didn’t think I’d ever make love with my hat on,” she observed, standing on tiptoe to look at her image in the little mirror under the overhead rack.
He laughed, adjusting his own dress as the train pulled into the gloomy, steamy, noisy chaos of Waterloo Station.
Petra hastily pulled up the window blinds. Guy moved her aside so that he could lower the window. He leaned out to open the carriage door, stepped onto the platform and held up his arms for her to jump down from the high step.
“I’m parched,” she declared, accepting the invitation, and for a moment clinging to him, her arms around his neck. “It must be the champagne, don’t you think?” Quickly she kissed his mouth before he let her slip through his hands to the platform.
“That or something else thirst-provoking,” he said lightly. “Can you wait until we get home?”
“Yes, I suppose so. The tea’ll probably be stewed in the station café anyway.”
“We’ll get a cab outside and be in Berkeley Square in no time.” Once again he eased her forward with a hand in the small of her back, steering her through the crowds.
A line of cabs waited on the station approach and they took the first one, an open two-seater, and by the time they turned onto Berkeley Square the post lovemaking lethargy had vanished and Petra was conscious of a restless excitement, a need to make decisions and plans without delay. Weddings could take months and months to plan, but now that the die was cast she could see nothing to be gained from waiting months to become Lady Ashton.
Babbit greeted them with some surprise. “I was not expecting you back this early, my lord. Was Mrs. Lacey’s horse successful?”
“Yes, the filly won her race,” Guy responded, handing his top hat, cane and gloves to the butler. “Could you bring tea to the library, please. And I expect Miss Rutherford would like to refresh herself after the train journey.”
“Certainly, sir. If you’d care to come with me, ma’am, I’ll send a maid to you immediately.”
Petra followed the man upstairs to a pretty bedroom at the rear of the house. She unpinned her hat and examined her pale kid gloves, which were grubby with soot. A maid came bustling in with a jug of steaming hot water, which she set by the basin on the washstand. “Here’s hot water, ma’am. And towels. I’ll take the gloves and brush them. I’ll have them clean in no time. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No, this is fine, thank you.” Petra relinquished her gloves and poured water into the basin. She peered at her reflection in the mirror with a grimace. “Trains are so dirty. I feel as if I have a layer of soot everywhere.” She dipped a cloth in the basin and held it to her face with a little sigh of pleasure at the warm, clean feel of it. “That’s much better.”
Five minutes later, after tidying her hair and washing her hands and face, she went down to the library, wondering for a fleeting instant what it was going to feel like to be mistress of this house. And Ashton Court into the bargain. She’d only once seen the sprawling Elizabethan pile of the Ashton family seat and that had been ten years ago when she’d gone to a ball there, the ball at which Guy, for the first time, had singled her out. It seemed a very long time ago now. And she had been a very different person then, still unformed.
But it was time to put all thoughts of that time behind her, she told herself, as she crossed the hall to the library. The memories contained too much old rancor. It was over, in the past. And Guy was not the same careless, thoughtless young man of those days. They had swept the slate clean, and that was how it would stay.
A footman hurried to open the library door for her and she gave him a smile of thanks. Guy turned from a tea tray on a pier table as she came in. “Here’s tea.” He handed her a delicate porcelain cup. Petra drank it to the dregs and wordlessly handed it back for a refill before flopping onto a leather chesterfield and stretching her feet out with a sigh of relaxation.
Guy handed her a fresh cup of tea and stood thoughtfully in front of the empty fireplace. “I’ll send your father a telegram this evening, and then, once he responds, I’ll send notices to the Times and the Gazette. That should get the ball rolling. I’m assuming he’ll have no objections?” He raised an amused eyebrow.
“Hardly,” Petra said dryly. “Ma will be in a twitter and I’m sure they’ll both be back in town within the week.” She frowned, wondering how best to approach her next point. Probably best to just come out with it, she decided. “This may sound a bit unusual, Guy, but I really don’t want a big wedding. I don’t want St. George’s, Hanover Square, or anything like that. I’d like to get a special license and have the ceremony in a small church with just family and close friends.”
Guy looked at her, dumbfounded. “You want what?”
Petra was surprised at the vehemence. She spread her palms. “It’s not outrageous to want a small wedding, Guy. You sound as if it’s unheard of.”
“In this case it is outrageous,” he declared. “Of course it has to be a society wedding. It’ll be the wedding of the Season. And that’s just as it should be.”
“No.” Petra sat upright on the sofa, leaning forward for emphasis. “No, Guy, please listen. It doesn’t have to be like that. It’s personal, it’s between ourselves. Edward and Fenella had a small, intimate family wedding, and . . . well, Rupert and Diana married over the anvil at Gretna Green, and there’s nothing unmarried about any of them. And that’s what I want.”
“Why?” Guy demanded. “Why would you want some hole in the corner affair? I always thought a woman’s wedding day was one to celebrate, a day when she’s the center of attention, the cynosure of all eyes.”
