When the duke went up to dress, he let Hoare know of the impending nuptials in the same offhand way. Hoare wept, but then he wept over buttons and over-starched neckcloths. The only reason Marchmont hadn’t sacked him was that he was used to him and it was too much bother to get used to somebody new. Everybody knew this, including Hoare.
After the master went out again, Harrison summoned the valet, cook, butler, and housekeeper to his luxurious parlor. He gave them sherry and assured them that Marchmont House would continue to run as it had always run. There would be a slight augmentation of the staff in order to properly attend to the increased responsibilities. Otherwise, all would go on as usual. While there was bound to be a short period of adjustment at first, he did not expect significant interference or disruption in the day-to-day operation of the duke’s establishment.
To Mrs. Dunstan he later confided, “I foresee no difficulties whatsoever—fewer, in fact, than might attend had His Grace chosen differently. The Mohammedans do not believe in educating women. Everyone knows there’s little in ladies’ heads but fashion and scandal. This lady will know even less of household matters than the average English gentlewoman, and she will be less inclined to tend to them. We must not look upon this as a catastrophe but as an opportunity to enlarge the establishment.”
Had Mrs. Dunstan harbored any lingering anxieties or doubts, Harrison’s confidence banished them. The following day, all the upper servants were cheerfully bustling about and bullying their inferiors, to prepare the house to receive its new mistress.
As to the unpleasant episode during her brief visit to Marchmont House—Harrison refused to let it trouble him. Once the lady lived under his roof, he told himself, she, like everyone else, would live by his rules.
Later that night, the duke paid a call to Lady Tarling.
Wearing the same wry smile she’d adopted on a previous occasion, she opened yet another velvet box. This one was green. This one contained a set of three gold floral bouquet brooches, set with colored diamonds.
They had been made to be worn separately or attached to form a tiara.
“How beautiful,” she said.
“I’m getting married,” he said.
She nodded and looked up. She was not surprised, except at how little the news surprised her. “I see.”
“I preferred that you not read about it in the papers first,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. Whatever others might say, she had never deemed him entirely heartless. Or if he was, his good breeding masked it well.
She had heard rumors already. One always heard rumors, half of them nonsensical, but this one she’d found believable. Perhaps she’d seen this day coming weeks ago, on the night he’d brought her the other generous gift. It might have been then, or maybe on that morning in Hyde Park. She wasn’t sure when it was, but at some point it had become clear to her that this man had given his heart elsewhere, a long time ago, whether he knew it or not.
Being prepared as well as intelligent, she accepted the news good-naturedly and congratulated him as a friend would do—and really, he’d been no more than that in recent weeks.
For what small regret she might feel, the magnificent brooches were more than adequate consolation.
By Friday afternoon, Marchmont had obtained the special license and ordered the ring. He went next to White’s, where he settled various wagers about whether he was or was not engaged to Miss Lexham and placed a bet against himself that he’d be married before the end of the month.
Thus, by the time Society descended upon Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, everybody knew and everybody was talking about it.
At six o’clock, the Duke of Marchmont appeared in Rotten Row. He rode alongside Miss Lexham, who wore a rich blue riding dress of the latest mode. Those able to get close enough said the color matched her eyes exactly. A dashing plumed hat perched on her dark gold tresses. She rode a spirited gelding, which she managed with ease.
The lively beast did want managing, for their progress was slow. Even bitterly disappointed mamas and their equally dismayed unwed daughters hid their feelings. They, like everyone else, wanted to be known to the next Duchess of Marchmont. Everybody was made known to her except the ladies who’d shied away from her at the Birthday Drawing Room. These Marchmont somehow failed to see.
On Friday evening he dined en famille with the Lexhams.
The family gathered in the library after dinner, as they always did on informal occasions.
It was then Lexham said, “I heard about that ridiculous wager of yours, Marchmont.”
“So many fit that category,” said Marchmont. “To which one do you refer?”
“The one about whether you would or would not be wed by the end of the month. May I point out, firstly, that there’s only one of you—and some might take this as a sign of your turning into Lady Sophronia—and secondly, you’ve less than a week until the end of the month. Would it not be logical to settle it with Zoe?”
Zoe had been exceedingly proper all through dinner. Her dress was exceedingly improper. Once again her breasts were insecurely tucked into the world’s tiniest bodice. At present she stood at the window, looking down into Berkeley Square, where, at this hour, she was unlikely to see anything.
From where he sat, Marchmont had a profile view of her. The candlelight glimmering in her hair and throwing part of her face into shadow made her seem remote, even mysterious. He felt uneasy and found himself wondering whether he did know her, after all. Then he told himself he was ridiculous: It was only a trick of the light.
Thrusting aside doubt, he said, “I find I’m not in favor of long engagements. Zoe, would you mind being married next week?”
“Next week?” said Lady Lexham. “But I thought that was one of your jokes. A short engagement, indeed.”
