Someone to Romance

by Balogh, Mary

  Bertie Vickers came to Gabriel’s hotel suite the following morning in time to go to church with him. Gabriel had asked him to be his best man.

  “I say, Gabe,” he said, looking his friend over from head to toe, “you look as fine as fivepence. It is a shame you are not getting married at St. George’s on Hanover Square with all the ton to gaze upon your splendor.”

  Gabriel had decided upon knee breeches and stockings and buckled shoes and a lace-edged neckcloth. Even the sleeves of his shirt were edged with lace rather than plain starched cuffs. His breeches and waistcoat were silver gray, his tailed coat a darker gray. His stockings and linen were snowy white. Horbath had excelled with the folds of his neckcloth, and he had placed a diamond pin in just exactly the right place. He hoped he had not overdone the outfit, but Horbath had assured him he had not.

  “A man has only one wedding day, sir,” he had said.

  “It is quite enough,” Gabriel said now, “that I will have all the Westcotts and your parents in attendance, Bertie. Weddings are an abomination.”

  “Ah. You had better not let your bride hear that, old chap,” Bertie advised. “Weddings are the breath of life to females. M’mother bought a new hat. M’father will have to sit three feet away from her on the church pew so that he don’t get clipped over the ear every time she turns her head.”

  Gabriel chuckled, though he was feeling a bit too bilious for proper amusement. Who could have predicted that he would be nervous on his wedding day? He was horribly afraid that he was doing the wrong thing. All night he had been remembering snippets of what Jessica had said to him in that rather impassioned outburst at Richmond Park. She was really two persons, was what she had been saying—the very aristocratic Lady Jessica Archer, sister of the Duke of Netherby, and the person who lived within that aristocratic outer shell. She had wanted him to find that person, to romance that person. She had wanted him to fall in love with her, even if she had not used that term and had even, in fact, denied it.

  She had wanted to fall in love herself, as her cousin had done, the one who had been more like a sister to her, the one for whom she had sacrificed her own expectations of happiness. And good God, it had seemed to Gabriel during the past few weeks that that family of hers on her mother’s side, the Westcotts, set great store by romantic love. They were a family of what looked like closely bonded couples. A goodly number of them had been out on the ballroom floor last night, waltzing. With each other. It must be almost unheard of. Husbands did not often dance with their wives. Husbands did not often dance. At least, not in his experience.

  Yet despite what she had said to him there at Richmond, he was marrying her—in rather a hurry—because of her outer self. Because she was a duke’s daughter and as aristocratic as it was possible for a lady to be. Her natural public demeanor was hauteur itself. She was not the sort of woman who was likely to crumble before anyone who tried to intimidate her. Rather, she would draw herself to her full height, peer at her assailant along the length of her nose, and reduce that person to the size of a worm about to be trodden upon. He would feel comfortable going back to Brierley with Jessica as his wife and countess. No. Comfortable was not the right word. There was no comfort to expect from what was facing him. She gave him courage, then. Not that he had the smallest intention of leaning upon her.

  It was time to go and get married. He shook out the lace that covered his hands to the knuckles and looked around for his hat and gloves and cane, which Horbath had of course set out neatly by the door.

  He did like her, he thought. And he certainly wanted to bed her. She was a beautiful and appealing woman. The prospect of making love to her tonight, in fact—here in his hotel suite—quickened his breathing. He just wished there had been more time to romance her, to give her more of what she had wanted. He was cheating her of that. Perhaps after they were married . . .

  “Oh, I say,” Bertie said. “I almost forgot. Message from m’mother, and m’father told me to be sure not to forget to tell you, though he can do so himself later, at the wedding breakfast, of course. Rochford arrived in town last night.”

  Gabriel stood very still, one kid glove half on his hand, as he looked back at Bertie. “Anthony Rochford?” he said. “Did he go somewhere?” Now that he thought about it, the man had not been at the ball last night. That was unusual for him.