Petra struggled to explain. “Maybe it is for most women, Guy, but I don’t like being the center of attention. I want to get married, I want to be married to you, and as soon as possible. I don’t want to take months over it.”
He shook his head in exasperation. “Don’t you understand, Petra? A rushed, unceremonious wedding will look as if we have something to hide, as if you don’t really want to be my wife.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said with a stubborn twist to her lips. “It’ll look as if we wanted a quiet and quick wedding.”
“And what impression does that give?” he demanded. “Think, Petra. Think of the whispers.”
She looked at him in dawning understanding. “But that’s ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “Why would anyone dig for a scandal?”
“Because, my dear, I do not have a lily white reputation,” he stated bluntly.
Petra grimaced. “But that’s got nothing to do with me. Besides, I don’t give a fig for what people are saying.”
“No, you’ve made that abundantly clear, but in this instance as it happens, I do.” He regarded her in the ensuing silence, reading her frustration on her mobile countenance. After a moment, he sighed, saying, “I won’t insist on Hanover Square, or even London at all. If you prefer we will be married from your family home in Somerset. But the guest list has to have the right names on it and the customary rites have to be observed. The engagement will be formally announced, there will be an engagement party, that can be as small and intimate as you wish, but the wedding itself is a different matter. I’m sorry, my dear, but I have to insist. I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re riding roughshod over everything I believe in and wish for,” she retorted. �
�Supposing I say I won’t be married like that?”
There was silence in the library. Guy didn’t move, merely looked at her steadily. Petra returned the look, her face set, even as she felt her heart banging against her ribs. Had she just issued an ultimatum? Finally, Guy said, “That is, of course, your prerogative, Petra. But I have to say I would be deeply sorry for it.”
Petra stood up slowly. “I think I’m going home now,” she said, her voice sounding as if it came from a great distance. “I’ll ask Babbit for my hat and gloves.” She started to walk to the door. “I’ll make my own way.”
Guy stepped swiftly in front of her, opened the door, and holding it half open he put his head around and called into the hall. “Babbit, Miss Rutherford needs her hat and gloves.” He closed it almost completely and turned to look at her. She was very pale, her expression still set, and she made a conscious effort to stiffen her shoulders under his gaze.
“Come. I’ll walk you home.” He held out his hand. “Once we’ve both slept on it, we’ll find a way out of this silly impasse.”
It was the worst thing he could have said in such a lightly dismissive tone. “You think it’s silly?” Petra demanded, sounding incredulous. “You can dismiss my wishes, my concerns, so flippantly.” She pushed past him into the hall. “I don’t want your company, Guy. I intend to walk home alone. If you insist on following me it will make everything worse.” Taking her hat and gloves from Babbit, she stalked out of the house, walking quickly, almost blindly, back to Brook Street. She half expected to hear his steps behind her, but there was only a deafening silence.
How could such a glorious afternoon turn so dismal in the space of five minutes? One moment there was a whole wonderful future to anticipate, the next a wasteland.
She walked blindly into the house and up to her bedroom, closing the door behind her and sitting numbly on the bed, making no attempt to take off her hat and gloves.
Chapter Fourteen
Guy stepped back into the library and closed the door. He poured himself a whisky from the decanter on the sideboard and went to the French doors, staring sightlessly out at the large garden, bathed in the last rays of the setting sun.
How the hell had that gone so wrong? One minute Petra was radiant, her usual vivacious self, eager to plan for a future, and the next, she was as stubborn and mutinous as a mule. Prepared to cancel that future for something so unimportant.
But was it unimportant?
Honesty raised its inconvenient head. If it was unimportant, why was he insisting on following his own wishes? But he knew why. He had too many secrets, even if most of them were imagined. Once the engagement notice was published tongues would be wagging, the gossips would have a field day. Guy Granville, confirmed rake and bachelor, had been finally dragged to the altar, with an innocent, not quite ingénue, to boot. There would be endless speculation as to how Petra Rutherford had captured such a prize, and if society was presented with a fait accompli then the gossips would have even more to play with. Why was the wedding celebrated quietly, in secret? What were they hiding? What was wrong?
He wouldn’t subject Petra to that.
He refilled his glass. He wouldn’t subject himself to it either. He had never felt the slightest urge before now to couple his life with another person. He enjoyed women, but he had always managed to keep them in a separate compartment of his life. Petra had crept up on him. Insidiously she had made herself necessary to his happiness. He wanted her part of his life, he wanted to hear her laughter every day, to feel her presence in the air around him, to enjoy her radiance, bask in her sunny insouciance. Even when she exasperated him with her stubbornness, her self-determination, her refusal to compromise, he loved her for it. As a man who had little interest in making close friends, who was accustomed to consulting only his own wishes and needs and confided in no one without reservations, he wondered at Petra’s ease and intimacy with her friends, at her deep-seated affection for her brother, at the openness of her manner, her ready assumption that people meant well, and that no one would deliberately set out to hurt someone else.
