The Marriage Mart

by Teresa DesJardien

  Lord Edgcombe’s eyes narrowed in his head as he glared at Rothayne as if he’d somehow forced the girl to say the words. “That is only wedding day nerves speaking!”

  Perhaps there was a fleeting smile on John’s face, but an instant later his face went again sober. “I am all wrong for you, Mary,” he spoke only to her. “I am the not the finest of souls, but you are. Hortense has been buzzing in my ear all morning, trying to convince me that I might do for you, and yet I know you deserve a better man. You deserve Bretwyn.” John glanced at the other man as Charles joined them, and some silent communication took place between them. Charles’s poise had gained cracks; he was frowning now, his mouth tight.

  John turned back to Mary. “I would not speak, except Charles has said I may do so.” Both men looked at her. She stared back, her father beginning to bluster at her side. “And my baser self refuses to be denied,” John continued, overriding whatever Papa might have said. “I want you not to marry Charles. I want you to marry me.”

  Gasps bloomed around them, spreading through the small crowd, and Mary’s father turned bright crimson, his eyes bulging.

  Suddenly Mary’s trembling ceased. She dragged her eyes from John to Charles. “Are you so kind-hearted then?”

  “No,” Charles said, his shoulders going back as his chin went up. “But I’m also not a fool.”

  “What is this you say, sir?” Lord Edgcombe got out, pinning Charles with a look.

  “Not a minute ago, Rothayne informed me he would have to kill either me or himself before he could let me wed ‘his Mary’.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw her once-seated Mama had risen to her feet, straining to hear, eyes round.

  “I should call him out, I suppose,” Charles mused.

  The two would-be grooms eyed each other, but then Charles shook his head and sighed. “I would have fought for you, my dear lady, but…well, truth be told,” he expanded, now speaking directly to Mary, “For myself, I’m not quite certain I was prepared to say ‘I will’ once you joined me at the altar. I was, frankly, not entirely sure of you.” He must have realized that a gentlemen ought not be so baldly truthful, because he swallowed and began again. “I hope you can forgive my hesitation--and I rather suppose I might have asked how you felt about this matter with Rothayne--but I am afraid your face has quite given you away.”

  There was another flurry of gasps, and a quick glance showed Hortense and Mrs. Pennett were clasping one another and smiling, and Mama looked faint.

  Mary’s attention went back to Charles; it was hard to meet his eyes. She started to speak, but a kind of gaspy hiccup made her have to try again. “My lord, I truly, truly regret any pain or embarrassment I have caused you--”

  He waved her words away, now looking rather a bit more aggravated. “I want to marry someone who wishes to marry me. In fact, I deserve to.”

  Mary inclined her head, accepting his reproach as her due.

  “Mary,” John interjected. She looked up, and of a sudden her heart was a hundred times lighter than it had been not two minutes earlier. “Will you have me then?”

  “I will,” she breathed, and now her heart was a bubble that floated up past her throat and bent her lips into a shaky smile.

  The vicar, who’d frozen at the altar, called out in agitation, “Is there to be a wedding this morning or not?”

  Glances were exchanged all around, but it was dear, kind, jilted Lord Bretwyn who pointed out the obvious to John. “I’m afraid you cannot possibly have a special license on your person. Or, heavens, do you?”

  John’s answer was buried when Lord Edgcombe’s shock held no more. “Mary! Never say you want to wed this Rothayne fellow? This rake, this…this cad!”

  “I do. I want it with my whole heart,” she said, her smile widening.

  Papa’s rant died at the words, and once again all he could do was stare down at her.

  “But Charles is correct, Mary,” John said. “I have no license hiding in my pocket. I came here, planning to be the good fellow and see you safely wedded to a fine, upstanding man. I was going to be good to you, you see, but I have failed. Failed entirely. At the very least, you find yourself in the middle of a scandal, which is all my doing.”

  She couldn’t help it, she laughed from sheer happiness. “My dear Lord Rothayne, you goose. It’s not all your doing, for am I not the one saying I want you? You are my fine, upstanding man.”

  “I am not. I am ‘the Blade’, a man of outrageous reputation.”

  “It is that very reputation that will carry us through. Yes, some of the sticklers will never forgive us this day, but how can I care for that? All I care about is that you love me.”

  He grew deadly serious. “You have to know I shall never play you false.”