He remembered then that Zoe was the last of their children. They’d probably want to send her off in style, with a great party. It was, after all, no small thing to have one’s daughter marry a duke. The trouble was, this duke had been one of the family for so long that it was easy, here, to forget his adult position in the world. Here, in some ways, he still felt like Lucien de Grey. Even when he was a boy, the Lexham family rarely used his title. Only in company was he “Lord Lucien.” Zoe had called him that only when she was poking fun at him—or furious with him.
“How thoughtless of me,” he said. “You’ll want a great breakfast or dinner or ball or some such. Those things take time, I’m told. Well, then, sometime in May, perhaps.”
Zoe turned away from the window and gazed at him in the way she sometimes did, as though she thought she could read him. Nobody could read him, he knew.
“A wedding feast?” she said. “Is it necessary?”
“I think your parents would like it.”
“You may find this impossible to believe,” said Lexham, “but my lady and I were young once, too. Life is short and unpredictable. Your parents hadn’t long to enjoy their happiness. Make the most of time, I say. But there, what does Zoe say? You’re subdued this evening, my dear. Have you become awestruck, suddenly, at the idea of becoming a duchess?”
“Not yet, Papa,” she said. “I was only debating which dress to wear to my wedding.” She gave Marchmont an absent smile. “I don’t like long engagements, either. I think it would be fun to marry on the last day of the month.” She laughed, and it was Zoe’s laughter, easy and light, and the sound brightened the room. “I want to see you pay yourself for the wager.”
On Saturday morning the Duke of Marchmont arrived at Lexham House in a state of uncertainty. It was a feeling he rarely experienced and one he didn’t like. This time, though, he couldn’t shake it off or thrust it into the special mental cupboard. It clung to him like a great, prickly cocklebur.
He wasn’t expected, but it never occurred to him to send notice ahead, since he’d never done it before.
He found Zoe in the breakfast room, surrounded by her sisters, all of them cawing and squawking as usual.
“There you are,” one cried as he entered. “It simply can’t be done.”
“Out of the question,” said another.
“She has no trousseau.”
“After all our hard work to make the world accept her,” said Augusta, “and then for her to be married in such haste, and in this appalling hole-in-corner way? Unthinkable. We must have at least a month.”
“June would be better,” said Priscilla. “Dorothea and I expect our confinements in May.”
Zoe looked at him, rolled her eyes, and recommenced buttering her toast.
“The Duchess of Marchmont,” he said, “may wed when and where she pleases. Nothing the Duchess of Marchmont does is ever hole-in-corner. If the Duchess of Marchmont wishes to make haste, then the world must make haste with her. Your-Grace-that-is-to-be, when you’ve finished your breakfast, I should like to speak to you in a place where your sisters are not. I shall await you in the library.”
He went to the library.
It was blessedly quiet.
He wasn’t.
He walked to the fireplace and stared into the grate. He walked to the window and took in the view of Berkeley Square. One carriage. Two riders. Two people walking in the direction of Lansdowne House. A small group emerged from Gunter’s and walked toward the little park. He remembered what the square had looked like a few weeks ago, on April Fool’s Day, the day he’d come here intending to unmask an imposter and found instead the girl he’d lost twelve years ago.
Now they were engaged to marry.
Thirty days, from the time he’d walked into the small drawing room of Lexham House and spied her sitting in the chair to the day he’d set for their wedding: this coming Thursday, precisely at the end of the month.
Thirty days, start to finish.
Thirty days, and he’d be finished as a bachelor.
That didn’t worry him. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It was his duty to wed and beget heirs, a duty drummed into him practically since birth: Though Gerard had been the heir, carrying on the ancient line was too important a matter to be left to only one male of the family.
Wedlock didn’t worry Marchmont. He foresaw no great changes in his life. What worried him rested nearer to hand.
He left the window and paced.
Hours, days, months, and years seemed to pass before something made him turn toward the door.
He must have heard her footfall without fully realizing. She paused in the doorway.
Her posture was correct. Her morning dress was correct, covering her arms and her bosom completely. But no other Englishwoman stood in quite that way. No other Englishwoman could linger for a moment in a doorway and create images in a man’s head of her falling back onto pillows, her clothing disordered, her gaze sleepy with desire.
“Thank you for silencing them,” she said as she entered. “You’ll wonder why I let them carry on so and don’t argue with them. The trouble is, if I do argue, it takes forever to finish my breakfast, and everything gets cold. In the harem, we had outbursts all the time, much worse than this. Women screaming, threatening, complaining, hysterical. I tell myself I’m used to it. I tell myself to let it wash over me, to pretend it’s a storm raging outside. But it’s very aggravating, and I’ll be so glad to move into your house, and make rules about how many sisters may be allowed at a time and what times they are allowed.”
It had never occurred to him that she might make rules in his house; but the realization came and went, quickly supplanted by the momentous thing that was about to happen, and about which he was experiencing doubt such as he hadn’t known since boyhood.
“Whatever you like,” he said distractedly. “I have something for you.”
Her entire being seemed to still. “A gift?”
“I’m not sure one calls it a gift.” He patted his coat. Which pocket had he put it in? Which one had he finally settled on? He’d taken it out and put it back a hundred times. “One moment. I know it’s here somewhere. Hoare became hysterical, because it spoiled the line of my—Ah yes, there it is.” He drew out the small velvet case from the pocket concealed in the lining of his tailcoat’s skirt.
