Sacrificing the Untamed Lady Henrietta: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “You are forgiven,” Ewan chuckled. “There is time. I daresay I do not need three hours to prepare.”

  “Your bride certainly will,” Gerome chimed, and Ewan nodded.

  “Ladies tend to be more laborious with their appearance.”

  “I hope she is a comely girl, My Lord.”

  “As do I, Gerome. As do I.”

  “Are you well acquainted with the Olivers?”

  Ewan eyed the butler, slightly taken aback by the boldness of his question, and instantly, the servant paled.

  “I am too familiar, My Lord. Forgive me. As a newcomer, I do my best to understand the relationships here. I was quite out of place.”

  “You were not,” Ewan replied quickly. He did not mind Gerome’s questions. He remembered that not two weeks earlier he had looked to the servant for an ear himself.

  “I have never previously met the Olivers before this engagement,” Ewan told him. “Although my father does insist they are held in high esteem. I assume that is so—I could not imagine my father would like the Clark bloodline tainted with sordid familial ties.”

  “Bloodline? Do you intend to start your family immediately?”

  Ewan’s face clouded suddenly.

  “Now you are too familiar,” he snapped at Gerome who balked and bowed his head.

  “Of course, My Lord. Forgive me,” he groveled. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

  “You may fetch me that water now, Gerome,” Ewan told him curtly, his heart pounding. The mention of children instantly dissolved his illusion of rationality.

  I shall not touch her, Ewan swore as Gerome disappeared. I will not.

  The Marquess knew what a scandal it would cause if anyone were to learn he did not consummate the marriage, and Ewan did not deign for any such talk.

  I will only need to ensure that Miss Oliver does not spend her days gossiping among the abigails.

  He hoped he would not need to resort to desperate measures to ensure such a thing.

  * * *

  The Duke appeared at nine thirty, dashing in a top hat and new top coat. His eyes lit up at the sight of his son.

  “You look like a proper gentleman, Lord Peterborough,” Phineas teased. “If I did not know differently, I would think you a duke’s son.”

  “A Marquess perhaps?” Ewan replied dryly, and the men chuckled in unison.

  “Shall we? The reverend awaits eagerly. He is more excited about this union than you, I am certain.”

  “Father, I have forsaken my protests,” Ewan assured him. “I am certain that you have chosen wisely for me.”

  “I am pleased to hear you say so, Ewan. I think you will be quite pleased with Miss Oliver.”

  There was a lilt under his words which was unmistakable.

  “Father, have you a secret you wish to share?” he asked but the Duke only laughed.

  “You will see for yourself soon enough.”

  “I understand Miss Oliver is quite attractive,” Ewan said begrudgingly.

  “It is more than that, Ewan but again, you shall see if I can ever tear you from this room.”

  “I will follow you, Father,” he laughed. “Come along.”

  For a moment, he felt like the man he had been before Patricia had died. It was difficult not to be in high spirits when his father seemed so proud of himself.

  “Your mother will be overwhelmed with emotion when she sees how handsome you look.”

  “I daresay, Father, you are acting uncharacteristically sentimental today.”

  “Am I?”

  Ewan cast him a sidelong look as they moved along the corridor, but Phineas did not meet his gaze.

  “Godspeed, Ewan,” the Duke told his son when they reached the landing atop the stairs.

  “Thank you, Father. I shall see you in the chapel.”

  Phineas paused to embrace him before scurrying away to take his place with his wife. Ewan paused for a moment to steady his breath before beginning his own descent.

  Most of the guests had taken their places, but a few watched him as he shuffled into the chapel in the east wing of the manor. There were smiles and nods, gentle greetings but no one stopped him from taking his place at the altar before the minister.

  “Lord Peterborough,” the Reverend Michael Smithers intoned. “You make a fine bridegroom.”

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  Ewan turned his attention toward the pulpit and smiled at his mother in the pews. Her kind eyes shone with tears and Ewan was beginning to feel that perhaps, despite all of his deepest reservations, his parents had done the proper thing by presenting him with this opportunity. He thought of the Duchess’ words.

  Perhaps I do require a wife to consider. I became a better man for Patricia. She did bring forth the best in me.

  Such a whirlwind of highs and lows had overwhelmed him for over a year. It was time to put the past in its place, let the memory of Patricia rest, and move forward with his life.

  Across the aisle sat the General and his wife. Aaron stared at him unflinchingly, his gaze neither a challenge nor one of interest. The man may as well have been studying a piece of art impassively at a museum. Tabitha wore a smile frozen on her lips, her blue eyes darting about like she was trapped inside her body, longing to escape. Ewan was relieved that they would both be leaving the following morning. They made him distinctly uncomfortable, and he could not help but imagine what an offspring produced by the two might look like.

