As they entered, Mr. Whitsomeworth stood, but the marquess did not.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I'm afraid I should have not attempted the stairs. As soon as Nettles returns, I shall leave you. Miss Hight, is your chamber satisfactory?"
Uncertain whether to be insulted at his rudeness, she merely said, "Indeed it is, my lord."
"Oh, darling, is your wound paining you? I told you to stay in bed today. But no, you would play lord of the manor, just as your father would have. As if I am not capable of greeting guests to Guillemot. Let me--"
"Let be, Mother. I merely overdid it, going up and down stairs. A little rest and I will be fine."
"But--"
"Mother." There was steel in that voice. Lisanor was reminded that this man had led men into battle for many years. He had the habit of command. What have I let myself in for?
The rough-looking fellow she'd caught a glimpse of in the entry came in just then. "All right now, sor, let's get ye took care of. Up ye go." As if the marquess were a child, the man raised him to his feet, wrapped one arm around him, and all but carried him from the room. Guillemot barely had time for a "Please excuse me..." before the door closed behind them.
She stared at the closed door, as if to find an explanation writ there.
"You mustn't let Nettles take you aback, my dear. He is quite adept at caring for my son, although I feel that his manners leave much to be desired. He is so...so common, but devoted to dear Clarence. They were soldiers together, you know, in Spain. He brought--"
Mr. Whitsomeworth cleared his throat. "If I may interrupt, Lady Guillemot?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Sometimes I do rattle on. You mustn't mind me. Oh! You must be wanting your dinner soon, so I'll just go and see what's holding it up. I'll send someone to guide you to the dining room when it's time." She all but scurried to the door, but paused before exiting. "Oh, yes, I've invited some of our closer neighbors to a wedding breakfast tomorrow. I do hope that's agreeable."
Before Lisanor could tell her that a wedding breakfast, celebrating her marriage to Clarence Lamberton, Marquess of Guillemot, was the last thing she wanted, the lady was gone.
"Do you suppose Lord Guillemot knows about the breakfast?"
Mr. Whitsomeworth actually smiled fleetingly. "I doubt it."
"So do I." Well, at least there was something amusing about this day.
* * * *
Morning came all too soon.
Nettles, as was his manner, spoke as soon as he opened the door. "Up ye, go, sor! Got a big day ahead of ye. Her ladyship's been flutterin' and frettin' since first light."
"Good God! Why?"
"She's invited a whole passel of folk to breakfast." He disappeared into the dressing room, but quickly returned carrying a steaming basin. "I'd call it luncheon, as it's not to be 'til after yer weddin', but I never did ken the ways of the fancy."
For a moment, Clarence was speechless. "Wait! Fetch my mo-- No, fetch Carleton."
"After I get ye shaved. You jest sit quiet there, sor, and I'll do me best not to slit yer throat."
Since the man had been shaving him without accident for a year and more, Clarence had no fear for his throat. "Nettles--"
"Quiet, now, sor. I jest honed this razor."
He subsided. Powerless, he fumed instead. His mother was making a big to-do of this wedding. Or was the culprit his wife-to-be? Did they not realize that he wished no public display. Shame enough that he was marrying a woman he'd never met, marrying her for her fortune. Any suspicion that Guillemot was in financial straits would be confirmed by this hurry-up affair. Word would get out and soon creditors would be clamoring at the gates.
Not to mention the damage to his reputation, to his pride.
How they'd laugh in the officer's mess. Clare Lamberton, fortune-hunter.
Chapter Five
Carleton made sure the ignominious descent was made in private. Determined to make a brave showing at his wedding, Clarence agreed to allow Nettles and a sturdy young footman, to carry him in their arms, chair-fashion, to the small anteroom just off the main drawing room where the vicar and the guests were waiting. His bride, presumably, was in her chambers.
"There ye are, sor." Nettles and Syd lowered him carefully into a faux bamboo chair, one he did not recognize. Something his father had purchased when he began his grandiose redecorating scheme.
The sound of a pianoforte, played with some exuberance, came through the closed door leading to the drawing room. After a while the connecting door opened just wide enough to allow Carleton to enter.
"Miss Hight has come down, my lord. It is time."
Nettles stepped forward, helped him to his feet.
Clarence accepted his support as far as the door. "Turn me loose, Nettles. I will do this on my own two feet."
"But sor--"
"Now."
Before he opened the door again, Carleton reached to take something from behind a table. A walking stick. He held it out. "Your grandfather's favorite."
About to refuse, Clarence took a closer look, and accepted the cane. The amber head was warm in his hand, the malacca staff strong. When he leaned upon it, his legs seemed less weak. For the first time he felt secure on his feet. "Thank you, Carleton. I am ready."