It inspired in him the desire to protect her from the world’s unkindness, the careless cruelties and the deliberate ones. The image of Clothilde rose in his mind’s eye. There was a woman capable of manifest cruelties. Beside Petra, she was a monster of selfish carelessness. And he would not allow a single barb from her malicious tongue to touch Petra. She would try to hurt her, he was under no illusions there. Clothilde did not relinquish what she considered hers without a fight, and if she could see a way to cast doubt on the integrity of this marriage, she wouldn’t hesitate to do so.
It was imperative he marry Petra with all the extravagance, all the public spectacle, all the conviction of a man certain of the rightness of what he was doing. Somehow he had to make Petra understand that.
He drained his whisky glass and set it down decisively. This couldn’t be left to fester, God knew what knots Petra was tying left to her own thoughts. No one would be back from the races for several hours yet, there was time to put this right before the world and his wife barged in with their opinions.
He went to a door at the back of the library and opened it into a small inner office he kept purely for his parliamentary business. It was where his secretary was usually to be found on days when Parliament was sitting, but this evening it was empty. He unlocked a drawer in the oak desk and took out a key, going to the bookcase on one wall and gently tapping the spine of a green leather tome. The section of the bookcase slid back to reveal a safe. Guy unlocked it with his key and took out a small square velvet box. He flipped it open, checked the contents, then slipped the box into his coat pocket. He locked the safe, slid the bookshelf back into place and left the office.
He left the house, bareheaded and gloveless, walking quickly to Brook Street, ordering his arguments in his head. He had to keep his temper in check, however frustrated Petra made him. He had belatedly come to the realization that if he dug his heels in, she would do the same. And he was in no mood for a playground tug-of-war.
* * *
Petra didn’t know how long she sat on the bed, staring into the middle distance, still wondering what had just happened . . . how it was possible to go from the giddy heights of joy to the darkest depths of misery. She was confused and disbelieving, and yet she couldn’t deny what had been said between them. Guy had been adamant and so had she. Why was it so important to him to have this big society spectacle? She had always wanted a small, intimate wedding, ever since she could remember. The traditional little girl’s dream of sailing down a flower-strewn aisle in a cloud of meringue had just never appealed to her. She’d always thought that the most romantic wedding would be a special affair in a little country church in a little village, with a congregation of immediate family and her dearest friends. And afterward, the happy couple would kiss everybody goodbye at the lych-gate and head off into the sunset.
Her lips twisted into a wry grimace. Realistically, of course, it couldn’t be just like that. But Guy’s extravagant vision wasn’t necessary either. There had to be a middle ground. She remembered what he’d said about his reputation. Maybe there would be talk, a certain amount of catty gossip and speculation if they had the wedding she wanted, but what did it matter? They would be married and the talk would die down soon enough when it became clear there was no basis for scandal. If she wasn’t worried about it, and was quite prepared to face it down, there was no reason for Guy to think he had to fight the battle for her.
She jumped at a sharp rap at her door, which opened instantly, before she had time to speak. Guy stepped into the room, closing the door with a firm snap behind him.
“Guy, what are you doing here . . . how did Foster let you come up?”
“I gave him no choice,” Guy said curtly. “We can go somewhere other than your bedroom, if you wish.”
Petra shook her head. “No, we can stay here.” She folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him inquiringly. “Do we ha
ve to fight?”
He shook his head. “Not unless you wish to. I didn’t come here with that intention.”
“I don’t wish to.”
“Good.” He perched on the deep windowsill, crossing his legs at the knee, one foot swinging carelessly as he looked at her with an air of mild exasperation. “What do you know about compromise, Petra?”
“Don’t be so damned patronizing,” she exclaimed, jumping off the bed. “How dare you march into my bedroom and start lecturing me on compromise. You really are a complete arse, Guy.”
The sudden shocked silence was deafening. Petra didn’t move, just stared wide-eyed at him, horrified at what she’d said. Guy looked momentarily astounded, then quite suddenly began to laugh, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Yes, yes, I am, my sweet. You have every right to hurl insults at me. I came with soft words and sweet thoughts in my head and my gremlins got the better of me. Forgive me, and let us start again.”
Petra hesitated, but his laugh was so infectious and the glint in his eyes so inviting that she finally managed to laugh herself. “Yes, perhaps we should. I’m sorry, I should never have called you that, but you made me so furious. What compromises did you have in mind? They can’t all be on my side.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that they should.” He had sobered now, his expression serious again. “I am willing to agree to a small wedding from your family home in Somerset, if you are willing to agree that the engagement will be celebrated in Berkeley Square, in Granville House. I will take charge of the celebration and the guest list, which will be extensive and include every important family in town.”