* * *
In a scant two hours, she had been fed, bathed and dressed, handed a nosegay of tiny pink roses and led down the stairs and through the ballroom to the chapel. The same crowd that had gathered yesterday to see men stab each other were seated in several rows of gilt-legged chairs, waiting for the festivities to start. The Comstock’s daughter, Mercy, barely old enough to walk without the help of her nurse, was wandering through it all with a basket of rose petals, alternately strewing the ground and putting them in her mouth.
The only thing missing was the groom.
The Countess checked her watch again and raised an eyebrow, then led Abby to a bench in the chapel to wait.
* * *
It was past ten when the Earl appeared in the doorway to the entrance hall, gesturing to his wife, who went to speak to him. Then, he disappeared up the main stairs and the Countess returned to sit beside her.
‘There have been complications,’ she said, offering the Prescotts an inscrutable smile.
‘The weather,’ Abby said, thinking of the roads.
‘Among other things,’ the Countess, replied. ‘Mercy, do not bother the puppy.’ She disappeared for a moment to rescue the black-and-white dog who was being pelted with flower petals.
The Earl reappeared in what must have been a quick change of clothes and freshly polished boots. ‘Miss Prescott. Mrs Prescott.’ He bowed to each of them before setting the church register he’d been carrying at the side of the altar.
* * *
It was now ten past eleven and the guests were growing restless, as was the bride. Abby had a horrible image of her beloved, standing three months ago alone at the altar of St George’s, waiting for a woman who would never arrive. Perhaps this was some horrible joke to pay her back for what she had done. Perhaps she was still asleep and it was a nightmare.
‘He is not coming,’ she said, staring at the Earl in resignation.
‘Nonsense,’ the Earl said, in a tone that was not particularly convincing. ‘There were complications.’
‘What complications?’ She sounded shrill and far too loud. And, as they had been doing since the moment she’d arrived here, the other guests were whispering to each other, trying to imagine what was happening.
On the other side of the ballroom, the Countess was conferring with Lady Beverly, who burst into inappropriate laughter before covering her mouth and rushing from the room.
Next to her, the Earl smiled. ‘There are certain conditions attached to the licence that need to be met so the marriage can be legal. You are within the three-month period—’ he checked his watch ‘—for another thirty minutes, at least. It is not yet noon.’
‘But I need a groom,’ she reminded him, thinking back to the time just a day or two ago where a situation like this might have frightened her into a megrim. She was far past headaches now, in a place where normal emotions no longer applied. ‘Where is Benedict?’
‘Apparently, it was also important that one of you be from the local parish,’ Comstock said, gently.
‘But we are from Somerset,’ she replied.
‘And the Danforth property is in the north,’ he agreed. ‘And, as of this morning, here.’
‘Here?’
‘I sold him a cottage in the village. Not the land, of course, since that is not mine to give. But he owns a cottage. Then we had to persuade the vicar, who wanted him to be a proper member of the parish. After some discussion of ecclesiastical law, I persuaded him that a second baptism was not necessary, but there was the matter of a mass...’
‘He went to church without me?’ she said, baffled.
‘We can but hope so,’ the Earl replied. ‘I am not absolutely sure that Danforth’s temper was going to hold until communion. I left during the sermon, which was rather long. The topic was fornication.’
‘Oh.’ She wanted to argue that there would not be a problem, for Danforth did not have a temper.
But Benedict did.
Then, the front door opened with a force that slammed it against the wall. Everyone turned to see the Duke, her Duke, her beloved Benedict, spitting fire and muddy to the waist and dragging a black-coated man through the entryway. He pushed the vicar ahead of him, towards the Comstocks, and paused, bracing himself against one footman as the other one yanked the muddy boots from his feet.
Then he stomped through the ballroom to the chapel, giving the vicar a dark look that had the man reaching to his Bible for protection. But as he arrived at Abby’s side and looked down into her eyes, his anger seemed to evaporate. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Just as I always imagined you would be.’
‘And you...’ she said, staring at him and smiling. He was stocking footed, in mud-soaked breeches and had left his dignity somewhere on the road between the village of Comstockton and the Manor’s front door. He was nothing at all like the man she had seen in Almack’s three months ago. But he had moved heaven and earth to be with her and arrived with fifteen minutes to spare. ‘You, Your Grace, are too wonderful for words.’
* * *
If you enjoyed this story check out these
other great reads by Christine Merrill
The Wedding Game
A Convenient Bride for the Soldier
And be sure to read the books in her
latest miniseries Those Scandalous Stricklands
“Her Christmas Temptation”
in Regency Christmas Wishes
A Kiss Away from Scandal
How Not to Marry an Earl
Keep reading on for an excerpt from A Wife Worth Investing In by Marguerite Kaye.
