by Tamara Gill
Madeline laughed. “It will be difficult.”
“My country will manage it,” Gabriella said confidently. “It’s so nice of Lord Bancroft to take us there. And he’s so bellissimo.”
“Well.” Madeline shifted her feet in the carriage, and the back of her neck pricked.
“You’re so lucky,” Gabriella mused, biting into her baguette. She smiled and brushed the crumbs onto her hand and flung them out the window. “But then you know that.”
“Did he say anything to you last night?” she asked.
Gabriella shook her head. “He was busy driving. We moved very quickly.” She paused. “But he did carry you all the way from the carriage to the room.”
“Oh?” Madeline’s voice sounded too high pitched, even for her, and she coughed. “I thought it odd that I didn’t remember entering.”
“All perfectly explainable,” Gabriella said.
“So are you looking forward to Venice?” Madeline asked quickly, desperate to change the conversation.
“Naturally,” Gabriella beamed. She glanced at Madeline. “Not of course that I did not appreciate my time with you.”
Madeline smiled tightly. She was happy for her. Truly she was. But it occurred to her that when they visited Venice, Gabriella would stay with her family, happy to have united them back with their heirlooms. Gabriella wouldn’t need to be a paid companion for a widow in a distant country. She would be with her family and would be praised for her role in securing the family’s heirlooms.
Madeline’s heart pounded. Would she return to England with Arthur? A married woman?
“Lord Bancroft has offered to marry me,” Madeline said softly.
She didn’t think that Arthur could hear them speak over the rattle of the wheels, the crash of the waves against the shore, and the brisk breeze, but she wanted to make sure.
“How wonderful.”
It should be.
At one point the thought of being his wife would have brought her more pleasure than anything else in the world, but now unease swept through her body.
Madeline shook her head. “No. I don’t want to marry again.”
And not to Arthur. Definitely not to Arthur.
Arthur represented everything dangerous. The man had managed to break her heart as a debutante. Wouldn’t he be more dangerous now, as a husband? At least when she’d been a debutante she’d only seen him for a few minutes at a time, jesting with him as they danced the two dances each night that her chaperone permitted. Even that time, though, had not been solely dedicated to him. Dances always involved multiple people in order to form the requisite patterns.
Would he always remind her that he married her to keep her out of prison? Would he leave her in Yorkshire for long periods of time as he spent time in London, with women he’d actually selected, and not one thrust upon him for fear of having their time in prison on his conscience?
She sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time Madeline had been discarded. She’d told herself that she was marrying Lord Mulbourne for practicality, though perhaps she’d always expected some form of love to blossom.
Gabriella’s eyes widened. “You really do not desire marriage? He is very handsome. And he is a marquess. That’s even more special than a baron.”
Madeline’s smile wobbled. She’d been so proud of being a baroness. It had been something for her to cling to. And then her cousin Rosamund had married an earl, and her cousin Fiona had married a duke, and Madeline had felt foolish for taking such pride in her husband’s title.
“He is perhaps acting nobly,” Madeline said hesitantly.
“Are you with child?” Gabriella asked casually.
“No. Of course not,” Madeline stammered. “Definitely, absolutely not.”
Her skin burned.
Gabriella shrugged. “You are a widow, my dear. I know the English are prudish, but I wouldn’t blame you for taking advantage of the handsome aristocrat traveling alone with you.”
Madeline swallowed hard.
“Or,” Gabriella said. “Vice versa.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Only that you’re quite pretty, my dear. You know that. And he has noticed.”
Madeline’s heart thudded in her chest.
“He might enjoy spending the week with a widow,” Gabriella continued. “If he has the sense of morals you claim he has, he might not want to bed debutantes. You don’t have an angry father to chase after him. And of course, you would actually know what you’re doing.”
“That’s enough, Gabriella,” Madeline said sharply.
Her companion’s eyes widened.
“About Lord Bancroft,” Madeline specified hastily. There were some things she couldn’t discuss even with her dearest companion. “We really shouldn’t discuss him. H-he might overhear.”
“Oh.” Gabriella laughed. “That’s true.”
Gabriella began to chat merrily about the cheese. All her dreams were coming true, and clearly even Madeline’s uncharacteristic distemper couldn’t sway her mood.
Chapter Sixteen
When the coach stopped, Madeline approached Arthur as he waited for the horses to be changed. He gulped water from a pump outside and then splashed the liquid over his face. Beads of water dripped over his unshaven cheeks and glistened under the bright sunbeams.
He still wore rumpled evening attire. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous, but he appeared magnificent. He’d flung his tailcoat off, and his shirt sleeves billowed in the breeze.
He couldn’t look less appropriate, but the farmers stopping at the inn seemed much less taken in by the indecent manner the sun shone on his pantaloons, the thin material highlighting every curve of hard muscle.
She averted her gaze from him quickly. No need to linger on symmetrical features or sturdy torsos. She focused her attention on the crumbling stone inn, shading her eyes from the sun.
