“Besides,” Dianna continued, “I’m not as brave as you.”
“Am I brave or foolish for marrying a veritable stranger?” Charlotte questioned out loud.
“Who says there’s anything wrong with being a little bit of both? Now go,” said Dianna, ending the hug and giving Charlotte a tiny push towards the carriage. “Your Mr. Graystone is waiting.”
“He isn’t my Mr. Graystone.”
Dianna’s blue eyes sparkled. “He will be soon.”
Yes, Charlotte supposed he would.
How odd to think she was leaving London engaged to a duke…and returning as the wife of a commoner. High Society was going to be beside itself when the gossip began to make the rounds, but she couldn’t dwell on that at the moment. Not when she had more pressing matters to concern herself with, such as a wedding…and a wedding night.
Charlotte paled.
Between accepting Gavin’s proposal, tending to Dianna, feverishly packing, and rushing out to meet the coach, she hadn’t had time to contemplate what would happen after she was married.
Her husband-to-be had made it clear he didn’t desire children. But did that mean he wished for a mariage blanc? That was to say, a marriage without consummation? Without passion? Without desire?
His words from the masquerade had said one thing, his kiss on the night they’d met another, and uncertainty followed Charlotte into the carriage after she bid Dianna a final farewell.
She watched her friend getting smaller and smaller out the window, and when they rounded a corner and Dianna disappeared completely, she closed the half curtain and leaned back in her seat.
The interior of the coach was upholstered in soft black velvet with satin pinned to the walls and ceiling. It was easily the most well-appointed vehicle she’d ever traveled in, even finer than Paine’s four-in-hand, but she couldn’t marvel at its beauty when her stomach was filled with rocks.
Intercepting Tabitha’s worried glance, she mustered a small, crooked smile as Mr. Smith handily navigated London’s narrow, twisting streets. Normally traveling across the city could take upwards of two or three hours, that time comprised primarily of sitting in congested traffic, but with it being so early their carriage was the only one on the road and they were able to pass through busy intersections unhindered.
Charlotte didn’t know whether their swift advancement made her feel better…or worse.
“I am nervous,” she admitted, wringing her hands together.
“You’ve every right to be.” Tabitha’s brown eyes were filled with understanding. “If I were you, I’d be shaking in my boots. But it’s a good thing you’re doing, Lady Charlotte.”
“I hope so,” Charlotte sighed. “I truly hope so.” Lulled by the rocking of the carriage, she closed her eyes and soon slipped mercifully into sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Gretna Green was a small village just past the northern border that divided England and Scotland. Accessible by the Great North Road, it had become a commonplace destination for those desiring a quick marriage without the consent of their parents and beyond the judgmental eye of the ton. Once being married in England had been a simple affair, but after Lord Hardwick’s Marriage Act of 1753, it took a turn for the complicated.
Banns were required to be read in the church where the wedding would take place, not once, or twice, but three times over the period of twenty-one days, effectively eliminating any wedding of haste. If a couple wished to wed without the reading of the banns then they needed to obtain a special license, which would only be granted if both parties were of age and there was no impediment…such as the bride being engaged to another man.
In short, if a couple wished to elope, they had no choice but to flee to Gretna Green where Scotland’s laws for holy matrimony were all but nonexistent compared to the Church of England. All that was required was the right amount of coin, a priest (who didn’t even have to be an official clergyman), and two witnesses willing to sign their names in a ledger. It made the entire ceremony fast, simple, and, to Charlotte’s way of thinking, horribly unromantic.
As she stood shoulder to shoulder next to a man she hardly knew while a rotund priest with thinning gray hair flew through their marriage vows without once glancing up at the couple he was uniting forever, her stomach twisted into a tight knot of apprehension. She peeked sideways at Gavin, hoping to catch his eye, but he was staring straight ahead, his stoic countenance revealing none of the nervousness and anxiety that was written all over her face if anyone only cared to look.
She and Tabitha had traveled for nearly a fortnight, over fair roads and foul, to reach their destination: a tiny, nondescript blacksmith’s shop at the end of a muddy lane. At first she’d been certain they were at the wrong place–how could she possibly be married here, where horses were fitted with shoes?–until Gavin had appeared, looking both solemn and rakishly handsome in his black ensemble comprised of a tailcoat, trousers, and Hessians polished to a dull gleam.
In contrast, had Charlotte felt downright disheveled in her wrinkled traveling habit with her hair a mop of tangled curls, but Gavin hadn’t even given her the courtesy of washing up. Instead, he’d taken her by the elbow and whisked her into the shop without so much as a greeting, leaving her to question if he’d feared she wasn’t coming…or he just wanted to get their marriage over with as quickly as possible.
The smell of steel and smoke lingered in the air. Beneath their feet the cobblestone floor was freshly swept, but cobwebs filled the rafters and straw was piled high in all four corners. It was more of a barn than a church, but could she really complain when it was Gavin on her arm and not Paine?
