Lady at last

by Annabelle Anders

  Oh, that sounded horrible!

  Penelope did not seek Hugh out the next day. She assumed he’d had to travel to Plymouth, perhaps, in order to obtain a special license. She hoped the time away would give him pause to reconsider her claims.

  It would be so sad for all of them if he persisted in his martyrdom, refusing to believe that he’d had any part in it all.

  For he had, yes, he very well had, and lurking beneath Penelope’s guilt was a growing anger at her reluctant fiancé. But as quickly as she acknowledged it, she pushed it back down. She was the villain in it all. All she could do for now was wait, and hope.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Penelope’s wedding day was not exactly as she’d imagined it would be. Not that, as a girl, she’d ever fantasized about dressing up and what flowers she would carry and how the church would be decorated.

  She’d had a different dream altogether. She’d thought she would only marry if she found a man with which she could create a perfect union. She’d always thought her wedding day would be a happy one. She’d not in a million years imagined she’d feel as though she might as well be carrying a shotgun down the aisle, forcing an unwilling man to say, “I do.”

  But that was how she felt.

  And because there was not only herself to consider, not only herself and even Hugh, but at least two other lives, she proceeded accordingly.

  Hugh was dressed somberly and still wore the armband for his mother. Penelope, too, wore all black. On top of everything else, she could not bring herself to wear colors, even a subdued lavender, so soon after his mother’s death.

  Rose had tried pressing some flowers into her hand before they entered the small chapel, which had been on Hugh’s estate for centuries, but Penelope refused them.

  She believed that any indication of celebration would only anger her fiancé further. And she did not feel celebratory. She’d won a father for her children but not a husband for herself, really. He’d already told her he did not wish for any affection.

  No, there was no need to celebrate.

  Which left her pledging herself to him with a grim, solemn determination.

  The church was dark and cool, set in a thickly forested area. She presumed the sun rarely struck it full on. Hugh informed her earlier that the vicar would meet them at ten in the morning. Rose and his valet would be witness to the event. Hugh’s sister, Lady Margaret, was to be the only guest.

  They came into the vestibule and then followed the vicar up to the altar. Rose sat behind her, in the front pew, Margaret across the aisle, behind the groom, and Hugh’s valet stood off to the side, a few feet from Hugh.

  The vicar was perfect for the occasion—cold, formal, and humorless. Did he know? Ah, yes, she thought as he looked upon her with what felt like contempt. Her condition was virtually impossible to hide. From the front, a person could not really tell, but when viewed from the side, she was all too aware of what they saw. Her abdomen protruded just slightly more so than her bodice. How could one not know?

  “Dearly beloved,” the vicar began, “we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony: which is an honorable estate, instituted by God himself.” At these words, Penelope glanced over at Hugh. Well, perhaps this marriage was not instituted by God, per se…

  The vicar continued, “Therefore, it is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly; but reverently, discreetly, soberly, and in the fear of God.” These words felt like a sword piercing her heart. This marriage was commencing on the least happy of circumstances! She could not stop the tear that escaped. She forced her eyes to focus upon the vicar’s Bible as he read.

  “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.” Penelope was half afraid that Hugh might speak up at this point. Dreadful day of judgement indeed!

  But a hollow silence echoed about the chapel instead. No one would stop this marriage.

  The vicar turned pointedly to Hugh. “My lord, Hugh Chesterton, Viscount Danbury, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together according to God’s law in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  Without looking over at his bride, Hugh answered firmly, “I will.”

  “And Miss Penelope Beatrice Crone, wilt thou…” His words were lost, and the gravity of the occasion momentarily forgotten when one of the goldfish in her belly fluttered around, feeling more like a trout. She could not help it; a secret smile touched her lips.

  “Ma’am?” the vicar prompted.

  “Oh, yes, yes. I will.”

  Hugh watched her curiously. The vicar instructed them to face one another as he blessed the rings. He then prompted Hugh to repeat after him, “With this ring, I thee wed; with my body, I thee honor; and all my worldly goods with thee I share: In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Penelope had removed her glove before taking his hand and so he was able to slip the ring easily onto her third finger. It was the first time he’d touched her since that kiss on the day she’d arrived.

  Both of them were then instructed to kneel before the altar as the priest read a blessing.

  When it was over, they rose to their feet somberly. It was done.

  Hugh turned away from her as the priest guided them all to the vestibule where they’d entered earlier. It was to become legal now. She signed her name Penelope Crone for the last time.

  She’d yet to inform either her mother or father. It seemed not to matter so much in the face of what she’d done. Her little trout flipped about again. More than one…

  Hugh had almost given in to the intimacy of the occasion. When he and Penelope were declared man and wife, a part of him had wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He’d wanted to erase the worry from her brow.

  His wrath toward her had cooled to an ever-present bitterness.