“Admiring the scenery?”
“Er—yes. The inn is quite intriguing.”
“Indeed?”
She despised the glimmer of amusement that danced in his eyes. Men weren’t supposed to have blue eyes. They were supposed to have brown eyes, preferably one of the duller versions of that less than vibrant color.
She approached him. Hesitation would not help her, no matter how much her heart seemed to desire to pitter patter in unusual rhythms in his presence as if it were practicing to be one of the overly romantic pianists common on the continent.
He smiled when he noticed her. “Wanted to stretch your legs?”
“Mm-hmm.” Somehow even that sound came higher than intended.
Never mind.
She surveyed the field, on the off chance she might see someone suspicious, but the few men in the area, dressed in leather breeches and sturdy shoes, seemed focused on chatting to one another over pitchers of ale.
No excuses.
This should have been a good thing, but broaching the topic of their possible marriage could not be a more unwelcome conversation topic.
Perhaps she’d misheard him, and he’d descend into laughter.
Marrying her of course would be ridiculous. Men weren’t prone to marrying women they couldn’t abide.
She’d had a marriage for purely practical inclinations, and she was in no hurry to repeat it. She was a widow and afforded more independence than other women.
“You told them we would get married,” Madeline said.
He didn’t laugh.
In fact he did the reverse—his face sobered, and he shifted his feet on the gravel ground in a manner that seemed almost embarrassed.
“Oh,” Arthur said. “I am sorry about that. Admiral Fitzroy rather assumed you were my fiancée, and naturally I didn’t want to contradict him.”
“I gathered they were under that impression.” Memories of Arthur’s lips on hers invaded her mind, and she glanced downward as if to feign interest in the ochre colored water pump. She inhaled. “But now that we are not being chased by angry Frenchmen—”
“We don’t know that,” Arthur said seriously.
Oh.
“Well we’re probably not being chased by them.”
“Hopefully not,” Arthur corrected.
“Well, I just didn’t think that was still the plan. Anyway. I’m just surprised that you still want to—”
“It’s not a question of want,” he said hastily. “It’s of duty.”
She blinked. “You know what I am. What I did.”
“The collection is complete now,” Arthur said. “Do you intend to move on to other jewel collections?”
Madeline shook her head, and outrage coiled through her body automatically. “Of course not.”
Arthur smiled satisfactorily. “Then we’re all set. I told Admiral Fitzroy I would marry you and I damned well will do so.”
She blinked. “You should work on your proposal skills.”
“Say yes, and I won’t have to.”
The air seemed to thicken.
“Look,” he said. “You do know how important he is? If he told a single member of the ton I was visiting you late at night… That I dragged him out of bed to rescue you—”
“You did?”
“I promised you I would take care of you.”
“Thank you,” she said reluctantly. That had been nice of him.
She was silent.
“I’m sorry we won’t have time to get you a proper gown made,” Arthur said. “I asked Fiona in my letter to bring something for you.”
“That’s nice.”
He smiled. “I think you are more romantic that you let on.”
“Nonsense.” She lifted her chin. “I am practical. Utterly practical.”
The words came naturally to her. She’d used them many times before.
She’d been proud to be practical and had even spoken dismissively of the more romantically inclined of her gender, who could often be seen circling the Serpentine or spotted under fruit trees in full blossom, as they quoted poetry, unconcerned about dragging the hems of their dresses over England’s oft-muddied ground.
Practical women married the men their aunts and mothers found for them. Practical women knew their dreams should be sacrificed if it led to the greater happiness of their families. Practical women knew to find contentment in doing what was proper.
There was more she wanted to say. Marriage shouldn’t be purely about convenience, should it?
But she’d always told herself, and anyone she felt who might benefit from thoughtfulness in the area, that marriage should be for practicality.
Arthur and she were suitable. And he was clearly convinced they needed to marry for her own safety.
Since she cared about her safety as well, shouldn’t she take advantage of his offer?
“Very well,” she said with a great deal more firmness than she felt.
She strode away from him.
She’d stated her objections, and he’d stated his opinion, dismissing them.
That was that.
After all, what greater incentive for marriage could there be than to protect one’s own life?
I’m getting married.
Chapter Seventeen
The carriage swept over hills, following the ever increasingly winding roads.
The tension that had filled him since Antibes ebbed somewhat, and Arthur guided the horses over the hilly countryside, stopping frequently at coaching inns to change them. Stone castles perched on sharp hills, and vineyards and olive groves were scattered about the countryside.
Arthur considered hiring an Italian to drive the coach for him, but the thought of being confined in the carriage with Madeline and her companion filled him with a strange dread.
Ever since he’d declared his plans to marry her, their time had been more awkward.
Most women would be delighted.
He hadn’t waited seven years since he’d first been declared one of London’s most eligible men to get engaged, only to have his fiancée avoid looking at him.
He grasped the reins more tightly.
It seemed ridiculous that he was so near Madeline, after so many years, but they didn’t know what to say to each other.