She stiffened and folded her hands over her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Nothing,” she said. “I think I know what’s in the little box.”
“In general terms, I daresay you do.” He opened the container, his hands a degree less steady than they ought to be. He told himself this was absurd. How many times, to how many women, had he given jewelry?
He took out the ring and stared at it. Somehow, this morning in the shop, it hadn’t seemed quite so…quite so…
“My goodness.” She raised her tightly folded hands to her bosom. “It’s big.”
It was enormous, and perhaps, after all, too large for her hand: a great, brilliant-cut center diamond surrounded by smaller ones. He should have given the goldsmiths more time. They’d had to hurry. They’d misunderstood. They’d got it wrong. But no, Rundell and Bridge never got it wrong.
“Rundell was shocked,” he said. He was uncomfortably hot, and not in the good way, the lustful way. “He showed me scores of elegant, tasteful diamond rings. But I told him I wanted a great, vulgar stone, one that people could see flashing from a mile away.”
“Oh, Marchmont,” she said.
“Perhaps you could unclench your hands,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
“Give me your hand, please,” he said.
She drew nearer. She put out her hand.
His heart beating unevenly, he slipped the ring onto her slim finger. It fit, as it ought to do. He’d been there, hadn’t he, when she was measured for gloves—for everything.
His heart continued its erratic nonsense all the same.
She held her hand up and watched the diamonds flash in the daylight streaming through the windows. There wasn’t a great deal of sunlight in this room at this time of day, but it flashed.
“It’s wonderful,” she said softly.
“It is?”
She nodded, gazing down at it. She took in and let out a long breath. He watched her bosom rise and fall.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Elegant, tasteful rings are for lesser women. The Duchess of Marchmont must wear a diamond that could serve as—as a lighthouse beacon in an emergency. Oh, Marchmont.”
She laughed then, and flung her arms about his neck. Her soft body went along.
He wrapped his arms about her and pulled her close. He buried his face in her hair and drank in the summer scent of her. She tipped her head back, inviting him, and he bent his head to accept the invitation. His mouth touched hers, soft and warm and fraught with memories: the Green Park and Hyde Park and the wild heat in the corridor of this house and in their mad coupling in his aunt’s carriage. His hold of her tightened.
A loud “ahem” came from behind him.
He and Zoe hastily sprang apart.
“The thirtieth, I see, will be not a minute too soon,” said Lord Lexham. “Marchmont, we had better find a way to keep you occupied. Come along to my study. Let us reach an agreement about the marriage settlements before we summon the lawyers and they begin wrangling.”
On Sunday, Priscilla arrived at the crack of dawn. She was obviously overflowing with news, because she pushed past Jarvis and burst into Zoe’s bedroom mere moments after Zoe stepped out of her bath.
It was harder to bathe in England than it had been in Cairo, but daily bathing was one Mohammedan custom Zoe refused to abandon. Here she had only a portable tub, not a great pool, and no coterie of slaves to wash and massage her and remove the hair from her body and oil and perfume her. But the English were not troubled by hair, and she didn’t need the other attentions. The tub served the main purpose.
“He chose it himself,” Priscilla said.
“Chose what?” Zoe said as Jarvis wrapped the dressing gown about her.
“The ring.”
“What ring?”
“That monstrous great stone of yours. The engagement ring.”
“Oh,” said Zoe. “That was obvious.”
More obvious than she could have supposed.
He’d hidden it well, but she had been trained to see and hear what men hid. She was coming to understand him better. She was learning to read him better.
He’d thought about her.
He’d cared about whether she liked the ring or not. Cared deeply.
She felt a sob welling in her chest.
She told herself not to be a sentimental idiot. She told herself his caring was only his pride. She told herself not to imagine he cared deeply about her. Even if that was true for the moment, it wouldn’t last. He was a handsome, wealthy, powerful man. Every woman wanted him, and he knew it. To expect him to give his heart to one woman only was ludicrous.
She told herself she understood this about him and she could live with it, must live with it. But she cared and would never stop caring—he had lived in her heart all the time she’d been away—and she wanted him to feel the same.
She kept the tears back while she moved to the fire, where her morning chocolate awaited on a tray, alongside the newspaper.
She must have done too good a job of hiding her feelings, because Priscilla, apparently thinking her insufficiently impressed, said, “You don’t understand, do you? Marchmont never does that. His secretary always buys gifts. For everyone. Royals and relatives and mistresses alike.”
“If one of his concubines has a diamond from him like that,” Zoe said, “I shall have to accidentally break her finger. And his head will accidentally collide with a chamber pot.”
“No one has a diamond like that,” said Priscilla. “Oh, Zoe, may I see it again?”
Jarvis was told to fetch the ring. She brought it in its little box to Priscilla, who only opened the box and looked at the ring but didn’t touch it. “Put it on,” she said.
Zoe did so. The morning light caught in the facets and flashed rainbows.
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