  “No, no,” Bertie said. “His father. And his mother too. Come to celebrate being the new earl, I daresay. You will be missing all the fun, Gabe, if you insist upon leaving town tomorrow. Can’t think what your hurry is with the Season in full swing. I don’t know why m’mother was so particular about that message. Perhaps she hopes you will change your mind and stay a while longer.”

  “Manley Rochford,” Gabriel said.

  “That’s the name,” Bertie said. “Makes one hope he is not small and puny with a name like that, don’t it? He would have been ragged mercilessly at school. Slipped my mind to tell you. M’mother would not have been pleased. She already thinks there is no one on this earth more shatter-brained than I am. Are you going to finish putting that glove on, Gabe? A lot of young women are going to go into mourning after today, you know.”

  Gabriel pulled on his gloves and adjusted the lace over them. Horbath had appeared from nowhere to hand him his hat and cane and to hold the door of the suite open for them and bow them on their way.

  So, Gabriel thought as they made their way downstairs. This news was going to change a few things.

  There had been a dress at the back of Jessica’s wardrobe for two years. It had never been worn, though it had gone back to the country with her each summer and returned here with her each spring. She had always loved it, but she had never been able to decide what occasion was suitable for it. It was not quite an evening gown, but it was a bit too fussy for afternoon visits or even garden parties. It was, she sometimes feared when she looked at it—and she often drew it out to hold it against herself and admire it—too young for her. It was white, a color she had avoided since her first Season, when white had been almost obligatory. But it also had pink rosebuds embroidered all over it, spaced widely over most of the dress, clustered in greater profusion about the scalloped hem and the edges of the short sleeves. A silk sash to tie beneath her bosom added a splash of color. It was pink, one shade deeper than the rosebuds.

  This week she had understood why she had never worn it before. She had been unconsciously saving it for her wedding day. Not that it would have been suited to just any wedding day, it was true. But for this one? It was more perfect than perfect. Oh dear, her former governess would wince if she heard that logical impossibility spoken aloud. She had held the dress against herself the night their wedding day had been set, after Ruth had left her dressing room, and she had twirled before the full-length mirror and known that nothing else would do.

  She was wearing it now, and she felt like a bride. How was a bride supposed to feel? She did not know about other brides, but she felt—euphoric. Was she being foolish? There was after all nothing truly romantic about her proposed marriage with Gabriel. She must not make the mistake of believing that a daily rose, the touch of his little finger to hers on the keys of a pianoforte, a light kiss in a rose arbor, a deeper kiss at Vauxhall, equated romance. Or, if they did in a way, they did not equate love. This was not a love match on either side. It would be unwise of her to deceive herself into thinking that perhaps it was.

  She felt euphoric anyway. Because she liked him and found him knee-weakeningly attractive. She felt quite breathless when she thought about tonight. She was a virgin, of course, but she was not going to be a shrinking virgin. She wanted it, whatever it turned out to be. She wanted it very badly. With him. Not with anyone else. There could be no one else. Not after Gabriel.

  She did not stop to analyze that thought. She wanted to go to Brierley with him and help him sort out whatever mess was awaiting him there. She could do that. It was the sort of thing she had been raised to do with ease. She could be very lady-of-th
e-manorish when she chose. Goodness, was there such a term? She had learned the effectiveness of a remote sort of haughtiness from Avery and, to a lesser degree, from her mother.

  Her mother came into her dressing room now, looking very elegant in deep blue—not quite royal and not quite navy but something of both. Ruth was placing Jessica’s new straw bonnet over the coiffure she had been working on for almost an hour, and then tying the wide pink ribbons to one side of her chin before taking a step back to look critically at her handiwork. She made one adjustment.

  “You will do, my lady,” she said—a lengthy speech for Ruth.

  “Oh, you will do very nicely indeed,” Jessica’s mother said, a bit teary eyed as she held her arms wide to hug her daughter. “I wish your father could see you now.”

  Jessica had often wondered if her mother had loved her father. She rarely spoke of him. Yet she had never shown any interest in remarrying.