He allowed himself to remember how things had been seven years ago. He remembered the feel of her body pressed against his, of her arms looped around his neck, and of her cheek as it rested against his bare chest. He remembered the sparkle of her blonde locks in the dim light.
They’d never even kissed. They’d always been observed. The most privacy they’d had was on balconies at balls, but even then they’d both known that someone could be observing them from the shadows.
But he still remembered all their conversations, and the rush of pleasure he would receive as they danced together. He’d pictured them living in the capital during the season and visiting the opera together. She would be one of the women who actually paid attention to what was happening on stage. He’d imagined her discussing the sets with him and hypothesizing how they could have been improved. When the season ended they could retire to some vast country home that she would manage with ease.
He certainly hadn’t pictured this strange silence between them. He sighed.
Once they got married, he could set her up in a country house. Perhaps he could continue to live his life much as he had before. This time he wouldn’t need to withstand the matchmaking mamas. This time he wouldn’t need to concoct excuses for not desiring to call on the daughters of the ton, who gazed at him with such hopeful faces that he wanted to flee straight away. They would all know he was taken.
He sighed. He’d been a spy and raced into danger with regularity.
Conversations over the merits of curricles and phaetons bored him. Ladies assumed that since he was a man, that nothing held greater interest to him than the intricacies of carriage construction.
But Madeline…
He’d underestimated her.
He didn’t love her of course. He pushed away the strange tinkling that appeared in his heart when he dwelled on that thought. But really, what better match could he hope for? She’d been married and was independent.
No. He’d been right to press for their marriage. He was certain.
*
Madeline had grown accustomed to the rattle of wheels and clomp of the horses’ hooves over the dirt lane. Italy surpassed England in its hill count, and Madeline had even become accustomed to the queasy feeling as the carriage jolted over dips in the road and swung round a never-ending line of bends. A lump seemed to reside in her throat permanently, and even when they halted their travel each evening, it would take her a while to become accustomed to the fact that the earth was no longer moving unpredictably beneath her.
Speaking with Arthur in this state seemed intolerable. Besides, they’d agreed on it—she would marry him once they reached Venice.
And though the thought of completing their journey seemed often inconceivable, given the length of time merely to reach Bologna and Verona, Venice was now nearby.
The carriage halted, and Madeline peered from the window. Vibrant turquoise glimmered outside the carriage window, the color stronger than any sky.
Arthur opened the door to the carriage, and Gabriella and she stepped out. The Adriatic Sea lay before them. Fishing boats and smaller vessels dotted the water. Tall ships glided regally though the turquoise waves, their ivory sails perfectly billowed, like brides marching down aisles with long trains.
“We’re so close.” Gabriella clapped her hands together, and her eyes sparkled. She thrust her face toward the sun and swirled. “Such lovely warmth. So un-English.”
Madeline smiled. Pleasantness was not what came to mind when faced with the sticky air that made her dress prickle and her body overheat.
Madeline was not certain if Arthur was avoiding looking at her on purpose, but his gaze was distinctly turned away from hers.
“I’ll arrange for a boat to take us into the city,” Arthur said.
“Very well,” Madeline said.
He descended the cliff in the direction of a dock below. Boats bobbed in the water, tied to candy colored striped posts, and he soon began a discussion with another driver.
“Whatever is wrong?” Gabriella asked.
Madeline drew back. Evidently her attempts at covering the red stains under her eyes had not been successful. She felt a pang of jealousy for the women of the last century who’d been able to cake their face in white powder.
That would be very useful now.
Gabriella’s eyes were filled with concern.
“It’s nothing,” Madeline said.
Gabriella didn’t say anything.
But her right eyebrow inclined all the same, and Madeline still felt her skin flush.
“Is it about the marriage?” Gabriella asked.
“The marquess believes we should marry for my safety.”
This time both of Gabriella’s eyebrows darted up, at a rather faster pace than normal.
Madeline shrugged. “He managed to convince Comte Beaulieu to release me, telling him that I had sneaked into the ball as his betrothed because I’d missed him so much.”
“And they believed him?” Gabriella smiled.
Madeline remembered the kiss they’d shared. She nodded. “But if I show up in England not married, then I’m—”
“Once again the prime suspect?”
“And then who knows what other evidence they could find,” Madeline said miserably. She shook her head. “Forgive me. I’m being silly. I know that I’m lucky. I should take advantage of Lord Bancroft’s offer.”
Gabriella smiled. “He’s arranged for his sister-in-law to bring a wedding gown for you. I think it’s rather more than an offer.”
Madeline nodded. “You’re right.”
“Cara mia, I am not finished,” Gabriella said. “You are very welcome to stay with my family. For as long as you want.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You speak French beautifully, and it will not take much for you to master Italian. There’s no lovelier city in the world than Venice. And should you tire of it, the continent does offer plenty of wonderful alternatives. You need never return to your foggy, rainy country again. Especially if you do not desire to marry.”