Again, she peeked at him from the corner of her eye. This time, he peeked back, only to reveal his gray eyes were as unreadable as the rest of his face. Her heart in her throat, Charlotte offered a small, hesitant smile. Without a sound, Gavin turned his head and resumed staring straight ahead at their priest who was reciting their vows with as much enthusiasm as a rain cloud on a dreary, sunless day.
Her spine stiffened. Very well, then. If Gavin wanted to make their wedding no more intimate than two strangers waiting in the queue at Twinings then she could certainly oblige him. Two could play this game of cool indifference, and Charlotte had always had a competitive streak.
Through sheer will, she managed to keep her attention on the priest for several more minutes. But as he continued to drone on (and on, and on), she found her gaze wandering until it landed, with no small amount of chagrin, on her dusty skirts.
She wished there’d been time to change into the blue dress with white lace trim she’d brought specifically for the ceremony, but Gavin had been adamant they marry immediately. Exhausted and disoriented from traveling, she hadn’t bothered arguing. But she couldn’t ignore the larger splatter of mud below her right hip.
Frowning, she attempted to brush it away as inconspicuously as possible. When that didn’t work, she looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching her (the only other people in attendance were Tabitha and Gavin’s valet, both of whom appeared to be dozing off) before pulling off her leather kid glove and trying to pick at the dirt with her fingernail.
She became so consumed with her task that she did not hear when her name was called the first time, or the second. It took Gavin grabbing onto her arm to get her attention.
“What?” she said, blinking at him. “What is it?”
“We’ve reached the part where you need to pay attention.” His tone was sober, but she could have sworn she saw the hint of a smile. “Perhaps you had best repeat the vows again,” he advised the priest. “My wife-to-be is a bit…hard of hearing.”
“Hard o’ hearing, you say?” The priest’s bushy gray eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “Should I start from the beginning, then?”
“NO!” Charlotte and Gavin shouted simultaneously and poor Tabitha, who really had fallen asleep behind them, jumped awake with a little shriek and nearly tipped sideways off her chair.
“Sorry,” she
squeaked. “I am very sorry, Lady Charlotte.”
“It’s all right,” Charlotte assured her. “I’ve almost dozed off a couple times myself.”
The priest frowned at that, and cleared his throat with a sharp hem hem that was clearly meant to chastise. “If you’re ready tae proceed, then so am I. That is, if the bride can be bothered to focus?”
“I can,” Charlotte said meekly. “I am.”
“Very well. Then Lady Charlotte Vanderley, wilt thou have this Man tae be thy wedded Husband, tae live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”
She didn’t give herself time to think. “Yes, I will.”
The priest glowered.
“You are supposed to say ‘I do’,” Gavin said quietly.
“Oh. I guess I missed that part, as well.” She bit her lip. “I–I do. Take Mr. Graystone to be thy wedded husband and…everything else you said.”
The priest gave her a long, suffering stare before his gaze dropped to the bible he had resting upon his wooden pulpit. “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, and–yes, what is it now?” he asked in exasperation when Charlotte’s hand slowly crept into the air.
“It is just…well…the wording of that particular vow. The ‘obey’ part. I do not think I like it.”
“You dinna like it?” the priest said incredulously.
“No.” She restlessly shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t. Is there another word we can use in its stead? One that is less…”
“Dictatorial?” Gavin suggested dryly.
“Yes.” She flitted him a grateful smile. “Precisely.”
The priest swelled to his full height (which, compared to Gavin’s towering build, was rather unimpressive) and glowered at both of them. “And what word would you suggest I use?”
Charlotte’s head canted to the side as she thought it over.
“Listen,” she decided. “I could vow to always listen to my husband.”
Or at least try to, she added silently.
“And you agree with this–this malarkey?” the priest blustered to Gavin.
“They are her vows, not mine,” he said with a shrug.
The priest grumbled under his breath. “Very well. It is extremely irregular, but if that is what you both wish–”
“It is,” Charlotte interrupted.
“–then that is how it will be. Now, for the third and final time, God help my soul. Lady Charlotte Vanderley, wilt thou have this Man tae be thy wedded Husband, tae live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”
Her brow creased. “Didn’t you already say this part–I do, I do!” she said hastily when the priest’s face began to turn an alarming shade of purple.
“Wilt thou listen to him, and serve him, love honor, and keep him in sickness and in health and, forsaking all others, keep thee only until him, for as long as you both shall live?”
Charlotte knew she was expected to give her answer to the priest, but for some inexplicable reason she found herself looking at Gavin instead. Their eyes met, and it all faded away. The priest. The cobwebs. Tabitha and the valet. For the span of a heartbeat there was only him, and there was only her, and the future that awaited them.
“I do,” she said softly, and she didn’t know if it was just more wishful thinking, but she could have sworn she saw a flicker of relief in Gavin’s gaze.
The rest of the vows flew by in quick succession. Charlotte nodded in all of the right places and repeated all of the right words, but if someone were to ask her later what had been said she would have no recollection. It was all a lovely blur of color and sound and promises she intended to do her best to keep. Then Gavin placed a ring upon her finger, and reality came crashing back in like waves upon the shore, thrusting her up and out of her dreamlike state.
