by Hope Tarr
“That has it,” Tobias announced at length, toweling him dry. He slapped cologne on Anthony’s stinging cheeks and moved to the wardrobe.
“The canary jacket and gray trousers, milord? Or will it be the burgundy frock coat?”
Anthony shook his head. “Neither. The black.”
“Are you certain, milord? ’Tis your wedding day.”
“Quite.”
The valet stared at him but knew better than to countermand an order. He removed the required articles and helped Anthony dress with a minimum of fuss.
Anthony turned to face the mirror. Raccoon-eyed, hollow cheeked, and dressed in unrelieved black, he looked more like an undertaker than a bridegroom, but the shave had restored him to respectability. The hell with that. He picked up one of the withered roses from his dresser, snapped off the stem, and tucked it in his buttonhole.
He caught Tobias staring at him in the mirror. Turning, he schooled his features to innocence and asked, “How do I look?”
Speechless, Tobias handed him his top hat and cane.
It was getting more and more difficult to retain servants with any sense of humor, he reflected, heading down the stairs. Peering over the balustrade, he saw that his entire staff awaited him in the front hall. Bloody hell.
Chambers stepped forward. “On behalf of the staff, milord, allow me to wish you happy.”
“Thank you, Chambers. I shall endeavor to try.” Inclining his head, he gritted his teeth as each servant stepped forward in turn to congratulate him.
By the time he made it through, he was drowning in well-wishes. Chambers helped him into his greatcoat and opened the front door. Outside, rain swelled the gutters and the patch of front lawn was a mud pit.
The butler shook his grizzled head. “A pity about the weather, your lordship, and on your wedding of all days.”
The damp misery of the day suited Anthony, but he made an effort to appreciate the sentiment. “Indeed,” he murmured, stepping outside.
Masters waited on the other side of the door, a large black umbrella held aloft and a daisy in his hat in honor of the day.
“Do let me see you to the carriage, milord,” he insisted, after Anthony waved the umbrella aside. “You’ll be soaked through if I don’t. And ’tis your wedding day.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Anthony growled as the umbrella resurfaced over his head. “You must be the twentieth person to remind me of it.”
“Mind that puddle, milord.” Unflappable, the driver steered him down the path, circumventing each and every watery pitfall. “Not to fret. I’ll make the church before the bridge floods. You can depend upon it, milord.”
Anthony ducked out from the covering and smiled up at the dark, angry sky. “We’ve a stop to make first.”
Eyes closed, he held his face up to the deluge. The rain falling on his face felt so good, so cleansing, that he took off his hat and let it lave his bare head.
Master’s eyes bulged. “Milord!” He opened the carriage door and almost shoved Anthony inside.
Anthony tossed his soaked hat on the seat, then climbed in. Combing wet hair from his forehead, he settled back against the squabs. “Nine Grosvenor Square.”
“Lady Phoebe’s direction?” At Anthony’s nod, Masters hunkered inside the open portal.
“But, milord, ’tis ill luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony.”
“Hmm,” Anthony replied. Turning to gaze out the window on the opposite side, he left the driver no choice but to close the door and climb atop the box.
No more running, he vowed as they clattered through Mayfair’s gray, rain-soaked streets. He’d spent the better part of his life shirking his duty, running away but never running to anything or anyone. Plunging headfirst into pleasure had seemed so much easier than asking for his father’s respect, his mother’s love, his dead friends’ forgiveness. Now that he’d finally stopped, he realized it felt good to pause and savor the moment.
Even if it was the darkest one of his life.
“Look, Chels, a rainbow.” A clean-shaven Robert beckoned Chelsea to the parlor window.
She glanced up from the pile of clothing she’d been folding on the dining room table. “A rainbow in London. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it and hurry before it vanishes.”
Chelsea dropped the shirt she’d been trying to wrap and joined him.
He moved over to make room. “Above that stand of trees. Over there.”