  If Miss Oliver is fair, she would take more after her father.

  Ewan hoped Henrietta was considerably more feminine than the bear of a man perched on the bench. An usher appeared at Aaron’s side and murmured something which Ewan could not hear, but as the General rose, the Marquess knew it was time to meet his bride.

  Aaron disappeared through the doorway, and Ewan cast the minister another small smile as the organ began to play.

  “Are you quite ready?” Reverend Smithers whispered.

  “Yes.”

  No sooner had the word left his lips did his dark eyes fall upon the lace-clad figure entering on the arm of the General. Instantly, Ewan’s heart began to thump, his eyes searching her face, but of course it was covered by a powder-blue veil to match the conservative, floor-length gown which hid her figure. Not one iota of flesh was visible from gloved hand to leather shoe and the anticipation of seeing her was giving him palpitations of the heart.

  “Dearly beloved,” Reverend Smithers commenced. “We are gathered here today in the name of matrimony. Who does give this bride to her husband?”

  “I do,” Aaron replied, an unexpected flatness to the words as he untangled his arm from his daughter and stepped aside. Instinctively, it seemed, Henrietta turned toward the General as though to implore him to stay. It sparked a sense of sadness in Ewan.

  Of course, he had considered that Henrietta would have reservations also, but watching the exchange in that moment made the reality of their union stunning. More so when Aaron refused to look at his daughter, despite the plaintiveness in her face. Anger overtook Ewan’s sadness. He could not fathom why the General could not offer her a reassuring smile at minimum.

  “Shall we commence?” the Reverend asked, and Ewan forced his eyes away from Aaron.

  “Please.”

  “We are here, under the eye of God, in the presence of family, peers and friends to join a well-matched couple in the holy bond of marriage.”

  Henrietta’s shoulders were raised in tension, and Ewan wished desperately to remove the veil from her face, if only to look deeply into her eyes which he could barely see were blue. He longed to tell her that he would not be cruel to her, and while they might not have a union born from romance, they might have a happy future together.

  Provided she does not expect intimacy.

  “Recite these vows to your betrothed as I say them,” Reverend Smithers continued. “I, Ewan, Marquess of Peterborough, take thee, Henrietta Oliver, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for bette
r for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance.”

  “I…” Ewan faltered slightly but quickly regained his composure and echoed the vow.

  “You must now do the same, Henrietta. Repeat them as I speak the words. I, Henrietta Oliver, take thee, Ewan Clark, the Marquess of Peterborough, to be my wedded husband . . . to love and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance.”

  There was a soft murmuring from the crowd, but Ewan barely heard it. He felt as though he had been standing at the altar for far too long as it were, and the desire to rip the veil away was becoming insurmountable. Perhaps sensing his anxiety, Reverend Smithers cleared his throat and nodded.

  “By the power vested in me, in the name of God and the Church of England, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may now raise the veil and look upon your bride.”

  He did not waste another second, his hands fumbling to find the edge of the delicate lace before he moved the garment away, his pulse rushing through his ears.

  Ewan froze, choking in shock as the bluest eyes returned his gaze.

  He dropped the veil and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief. The guileless irises followed his movement, widening in surprise and hurt.

  “What is it?” Henrietta breathed, alarmed and shamed. “Am I not what you expected, Lord Peterborough?”

  She looked helplessly toward her parents who were equally perplexed by what was happening, but no one overtly explained the issue to her.

  Ewan whirled to stare at his parents, the betrayal filling his chest.

  “How could you do this?” he gasped. “You add insult to injury!”

  “No!” the Duchess protested, her face paling. “You should be pleased!”

  “Please,” Henrietta whispered. “What is the meaning of this? Is it something I have done?”

  “Come along, Lady Peterborough,” Reverend Smithers implored her. “Lord Peterborough needs a moment to collect himself with privacy.”

  Ewan looked about the chapel blindly, unsure of which way to turn. He was overwhelmed with confusion.

  “Come with me, Ewan.” The Duke marched toward his son and took his arm, leading him from the gossiping crowd beyond but Ewan wrenched his arm free.

  “How could you find this acceptable? I had only learned to accept the fact I was getting married again,” he mumbled desolately. “Was this done purposefully?”

  “Ewan, I am stunned at your reaction. What is the matter? She is comely, charming—”

  “You know precisely what the matter is! She looks…” he could not finish the thought aloud, his breath catching in his chest.

  “There is a resemblance, Ewan, yes. It is why we considered her to be such a decent match.”

  “A resemblance?” Ewan growled skeptically.

  “Indeed. Nothing more.”

  “You are wrong!” Ewan retorted hotly. “It is far more than that! What am I to make of this?”