  “You see? Oh, John. But I must hear you say it, for you will never say in seriousness what you do not mean.”

  He smiled then, for she knew him so well. There were some thirty witnesses present to hear whatever the Blade said. “Mary, I could not let you marry Bretwyn, for, quite simply, I love you myself.”

  Another ripple went through the crowd, followed by yet another as Mary was caught up in John’s arms and roundly kissed. Mrs. Pennett gave a squeal of delight, and Hortense actually clapped.

  “My lords!” the vicar cried, looking from noble face to face, unsure how to proceed.

  Lord Edgcombe gawped until his daughter was again set on her feet, but then was heard to mutter under his breath, “Told the wife Mary wasn’t acting as a bride ought. Fainting all over the place, and pale as death. At least now I understand it all…”

  “Lady Mary Wagnall,” John returned to the formal style, speaking in a low voice. “I will warn you now, before we proceed any further, that you simply do not have the option of discontinuing this betrothal. Not after all these observers have witnessed my protestations of love.”

  “No, my lord. I have no such plan or desire.” She smiled with lips still tingling from his kiss.

  He lowered his voice even more, for her ears alone. “You do, however, have the option of beginning the honeymoon today. I shall simply make away with you right here and now--” he added in the familiar, beloved, teasing way he had.

  “No,” she laughed, but there was real regret in her voice as she said it.

  “Three days, and then I shall not accept that response,” he said throatily.

  “Three days,” she sighed as the vicar began to shoo the wedding party out.

  And so, though they were sure to be unwelcome past certain doors due to the jilting of one groom, and the public and vulgar display of affection and devotion to a new one, Mary left the church on John’s arm in complete contentment.

  The three days flew past, and they had their special license and their true and binding wedding ceremony, from which they returned to Kent with all John’s sisters and his mother in tow. The Yardleys were not to be seen. However, the previously missing brothers-in-law met Mary for the first time, and Mary’s siblings and extended family members traveled there as well, stuffing the grand house to the rooflines. Her siblings gave the newlyweds a special gift: a double set of atrociously gaudy house slippers, which occasioned much laughter. Many other lovely gifts, of course, were forthcoming from the many females of John’s family.

  The celebrational parties lasted three days, at which time John took his bride in exasperation onto a ship to sail to southern climes, far removed from anyone they knew.

  ***

  Thirteen months later he sat amidst his family. It could at last be said he had truly become the master of his home, which was, it must further be said, due in large part to the fact his family was so delighted with his choice of bride. They actually tried, with uneven success, to leave the lovebirds to themselves at Rothayne Hall, but of course holidays and occasions meant the house was often as madly crowded as ever. On this day, thirteen months and ten days after the wedding, they had gathered yet again in the halls and salons of the ancestral home. It wa
s a measure of their awareness of the master’s upset that they walked and spoke quietly, pausing occasionally to pat him on the shoulder or offer him a cup of tea or brandy. He sat staring at a closed door, one booted foot swinging with agitation as he sat in his awkwardly placed chair in the hallway.

  At last the door opened, and he rose swiftly to his feet. It was Lady Rothayne come to bring him the news. “She’s fine,” his mother said.

  “Thank God,” he breathed, then added, “And was it twins?”

  “It was.” She had no time to add more, for he swept past her.

  He belatedly remembered it might be better to slow his progress. He achieved an almost dignified walk as he approached his wife lying in their bed, which several of his sisters were putting to rights around her.

  “Oh, John,” Hortense scolded. “We were scarce ready for you yet.”

  “Mary,” he said, ignoring his sister, and moving to step around the bed to her side. There were the two little forms on either side of her, so bundled as to be indistinguishable from the bedding if it were not for the tiny squawks each was emitting. “You are well?” He leaned over her, planting a relieved kiss on her forehead, for although she was pale and looked wearied as he’d never seen her, he did see the dancing light in her eyes that told him everything was fine.

  “Yes. I’m very tired, but I’m fine.”

  He saw then that the dancing light in those beloved eyes was caused by a deep amusement. “John,” she said, a laugh--weak but still filled with mirth--coming with the words, “I don’t know how to tell you this. We have twin daughters.”

  He looked down at her, kissed her again, and said, “Thank you so much. I really mean it, really,” so that she knew he did. He reached out his arms to be given a child to hold as she held the other, and could only join her and everyone else in the room in happily exasperated laughter.