In profile, Robert still resembled her baby brother, but captivity had changed him. His sad eyes held a newfound wisdom, and his gauntness made him look years older. He wasn’t yet twenty, but he might have been Anthony’s age.
Anthony. Blast. Today was his wedding day. It was nearly ten o’ clock. By now, the vows had been taken, the rings exchanged, the blessing given. The deed done. Even now Anthony might be seated at his wedding breakfast, toasting his bride.
She forced back tears. She was getting better and better at mastering her misery. Life went on, she told herself firmly. There was even a rainbow outside. Stripes of pale pink, soft yellow, and green arced above the treetops.
“You’re right.” She forced a lilt into her voice. “I wouldn’t have believed anything could cut through this fog.”
Jack’s footsteps clanked from the stairs. He passed through the hallway, a portmanteau dangling from either hand. “Enough woolgatherin’, you lot. At this rate, we’ll never make the first posting inn afore dark.”
Despite the reproach, he whistled as he carried their luggage outside to the wagon. He was looking forward to going home. She wished she could capture some of his enthusiasm.
Staring back outside, Chelsea said, “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Like the very devil. But what about you? I’ll never forgive Grenville for—”
“I’m going to be fine and so are you.” She pushed away from the sill, determined to stop brooding. “Once we clear the London coal dust from our lungs and breathe the fresh Sussex air, we’ll be back to her old selves. You’ll see.”
Robert’s somber face told her he didn’t believe her for an instant. But then neither did she.
“Packing can wait.” She held out her hand. “Come, take a walk with me. Now that the rain’s stopped, it’s lovely outside. We’ve both been cooped up far too long.”
He shook his head. “You go. I’ll finish up.” He attempted a smile. “You bought me all these clothes. The least I can do is help pack them.”
She sighed. “Only too true, but won’t you come anyway? We’re leaving in a few hours, and you’ve yet to see London. We can hire a hackney to drive past the sites.”
He walked into the dining room. “I’ve seen all of London I care to. You go on.”
Chelsea studied the rigid set of his thin shoulders and shook her head. Robert’s new adult wisdom could be a discomfiting thing, but she could still read his thoughts. His animosity toward Anthony was not entirely on her behalf. She’d seen how dejected he’d looked when Phoebe had stepped inside that carriage.
Robert was in love with Phoebe, she with Anthony. Phoebe and Anthony were wed. The situation reminded her of As You Like It, her favorite Shakespearean comedy. Except that London was no Forest of Arden. And none of the “players” were laughing.
“I’m going to pay one last visit to Hyde Park, then. I’ll be back inside of an hour.”
She grabbed her shawl from the peg by the front door and picked up her basket. Then she hurried outside to where Jack was hoisting a heavy trunk atop the others.
The mail coach would have gotten them home faster, but then she wouldn’t have been able to bring Autumn. Saving the gentle horse from the glue factory had been a splendid use of her ill-gotten gains.
The mare, hitched to the wagon along with Jack’s horse, whinnied when she approached. “No sugar cones left but here’s a carrot.” She plucked the root from her basket and offered it.
Jack stepped away from the load he’d just balanced. “Goin’ s
omewhere?”
“I know I’m a wretch to leave the rest of the packing to you and Robert, but I’ve got to get away for an hour. The truth is, I need some time to myself. Forgive me?”
He pulled on one of her curls that had escaped the lace-edged cap. “What do I tell ’im if…”
She silenced him with a look. “He won’t.”
He shook his head. “’E’s come every day now.”
She folded her arms across her thundering heart. “Today is his wedding day.”
Jaw set, Jack tested the rope he’d just tied across the stacked trunks. “I b’aint givin’ up on ’im yet.”
“Well, I am.” She scratched Autumn on the withers, then started down the street.
She’d intended to hire a carriage, but the bracing air buoyed her spirits and the sun felt wonderful on her face. By the time she reached the park, the sky was a brilliant blue, birds chirped, and carriages and men and women on horseback thronged the main gate.