  It bothered him, those occasions when it slipped, when he had a desire to make her smile or to seek out her opinion on some matter or other concerning one of his estates.

  He ought not to feel any kindness or affection toward her. She was a selfish, conniving, and ruthless human being.

  Margaret had been astonished when he’d broken the news to her. He did not tell her the entire truth, that the baby—babies—she carried were another man’s. Margaret would have no tolerance for his wife, ever, if she were to even suspect such a thing.

  Having been sequestered in her private chambers for the past few weeks, lost in grief, she had not seen Penelope yet. As he had been doing every day since his arrival, however, Hugh joined his sister in her private sitting room in order to take tea with her. He’d been determined to find some time to be with her, to comfort her every day.

  It had been soothing. Although they had several aunts and uncles and cousins, Margaret and he were all that was left of their parents.

  On the evening of Penelope’s arrival, Hugh’d broken the news to his sister.

  “I’m going to be away for most of tomorrow, possibly overnight.”

  “But aren’t there guests in the house?” Ah, so she had been watching many of the comings and goings of the past few weeks. “Was that Penelope Crone who arrived today? I had not realized her connection with mother was close enough to merit a visit from her so soon after the funeral.”

  “Mama’s cousin Matilda left this morning; Uncle Walter won’t be arriving until next week sometime.” But how to explain Penelope and the purpose of his journey. “And yes, it was Penelope who arrived this afternoon.”

  “How very odd,” she said in the emotionless voice he’d grown used to since his return.

>   He did not wish for his sister to hate his future wife. As much as he hated Penelope right now, he would not want for there to be division within his home. “Not so very odd. We are betrothed,” he explained.

  Margaret looked more interested in this statement than anything else he’d said since his return to Land’s End. “Surely, you jest. She is a bluestocking! Not that I don’t enjoy her company on occasion but really, Hugh, she is most definitely not your type. And a future viscountess? Tell me you are joking.”

  Not his type? Did he have a type? He’d not ever really thought about it. He’d simply enjoyed women, all kinds of women, for most of his adult life. There was that thing he had about red hair, however…

  “I am traveling to obtain a special license for us. We will marry before the week’s end.”

  “You cannot marry for a full year, Hugh. You cannot have forgotten the mourning period.”

  “I have not, Margaret.” His voice had been firm. “The lady’s condition demands a speedy ceremony.”

  That quickly silenced her protests. “She is…?”

  Hugh nodded firmly.

  “Oh, Hugh.” She’d reached for the fan on a small table near bye and begun waving it in front of herself a bit frantically. “Well.”

  “Yes.”

  She cleared her throat and then glanced around the room. He realized that her eyes had teared up.

  “A baby?” she asked softly.

  Another man’s baby. “Babies.” He’d best come to terms with this.

  His sister smiled for the first time since he’d returned. “I am not surprised, you know. What with there being twins on both mother and father’s side. And have you forgotten, Hugh, that I am a twin?”

  He vaguely remembered hearing something to that effect. The other child had not survived for even a week. There was a small marker in the family plot.

  If he were the father, it would all make perfect since. Because he was not, Margaret’s statement meant very little to him.

  That had been just two days ago. He’d not encountered any difficulties in obtaining the special license. He’d considered a quick ceremony in the drawing room, or in his study even, but changed his mind when it was time to tell Penelope.

  The chapel on the edge of his property would lend itself to privacy and expediency.

  And, he admitted to himself, a bit of sentiment. It was to be his damn wedding, after all.

  Penelope had agreed with no argument or opinion. And now he stood beside her, pledging his life, his worldly belongings and his fidelity to a woman who had trapped him with his own conscience.

  She was dressed all in black, not a good color for her, and there was no triumph or gloating in her manner whatsoever.

  Smart girl, had she exhibited either, he was not sure he could go through with this.

  He’d seen her refuse the flowers Rose had presented her with. It angered him to feel guilty that the ceremony was so austere. She angered him period.

  How had this happened? Why him? He’d managed to escape some of the most manipulative marriage-minded mamas in all of England for that past decade, but he’d not been able to escape Penelope Crone.

  It was still very difficult to imagine her doing anything so foolish as to give herself up to a man who could never offer his protection. Who had the man been? Did he know the man? If he was a member of the ton, most likely Hugh had played cards with him, or perhaps participated in the same hunt.

  And if the man was not a member of the ton, who then?

  He wished she would simply tell him the truth. He’d at least want to know who the man was so that… So that what? So that he would never come into contact with him? So that he could beat the bounder to a pulp?

  The ceremony passed without incident and Hugh boldly signed the license. It was done.

  Ignoring his new bride, Hugh stepped out of the church and into the smattering of sunlight that managed to penetrate the thick forest covering. Penelope had been driven over in an open barouche. Hugh suspected that he was expected to drive her back to the house in his curricle. Frederick, Rose, and Margaret climbed into the barouche and were promptly whisked away. Everybody seemed to understand that this was no typical wedding.