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A Wife Worth Investing In
by Marguerite Kaye
Chapter One
Paris—August 1828
Though it was long past midnight, the oppressive heat of the day had not dissipated, having been trapped by the tall, elegant buildings which lined the street down which Owen Harrington wandered aimlessly. He was not exactly lost, but nor was he quite sure where he was. Having crossed to the Rive Gauche at Notre Dame some time ago, the Seine should be somewhere on his right. He thought he’d been walking in a straight line, assumed that he was headed west, but the streets of Paris, as he had discovered to his cost several times in the last week, were not laid out in a neat grid. Instead they veered off straight at an imperceptible angle, often arriving at an unexpected destination. Rather like the locals’ conversation.
He had been away from
London for less than two weeks, but already felt disconnected from his life there. It had been the right decision. He was not trying to avoid the commitment his late father had made on his behalf, he planned to honour it, but he could not embrace it as his sole role in life. He still had two years’ grace, time to be alone to be himself, free to do as he pleased, to discover a sense of purpose that would also accommodate his father’s wishes. He had no idea what form this might take, but he was already excited by the endless possibilities waiting to be explored.
Above him the sky was inky, the stars mere pinpoints. The air, redolent of heat and dust, felt heavy, forcing him to slow his pace, encouraging him to dally. A faint beacon of light caught his attention. The lamps from a café tucked down a narrow alleyway flickered. Intrigued, for most establishments had closed their shutters hours ago, thinking a very late digestif might be just the thing, Owen decided to investigate.
The main room of the Procope Café was dark-panelled, smoke-filled. Two men were frowning intently over a chessboard cleared of all but five pieces. Around a large table, another group of men were disputing their bill, while a bored waiter looked on, answering Owen’s mimed request for a glass of something strong with a shrug, pointing at the ceiling. He returned to the foyer and began to climb the rather elegant staircase. The first floor was silent, the doors of the rooms, presumably private dining salons, all closed, their customers either long departed or wishing to be very private indeed. A burst of laughter lured him to the top floor. The room was built into the eaves and stretched the full length of the café. Black and white tiles covered the floor, the narrow windows were flung open to the Paris night, the red-painted walls lined with banquettes which were crammed with late-night drinkers. Lamps were hung from the rafters, their muted light giving a rosy glow to the café’s clientele—though perhaps that was the wine, Owen thought, which was in plentiful supply, with large earthenware jugs jostling for space on the tables.
No one paid him any attention as he stood in the open doorway. It was one of the things he liked about this city, being entirely anonymous and quite alone, lurking on the fringes, listening and watching. The French were so much more garrulous than the English. They conducted conversations at top speed, using their hands expressively, talking over each other, spinning off at tangents, around in circles, but never quite losing the thread.
There were no free seats. Disappointed, he was about to leave when two young men got up from their table. He stepped out of the doorway to let them pass, but they had stopped at another table where a woman sat alone. She had her back to the room, facing one of the open windows, and had been writing in a notebook, head bent, making it clear that she had no wish to be disturbed. Though not clear enough, it seemed. The two late-night revellers were hovering over her. He could see her shaking her head forcibly. Her posture gave the impression of youth, though he couldn’t say how. Was she a courtesan? In London, there would be no doubt about it, but in Paris it seemed to be acceptable for women to dine in the cafés, to enjoy a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. Though alone, and late at night? Surely even Paris was not that decadent.
Owen looked around, but the waiter now was engaged in an altercation with one of the bill-hagglers and no one else was taking any notice of the woman’s plight. One of the men took a seat beside her. She gesticulated for him to leave her alone. The other caught her arm. She leapt to her feet to try to free herself and was roughly pushed back down on to her chair. Owen was across the room before he was aware he’d made any decision to intervene. It occurred to him that he might well be embroiling himself in a dispute between a demi-mondaine and her clients, but it was too late to stop now, and whatever the relationship, it was clear the men’s attentions were unwelcome.
Though he didn’t doubt his ability to see the pair of them off, he was not particularly inclined to get into a fist fight. Hoping that the fair damsel—exceedingly fair, he noted as he arrived at the table—would instinctively follow his lead, he greeted her with a broad smile.
‘I have kept you waiting,’ he said in French, ‘a thousand apologies, ma chérie. Messieurs, I am grateful to you for keeping my little cabbage company, but now I am here, you understand that you are de trop?’
He allowed his smile to harden as he stood over them, making sure that they could see his clenched fists but making no other move. There was a moment when the decision could have gone either way but Owen knew to wait it out, and sure enough, the man at the table shrugged and got to his feet, clapping his friend on the back and nudging him toward the door.