Avoiding the more popular walks, she found an unoccupied bench overlooking the Serpentine. As soon as she sat, ducks and geese crowded her. She took out the loaf of stale bread she’d brought, broke it into bits, and tossed it to them, smiling at their silly antics and greedy machinations.
A young mother pushing a pram settled on the next bench. Sighting greener pastures, Chelsea’s feathered friends moved on.
Inconstant creatures, waterfowl. So like…men.
Deprived of her diversion, she took out the letter she’d brought and broke the seal.
Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove.
Marlowe had certainly known how to cut to the core of a woman’s heart. And so did Anthony. He’d followed the line of poetry with his own eloquent plea, begging her to reconsider.
She lifted streaming eyes from the paper. His previous six letters she’d returned unopened. Yesterday she’d weakened and kept this one. Common sense told her to burn it the moment she got back, but she was more likely to hold on to it, perhaps forever.
Forever, what a dreadfully long time that seemed. She reached inside her pocket for a handkerchief. Miraculously, she’d remembered to put a fresh one inside. She dabbed her eyes.
She was pathetic. If Anthony’s scribbling could reduce her to such a state, what would happen if she were to come face-to-face with him? She knew the shameful answer all too well. Her resolve would melt like butter beneath a summer sun, which only confirmed she’d been right to refuse his visits. Like a confirmed drunkard, utter abstinence was her only hope of a cure.
She pocketed the note, reminding herself that Anthony’s invitation didn’t extend to marriage. Aristocrats didn’t wed the daughters of obscure country squires. And Bellamys didn’t become mistresses. But beyond pride, beyond morality, lay fear. Sharing Anthony with Phoebe or any woman would turn her into a jealous shrew. And Anthony would grow to despise her. Even if she managed to conceal her jealousy, he would tire of her eventually. To watch his warm regard sour into disinterest, perhaps even dislike, would be a living death, to be pensioned off the most humiliating of fates.
“Pardon me, is this seat taken?”
She started. She’d recognize the rich timbre of Anthony’s voice anywhere. Her head snapped up just as he rounded the bench. Without waiting for her permission, he sat beside her.
“How did you know where to find me?” she asked, gaze trained on a large mallard gobbling the last of the bread.
“I’ve just come from your house.” He put an arm around her and drew her against him.
“Your brother wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone, but fortunately I came across Jack.” His eyes narrowed. “He was loading your baggage into a wagon. You were going to leave without saying goodbye, weren’t you?”
Sitting in the circle of his arms, it was impossible to lie. “Yes. I thought it would be easier.”
His eyes widened, accentuating the dark crescents chiseled beneath. “Easier for whom?”
“For both of us.” She hesitated, picking at one of the ornamental rosebuds sprigging her skirts. Who did she think to fool? “For me, especially.” She folded her hands in her lap to keep from touching him. “In case I forgot to mention it before, thank you for saving me and for rescuing Robert. We shall always be grateful.”
He cocked a brow. “Grateful, is he? He has a rather odd way of showing it. Unless fisticuffs is a family custom.”
She turned to him. “Oh, Anthony, he didn’t…You didn’t…?”
“Fight him?” He shook his head. “He’s still weak as a kitten. And I’m weary of fighting, especially with you.”
She sighed. They’d covered this ground so many times before. “It’s no use, Anthony. I love you, but I won’t live as your mistress.”
To her surprise, he nodded. “I suppose deep down I’ve known from the first that you wouldn’t change your mind, but I wasn’t prepared to face the truth until today. It was wrong of me to ask you in the first place, but then we rakes are notorious for allowing our desires to overcome our better judgment.” He smiled, and her heart caromed. “I suspect there may be a rule book somewhere that says so.” His smile thinned. “It was, above all, unpardonably selfish of me to expect you to abandon your principles simply to make my life easier.”
She thought of Lady Phoebe, the woman she’d wronged. Perhaps, if Chelsea hadn’t interfered, Anthony might have spent more time getting to know the woman who was now his wife.
Head bowed, she murmured, “I think we’ve both been guilty of selfishness along the way.”