  He stood silently and watched as the horses and vehicle disappeared down the road through the woods. When even the sound of the crunching wheels could no longer be heard, he became aware that his wife now stood beside him.

  “Hugh?” She placed one hand upon his arm tentatively.

  “I ought to have known you would not heed my wishes,” he said in a cold, clipped manner. “You’ve not cared to heed my opinion where anything else in my life is concerned.”

  “You still wish for me to address you as my lord?” She did not sound sarcastic, only curious… and hurt.

  He let out a long slow breath. He suddenly felt exhausted from being angry. He was not typically a foul-natured creature. “Hell, Penelope, does it matter?” If she began crying, he swore to himself he would leave her to drive herself back to the house alone.

  “Does it matter how I address you? Or does it matter if I respect your wishes? Yes, I think, to both. Contrary to what you believe of me, I do not wish to cause you any more… inconvenience than I already have.” She spoke rationally, as though contemplating a mathematical problem.

  “Inconvenience! Ha! That’s a delicate word for it.”

  “Hugh, I’ve told you the truth. I would never lie to you about something like this.”

  He looked over at her in astonishment. “You forget, dearest wife, that I would have had to be an active participant. You are merely making matters worse by persisting in your assertion that I am your babies’ father.”

  She didn’t say anything for all of a minute. “If I relent, if I admit to you that my story is untrue, then you would feel better about all of this?”

  Hugh nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  She raised her hand to her belly, seemingly unaware that she had done so. “Very well then, if that is what you wish. You are not the father. I have never lain with you.” Her voice sounded as flat as Margaret’s had lately.

  “Well, then.” It made no sense at all that her words left him feeling so hollow. “Are you willing to tell me who the father is, then?” He somehow did not feel any better about this marriage. But he had told her he would. It was a rather large concession on her part, he would make one on his.

  She seemed oblivious of him, in that moment, staring off into the woods, her hand splayed upon her abdomen. “You probably have no wish to hear of this, but I can feel them moving around now. They feel like crowded fish, swimming inside of me.”

  His gaze dropped to her hand. “Is the man married, is that it?”

  She paused and then nodded slowly. “Yes, he is.”

  At last, they were getting somewhere. “Do I know him?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was a mere whisper.

  “Does he know you are carrying? Will he know that my heir is his child?”

  Penelope looked over at him somewhat wistfully. “He knows, but he does not believe it is his.”

  Ah, so she truly had been pinned into a corner.

  Feeling mollified, albeit slightly, Hugh reached out and assisted her onto his curricle. Not the most auspicious beginning of a marriage, but at least he did not feel like strangling her. He picked up the reins and signaled to the horses. As the curricle jerked into motion, he felt a small hand on his arm.

  She grasped onto him for safety.

  It reminded him that he was no longer responsible for himself only.

  No, he had a wife.

  And other… obligations on the way.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Margaret had insisted upon leaving to stay the night with a neighbor, rather than remain in the manor with the newlyweds on the first night of their married life. As much as Penelope had tried to convince the prim and quiet woman that such a courtesy was not necessary, she would not relent.

  Hugh returned her to the house but then
said he was going for a drive.

  She would spend the evening of her wedding with Rose.

  “Carson is spending the evening away, at a card party,” Rose said pointedly. Carson was Hugh’s valet. Did that mean Hugh did not plan on returning tonight or did it mean that he did? “Most of the staff has been told to make themselves scarce.”

  “By whom?” Penelope said. She and Rose were furiously knitting. It had become something of a passion for the both of them.

  “Lady Margaret.”

  “Ah.” Although everyone, it seemed, knew of Penelope’s condition, it was becoming apparent that he had not shared the entirety of what he believed with his sister or anybody else. Penelope pulled at the yarn she was using so that she would have a bit more slack.

  It was very quiet in the house—too quiet.

  “I still cannot believe that you would tell him he was not the father.”

  Penelope stilled her hands and dropped them into her lap. “He has been so cold and angry, Rose. There has been no tenderness from him, as there had been in London. It’s as though I am no longer even his friend anymore. I had to do something, say something. It seemed the right thing at the time. And it seemed as though some of his anger left him after that. Perhaps one day, somehow, he will believe the truth.”

  Rose clucked her tongue in disapproval. “When will you tell your parents? What will you tell them?”

  “I need to speak with Danbury about that. I thought to send out announcements, but I am uncertain as to what his reaction will be if I do.” She picked up the stitch where she’d left off. “I wrote to Abigail last night. I told her everything. I know that she, at least, will not hate me for what I’ve done.”

  Abigail was her cousin and dearest friend from as long as Penelope could remember. Abigail had been ostracized from the ton the year of her debut after a reprobate of the worst kind took advantage of her and then told tales of it. Though no fault of her own, she’d found herself unmarried and increasing. That had been almost a decade ago.