  “I must not crush you,” she said after a brief, warm hug. “Jessica, you are doing the right thing, are you, dearest? You are not marrying Mr. Thorne just because he is the Earl of Lyndale? You do love him? Love is so important in marriage. I loved your father, you know. Very dearly. Even though he was a duke and I was an earl’s daughter and love ought not to have mattered. And he loved me.” She brushed at a tear that threatened to spill over onto her cheek.

  Ah.

  “I am doing the right thing, Mama,” Jessica assured her, and she felt that surely, surely she was speaking the truth. Liking could be love too, could it not? A certain kind of love?

  “Well,” her mother said. “We must not keep Avery waiting. He is downstairs now. So are Anna and Josephine.”

  The younger children were to remain at home. But Josephine had learned to sit still, even for an hour-long Sunday service.

  Jessica suddenly felt a pang of regret that Abby would not be at the church. Or Camille. Or Harry. She had written a long letter to Abby, a shorter one to each of the other two. She did not know when she would see them again—a melancholy thought. But such was life, she supposed, when one grew up. Today, however, was not for melancholy. Today was for her and Gabriel. Today was their wedding day.

  She pulled on her long white gloves, hesitated a moment, and then drew the single rose from the vase on her dressing table and dried it off with a napkin. It was yellow today, as it had been the morning after the garden party, where he had kissed her for the first time. She had worn primrose yellow on that occasion, and in the rose arbor she had stood for a few moments, cupping though not quite touching a yellow rose between her hands.

  He had remembered, she thought. For today, their wedding day.

  She took the rose with her, holding it by the long stem, careful not to touch the thorns.

  Sixteen

  They had chosen a small, insignificant church on a long, quiet London street—the very church, in fact, where Anna and Avery had married eight years ago.

  This wedding was better attended than that had been. Indeed, this particular street had perhaps never seen so many grand carriages all at once, not just moving along it but also stopping, one behind another. They waited, all of them, after the passengers had alit, liveried coachmen and footmen polishing off the small stains of travel and tending the horses. Passersby, intent upon their daily business, stopped to gawk and, if they were in pairs or trios, to wonder and speculate. The flower-bedecked carriage that stood directly outside the church was an indisputable clue, however, that a wedding was taking place inside. Several people settled in to wait, any urgency they had felt when they set out on their various errands forgotten. It was not often there was any grand spectacle to behold in this part of London.

  All the Westcotts then in town and those with family connections to them were there. So were Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers. And Albert Vickers, their son, of course, was Gabriel’s best man.

  The pews, even in so small a church, were not filled, but there was a feeling of warm intimacy, something Gabriel found a bit intimidating as he awaited the arrival of his bride. All the guests must be wondering—except the very few who knew the truth—why Jessica was marrying a mere Mr. Thorne from America, who had been rather vague about the inherited property and fortune that had brought him home to England. Certainly all must wonder why the formidable Duke of Netherby had given his blessing to such a seemingly unequal match. But all had come regardless, to celebrate with one of their own, who was old enough to make her own decisions and had decided to marry him, title or no title, mystery or no mystery.

  The Duchess of Netherby with her eldest daughter and the dowager duchess were the last to arrive, a sure sign that Jessica and the duke were not far behind. The two ladies and the child took their places in the front pew, across from Gabriel and Bertie. The duchess smiled, the child looked at him wide eyed, and the dowager nodded graciously. Then the clergyman appeared from the vestry, dressed in simple white vestments, and lit the candles on the altar before turning to look back to the door of the church. There was a rustle of new arrivals and Gabriel got to his feet and turned.

  Netherby, like him and unlike anyone else as far as Gabriel could see, was formally clad in knee breeches and evening wear. But Gabriel scarcely noticed him. Jessica was almost simply dressed in contrast with her brother—and him. She was all delicate in white and pink, and the yellow rose he had sent this morning. In the cool semidarkness of the church interior, with its slightly musty old-church smells of stone and prayer books, candle wax and incense, she looked nothing short of gorgeous. Her posture was proudly erect, her chin was raised, and her expression was stern and haughty. She was looking at him seemingly along the length of her nose.