“Will you forgive me mine, then?”
“Most definitely.” His sudden vulnerability tugged at her, tingeing the moment with bittersweet regret. “It’s just as well, really. I should have made a very poor mistress.” She tried to laugh, but the sound died in her throat.
He shrugged. “It no longer signifies. I’ve come to realize that I don’t really want a mistress.”
Chelsea’s heart dove. Even though she’d resolved never to see him again, hearing that he no longer wanted her was more painful than she could have imagined. Tears welled, making a blur of the lake, the waterfowl, and Anthony’s face. The first tear splashed her cheek. He reached out and caught it on the edge of his thumb.
“Anthony…don’t, please. I can’t bear it.”
His voice trembled, but his eyes blazed. “And what makes you think I can?”
Rather than answer, she started up. “I should be getting back.” Belatedly she realized that part of her gown was caught beneath him. Tugging the errant fabric, she sent him a beseeching look. “Anthony, please. Robert and Jack will wonder where I’ve got to.”
“Robert and Jack can bloody well wait.” Jaw clenched, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down beside him. “This can’t.”
His mouth, hot and demanding, came down hard on hers. She matched his intensity, kissing him back with all the passion she’d shored up over the past week of loneliness and self-denial. When they pulled apart, they were both panting.
He rested his damp forehead against hers and cupped the side of her face. “What I want is a wife, but only if she can be you.”
I must be dreaming. Or hallucinating. “Anthony, I don’t understand. You’re…you’re already married.”
He released her. “No, no, I’m not.” His eyes flashed with a fierce tenderness.
She stared at him, dumb. If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake.
He took her hand. His thumb swept her palm with reassuring strokes. “I may be a rake, but I’m not a coward. I wasn’t about to leave Phoebe at the altar. I went to her house early this morning and called off the wedding.”
Chelsea found her voice at last. “How did she take it?”
A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “She thanked me.”
“Thanked you!”
“Indeed, she said that she’d met someone else, someone younger than I, but that she hadn’t mustered the nerve to cry off and was grateful I had.” He grinned. “I d
on’t mind admitting it was a damnable blow to my pride.”
“Oh, Anthony. It must have been awful.” She tried to sound sympathetic but ended up laughing. Giddy with happiness, all she wanted to do was laugh and dance and kiss. Mostly kiss.
“We called in her family and made the announcement together. Afterward, Lord Tremont threatened to run me through. Lady Tremont fainted, of course, which diverted most of the attention away from Phoebe and me.”
“Does Robert know?” She hesitated from saying more. How to put it delicately?
“That Phoebe’s a free woman? He does now.” He winked. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t making haste to Muttonsford with a bouquet and words of undying devotion even as we speak.”
She gripped his sleeve. “Oh, Anthony, do you think the Tremonts will accept him? He’s poor as a church mouse. We’ll be lucky if Oatlands isn’t falling on our heads when we return.”
He shrugged. “Oh, they’d prefer someone with a title, to be sure, but after word gets out that their daughter was a happily jilted bride, they’ll be willing to settle for respectability and quickly. Phoebe’s a considerable heiress, so there’s no need for her to marry money. If anything, hers will go a long way in setting Oatlands to rights.”
“You seem to have everything arranged.”
His smile dimmed. Stiffly, he dropped down onto one knee on the bridle path. “Not everything. Not…us.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small velvet-covered box, and flipped back the lid. A brilliant emerald, surrounded by diamonds, winked at her.
“Marry me, Chelsea. Be my wife.” Looking into her eyes, he slipped the emerald onto her ring finger. “I’d say I loved you, but love is a paltry word for what I feel.” His voice, usually so steady and sure, shook.
Wetness slid down her cheeks. She realized she was crying again. For a woman who prided herself on never crying in public, she’d done a great deal of it these past weeks.
“I love you too, Anthony, so very dearly.”
Wincing, Anthony shifted to his other knee. “Then say yes and quickly unless you have a strong desire to see me permanently ensconced in a bath chair.”