The wedding ring was a simple gold circle, old and thin and rubbed smooth around the edges. It had clearly been lovingly worn by someone else, Gavin’s mother, perhaps, and she found more worth in the plain band than a ring filled with diamonds.
“With this ring I thee wed,” Gavin repeated after the priest. “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Amen,” Charlotte whispered.
The priest led them through yet another prayer, but she didn’t hear a word of it. All of her senses were consumed by Gavin; his dark stare, the lines bracketing the edges of his mouth, the shadow of stubble on his chin.
This man is about to be my husband, she thought, stunned by what should have been an obvious realization. He is going to be my husband, and I don’t know the first thing about him.
Then the priest pronounced them man and wife, and he really was her husband, in the eyes of God, King, and Country, from now…until eternity.
Her hand shook ever-so-slightly as she signed her name in the ledger. Gavin’s thumb brushed across her knuckles as he took the quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote his name right beside hers.
She stared at their signatures as they dried upon the parchment. For years, decades, mayhap even centuries, couples would look upon this book and wonder at those who had been married before them. She could only hope they all had blessed unions, and that this old, leather bound ledger brought them all the luck and love in Scotland.
Because she was certainly going to need it.
Tabitha and the valet came forward to sign their names as witnesses, Gavin pressed a dry kiss to her cheek, and then it was done.
They were officially married.
As Charlotte walked out of the blacksmith’s shop, she was disappointed to discover she didn’t feel any different than she had when she walked into it. Certainly she didn’t feel like a bride, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Gavin felt like a groom.
Shading her eyes against the late morning sun, she stopped beside the carriage and peered up at him beneath the flat edge of her palm. “It’s done, then.”
Gavin stood stiffly with his hands tucked behind his back. He had donned a cravat for the wedding but he tugged at it now, unwinding the crisp white cloth and leaving it to dangle carelessly over his shoulder.
“It’s done,” he agreed.
Of its own accord Charlotte’s thumb tucked inwards and ran across her wedding ring, spinning it round and round. She glanced about, taking a moment to note and appreciate the quiet simplicity of Gretna Green, so different from the loud, constant chaos of London.
The sky was a clear blue; the sun warm against the back of her neck. She stepped into the wavering shadow cast by the carriage and leaned against a massive wheel, giving her travel weary body a momentary respite.
“I take it your journey here was uneventful?” Gavin asked.
Such formality, Charlotte thought distastefully. Such rigidity. She knew they did not know each other very well–or, in truth, at all–but did he have to act as though they had never kissed in a dark study or toyed with fire on a terrace?
“It was fine,” she said. “Longer than I expected, but fine.”
“Good. That is good.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and straining. Charlotte looked at the sky. Gavin looked at the ground. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Her eyelids grew heavy. She blinked and shook her head, fighting back a yawn.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Quite. I was not able to sleep very well in the carriage.”
In their haste to get to Gretna Green, Mr. Smith had often driven through the night, stopping only to exchange horses. While Tabitha hadn’t seemed to have an issue with all the bumping and the jostling, Charlotte had found it all impossible to get any quality rest. Of course, she’d also been contending with her nerves, which hadn’t exactly contributed to peaceful slumber.
“I’ve reserved two rooms at the inn.” Gavin lifted his arm and pointed down the road. Following the direction of his finger, Charlotte saw a stone building with a thatched
roof and crooked wooden sign out front.
“The Stone Pig Tavern,” she read aloud before glancing at her husband–how strange, to think of him that way!–in confusion. “We’re not returning immediately to London?”
He shook his head. “No, the horses need a rest, and by the look of it so do you. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning,” she repeated faintly.
Oh dear.
With the rush to get out of town, she hadn’t paused to consider how they would get back.
Or the small fact that they’d make the journey together.
Eight days–more, if they hit bad weather–in the company of a stranger. A stranger she now called husband. He’d made it a point to mention two rooms, but did that mean they would be sleeping separately, or was one of the rooms for Tabitha? And if one of the rooms was for Tabitha, did that mean he intended to claim his husbandly rights tonight? Or wait until they were in London? And if he did wait, how long until he came knocking on her bedroom door? If he came at all?
“You’ve gone white as a sheet,” Gavin observed. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I…I suppose I was just thinking…about your opinion on…matters of the bedroom.”
“Matters of the bedroom,” he echoed.
Devil take it, he wasn’t making this easy, was he?
“Yes.” Her head bobbled like a sparrow’s. “That is to say, what your intentions are when it comes to matters of, the, er…”
“Bedroom,” he supplied, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Charlotte squinted suspiciously at him. Was he–was he laughing at her?
“This is not amusing,” she said.
“I never implied it was.”
“Good. Because this is a very serious topic of discussion, and–you are laughing!” she accused when she heard an unmistakable snort. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” He stretched his arm up past her ear and splayed his fingers across the side of the carriage. “But not to worry. I’ve no intention of doing anything with you that would require a bedroom.”
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