  But she was not just the aristocrat he had wanted and chosen almost at first glance. She was also Jessica. It was a reassuring thought. He smiled.

  Her chin came down by half an inch, her eyes widened, her lips parted—and she smiled back.

  After that he more or less missed his own wedding, Gabriel thought later when he looked back upon it and tried to remember details. It was very brief. There was no music, no ceremony, no full service. Netherby gave him Jessica’s hand and took the yellow rose, and the clergyman addressed everyone gathered there as dearly beloved. Jessica in a clear voice promised to love, honor, and obey him. He promised to love and cherish and keep her for as long as he lived. Bertie almost dropped the ring and muttered something not quite appropriate for the place or occasion as he juggled and caught it and handed it over with a flashing grin. Gabriel slid the ring onto his bride’s finger. The clergyman pronounced them man and wife.

  And all the while Gabriel had gazed into her face, wondering if it could possibly be true that he was getting married, that his life was irrevocably changing. And all the while too he had waited for uncertainty, even panic, to grab him by the throat. It did not happen.

  He wanted to be married. To her. To Jessica.

  And suddenly—but surely she had only just arrived in the church and taken his hand—suddenly he was married.

  They were married.

  And she was smiling at him a little tremulously. The clergyman was gesturing with one arm toward the vestry, where they would sign the register, and Netherby got to his feet to join them and Bertie there as a witness. The dowager duchess came with Netherby. Then the congregation chuckled as the little girl—Netherby’s daughter—spoke aloud.

  “Grandmama,” she said, “Papa forgot to take Aunt Jessica’s rose. You take it. Be careful not to prick your finger.”

  And they laughed into each other’s eyes, he and Jessica, and tears brightened hers before she blinked them away and bit her upper lip.

  They were married and she seemed happy about it.

  He would make this work, Gabriel thought. He would make a success of it. He had done it before, though in an entirely different way and under different circumstances. When he went to America, he had no experience of earning a living and certainly no experience with the sort of labor Cyrus offered him. But he had done it. He had wo
rked hard—mostly hating it at first—and had succeeded. He had kept on striving and had come to love his employment before Cyrus died. He had kept on succeeding afterward, but only because he had never slackened, had never taken his success for granted. He would make his marriage a success in the same way—by working hard on it every day of his life. It was what he had promised a few minutes ago, was it not?

  The dowager duchess hugged both her daughter and Gabriel after they had signed the register. Netherby hugged his sister and gave Gabriel a firm handshake. Bertie wrung his hand and bowed to Jessica and called her Mrs. Thorne. And it was time to go back into the church to greet her family and his godparents. There was to be no formal procession out. They had decided that it would be a bit ridiculous. Only smiles and greetings wherever they turned, and endless handshakes and back slappings and a few hugs.

  “I thought,” Lady Hodges told him, “that Avery’s wedding here to Anna could not be surpassed in loveliness, Mr. Thorne. And I was quite right. It has not been. But it has been equaled today.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “But I must be Gabriel, please.”

  “Elizabeth,” she said, smiling kindly at him. “Welcome to the Westcott family, Gabriel.”

  Jessica, he saw, was locked in the arms of a tall, thin young man, who was rocking her on the spot and laughing.

  “I came yesterday,” he was saying as Gabriel approached, “because Mama had been pestering me to stop being a hermit for five minutes. I came just for a week, just long enough to be measured for a new coat and boots. And what should I discover when I got here but that you were getting married today, Jess? Abby is not going to be happy to have missed it. Nor is Camille.”

  “Oh, but Harry,” she protested, drawing back from him, “Abby did not wait for any of us to attend her wedding. Only you did because you were already there at Hinsford. But how simply wonderful that you are here today of all days. I would have had a tantrum if you had arrived tomorrow. And you are looking well.” For a moment she cupped his face with both hands, having set her rose down on the end of a pew, but then she saw Gabriel standing slightly behind her.