‘Bon nuit, messieurs,’ Owen said, standing his ground, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the men until they had left, before turning back to the woman at the table. ‘Will you allow me, madame, to keep you company just for a few moments, in case they return?’
‘Please, sit down. Thank you very much, monsieur. May I offer you a glass of wine? Unless you prefer to drink alone?’
She smiled up at him tentatively, and Owen found himself gazing down into a face of quite dazzling beauty. Her hair was a rich burnished gold threaded with fire. Her eyes, almond-shaped, thickly lashed, seemed also golden, though he supposed hazel was the more prosaic term. She had a pert nose, a luscious mouth, and the hint of equally luscious curves under the demure neckline of her dress. If he’d had a poetic bone in his body, now would be the moment to spout some verse.
He did not spout poetry and he didn’t gawk! ‘No,’ Owen said, rallying, ‘it is merely that I did not wish to intrude, madame, since you clearly do prefer to be alone.’
‘I’m waiting for someone, actually.’
‘Then with your permission, I would be delighted to act as your chaperon until they arrive,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Owen Harrington.’
‘Ah, you are English?’
‘As English as you are, judging by your French, which is excellent but not without accent,’ Owen said, reverting with relief to his native language.
‘My name is Phoebe Brannagh, and I’m actually Irish.’ She poured him a glass of wine. ‘À votre santé, Mr Harrington.’
‘À la vôtre, Mrs Brannagh.’
‘It’s Miss Brannagh.’
‘Miss Brannagh.’ He touched her glass, taking a sip of the very quaffable wine. Her voice was cultured. Her clothes were expensive, as was the little blue-enamelled watch she was consulting. Miss Phoebe Brannagh was most certainly not a member of the demi-monde, which made her presence here rather shocking. ‘You are waiting for a friend, a relative?’ he hazarded.
She snapped shut the watch, rolling her eyes as she returned it to her reticule. ‘He is very late. As always,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m waiting for Monsieur Pascal Solignac.’
She enunciated the name with such reverence, Owen was clearly expected to know who the gentleman in question was. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid...’
‘The celebrated chef. Perhaps you’ve not been in Paris long?’
‘A week.’
‘And you have not dined at La Grande Taverne de Londres? My goodness, where on earth have you been eating?’
‘At places like this, by and large.’
‘Oh, the Procope is all very well if you like honest hearty fare, but really, Mr Harrington, one comes to Paris to dine, not to eat. Have you heard of Monsieur Beauvilliers, the author of L’art du Cuisinier, the bible of French gastronomy? My sister bought me one of the first English editions. Monsieur Beauvilliers’s restaurant closed some years ago, following his death, but La Grande Taverne de Londres has reopened with Pascal at the helm—Pascal Solignac, I mean. He has elevated cooking to another plane and is the talk of Paris, Mr Harrington, I can’t believe that you have not heard of him. Perhaps you prefer to drink rather than eat?’
‘I eat to live, I’m afraid I don’t live to eat, which probably makes me a culinary philistine in your eyes.’
She gave a burble of laughter. ‘I
love food with a passion. If it were not for the heat of the kitchen and all the running around, and being on my feet for fourteen or fifteen hours at a stretch, I should be as fat as a pig at Michaelmas.’
‘Good lord, are you a chef?’
‘Not yet, but I hope to be some day. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to find work in Pascal’s kitchen for the last nine months. I’m on the patisserie station at the moment.’
Owen hardly knew what to make of this. ‘I’m no expert, but I’m not aware of any female chef working in a restaurant kitchen in London.’
‘It’s very unusual, even in Paris. In fact, I am the only female in the brigade.’
‘And how do the other staff react to having a beautiful woman in their midst, and English to boot—I beg your pardon, Irish—my point is that you are not French. Do they see you as a interloper?’
Once again, she laughed. ‘I have earned my stripes the hard way, peeling sacks of potatoes and chopping mountains of onions—that is a rite of passage in a professional kitchen, Mr Harrington. Fortunately, my eyes don’t water, for I’ve been chopping onions and peeling potatoes since I was this height,’ she said, touching the table top.
‘You astonish me. It is obvious from your accent that you are well born.’
She gave a pronounced Gallic shrug. ‘Oh, I’m born well enough, I suppose, though what matters to me is not the colour of the blood in my veins but my determination to live life to the full. In that sense, I take after my mother.’
‘So she approves of your being here?’
Her face fell. ‘I believe she would, if she were alive, but I lost both my parents and my little brother six years ago. I hope she would have been proud of me, for I’ve already achieved far more than I expected in such a short time. In a restaurant kitchen, you know, a strict hierarchy exists. You have to earn your place, and any promotion. To reach patisserie in just nine months is almost unheard of. To be honest, there are days when I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.’
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