  “Your new wife is a gift from God,” the Duke told him firmly. “He wanted you to have what you lost again. That is precisely how your mother and I see it and you should too. You have a second chance now. You must not forsake it. You see Patricia everywhere you look. It is natural, but you must not fight this. If you permit yourself to look without blinders, you will see they are very different women—inside and out.”

  Ewan wished with all his heart to believe what his father was saying, that God had sent Patricia back to him, but he knew that Henrietta Oliver was not his beloved Patricia.

  No matter how identical they may appear on the outside, Ewan thought grimly.

  Chapter 10

  Henrietta was stunned.

  Insult to injury? Did I hear him correctly?

  She watched as the Duke escorted his crazed son from the chapel, unsure of what exactly had just happened. Her arrival in the duchy had seemed promising, and she had begun to allow herself to hope that all might be well after all, even with Molly in tow. Her mother’s praises of Nightingale rang true as the manor was undeniably impressive. The Duke and Duchess had greeted her upon arrival with kindness, and their well wishes left Henrietta with a lingering sense of optimism. The Marquess certainly cut a fine figure, dashingly handsome as he waited for her at the small altar with the Reverend. His eyes were dark and troubled though, and she wondered if perhaps all was not well with him. Even so, he was perfectly composed and when his strong jaw softened with a smile, she felt it was especially for her, perhaps to put her at ease. If that had been his intention, he had succeeded. So, what had just happened exactly?

  All was going well until the Marquess had lifted my veil.

  She turned helplessly toward her parents, still sitting in the first row, but their faces expressed as much confusion as hers. The din of astonished guests began to rise within the small chapel as the hushed but heated conversation between the Duke and his son continued just outside in the vestibule. As Henrietta felt her knees grow weak, the Reverend was at her side to offer his support, and he gently led the bride to the safety of the pew.

  The sight of me quite clearly repulsed him.

  Her mother took her hand and squeezed it firmly in support.

  “This is a complete disaster,” Henrietta gasped, her face hot and blotchy. She pressed her palm over her lips and closed her eyes, hoping to keep the dam from releasing a flood of tears.

  The General, finally shaking off his shock, rose and directed his ire at the Reverend.

  “What is the meaning of this? I demand to know what is going on!”

  “Dear sir, please be calm,” Reverend Smithers entreated.

  Clearly not calm, the General turned to face the Duchess. “This is absolutely unacceptable! Have you an explanation, Your Grace?”

  Henrietta could bear it all no longer. The dam burst, her nose ran, her breath stuttered as she tried to take a deep breath; she wanted to upchuck her breakfast. And she was consumed with the desire to run— to run away from everyone and everything. Her overbearing father and his secret spies, her placating mother, and this man, this Marquess, who thought her so ugly he could not look at her without completely losing all composure.

  It was all so surreal. Her eyes spotted a door behind the altar. She hoped it was a door to the outside, a door to freedom. Jumping up, she took the risk and darted toward it. The calls of her mother and the Reverend to wait were distant and muffled as she distanced herself from the altar.

  Throwing the door open, Henrietta hitched up her skirt and ran. She ran away from the chapel with everything in her. Across the sprawling lawns, she found her full stride, gulping as the cold air burned her lungs. She ran like the wind, no longer kept as her father’s prisoner, denied her dreams, married off against her will, only to be mortified by this Marquess.

  No more. For this moment at least.

  The sobs came uncontrollably as she collapsed where the great lawns ended, and the woods began. Nightingale was behind her now, but was still imposing even from such a goodly distance. It would not, of course, go away, and neither would her father, or his expectation that she just be content to be a good wife. Nor would that Marquess go away.

  Her husband.

  She shivered at that word, angrily wiping her runny nose with the back of her gloved hand. What kind of man was he anyway? All that carrying on like a child! Leaving her to stand there withering in confusion and shame while he prattled on about resemblances and conspiracies.

  Husband. Humph.

  She sighed. No, unfortunately for her, none of this would go away. But neither would her dreams. And she would not give them up despite the discouragement that pressed in from all sides, threatening to swallow her whole. She would get through this disastrous day, and somehow — she shivered again — she would get through this fiasco, and life would go on. She would renew her quest to attend medical school with fresh determination. She would just simply have to find a way.

  She sat up and looked ba
ck toward the house. There was a small crowd of people running toward her— her father’s henchmen, Ronscales and Davids, leading the way. Behind them, other Nightingale household staff, Molly and even her mother, tried to keep up. The lack of decorum for a normally demure Tabitha was unusual, but given the scandalous nature of the morning’s events, Henrietta could only sigh. Again.

  What a ridiculous sight.

  She watched her mother eventually give up the chase, dramatically clutching at her chest. An ever-dutiful Molly turned to help her back to the manor house.