The butler opened the door and Clarence made his slow way to the fireplace, before which Mr. Stackdale stood. He had time to notice the twin vases holding peacock feathers on the mantel, the two lines of chairs seating strangers, and the red-haired woman at the pianoforte, pounding away industriously. She was a stranger. A neighbor, perhaps?
He reached his goal and turned to face the spectators. Most of them were vaguely familiar, although he could put names on no one but Squire Tomlinson and his wife. Had they forgiven him for surviving Coruña when Rodney had not?
The door in the far wall opened. At first he scarcely recognized his bride, but as she slowly drew near, he realized the lovely young woman on Mr. Whitsomeworth's arms was indeed Lisanor Hight. Her fair hair was piled high on her head and trimmed with strands of pearls and two pearly-white flowers.
Mother's camellias! I'd forgotten...
Her gown was not black, as he had expected, but a soft pearl grey, high-necked and long-sleeved, but narrow in the skirt, as he had discovered fashion now dictated. The color complimented her ivory complexion as the severe black she'd worn yesterday never could.
As she approached, she raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. A challenge? Perhaps. He looked back, just as resolutely. But then her lips twitched. Or had he imagined it?
Lisanor had to admire the man who waited for her beside the vicar. He'd cleaned up nicely. The rich russet tailcoat and amber satin waistcoat made his swarthy skin seem merely tanned from the sun and his legs, clad in black pantaloons, were well-muscled, despite his infirmity. For the first time she noticed his eyes, pale grey in that dark face. Firmly she suppressed the smile that threatened, for this was her wedding. A solemn occasion.
But she was relieved. She could not expect love in this marriage, but if she was going to have to face this man across the table for the rest of her life, she did appreciate that he was comely.
"I will," he said in answer to something the vicar had said.
She forced herself to pay attention.
"...obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, as long as ye both shall live?"
"I-I will." The words came out the barest whisper, for she had suddenly realized what she was pledging herself to do in order to keep Ackerslea Farm.
I hope he is a kind man. A reasonable one. But he was a soldier, trained to battle... Lost again in her thoughts, she did not hear the vicar's question, but came to herself when Mr. Whitsomeworth placed her hand in that of Lord Guillemot. It was warm, hard, callused as a laborer's hand might be. Without thinking, she raised her chin and looked up at the man who'd just been given her hand, her body, her very life to rule.
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All she could think was that she had looked up. Ever since she was fifteen, she had mostly looked down at men. Except for grandfather, who always said she'd gotten her height from him, laughing merrily at his own terrible pun. She had never told him how many times others--especially young men--had made the same jest, but cruelly meant.
He was speaking to her. "...to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth."
Had his voice faltered? Was he as filled with trepidation, with questions about the rightness of this, as she was?
The vicar spoke, but she was lost in her thoughts and paid him no attention. He cleared his throat, clearly waiting for her to speak.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "What did you say?"
He led her through her response, her vow to love, cherish and obey this man--this total stranger--for the rest of her life.
His hand tightened around hers before releasing it, and his lips softened into the beginning of a smile. And then he was holding a ring, a wide band of gleaming gold and saying something about worshipping her body and sliding the ring onto her finger, and she wanted to weep, to cry 'NO!' to run screaming from this room, from this man who forever after this moment would have complete and total power over her.
Instead she bowed her head obediently when the vicar said, "Let us pray."
Her thoughts were swirling, like tiny beasts scurrying in panic, and she head the vicar's prayer as only a drone. Until he said, "...that they be Man and Wife together..."
"Good God." Little more than a whisper, yet she heard it over the sound of the vicar's reciting a psalm. His grip on her hand tightened. "Do you suppose he will ever stop talking?"
Something about the way he had spoken made her look carefully at him. His swarthy skin had gone pale, the lines around his mouth had deepened. His was the face of a man in grievous pain.
Lisanor decided that God would forgive them for ignoring the vicar. She slid her arm around her husband's waist and guided him to an empty chair against the near wall. "You are an idiot, you know," she said quietly, as she helped him seat himself. "Why didn't you demand a chair."
This time she was sure he'd smiled, although it was so fleeting that had she not been watching closely, she would have missed it. "There are some things, my dear, that a man must stand on his own two feet for."
"Yes, well, now that you have proven your mettle, you will remain in that chair for the rest of the morning."
"Only if you will seat yourself beside me. I cannot in all propriety remain here if you plan to flit about the room."
Yes, that was definitely a hint of smile. She took the chair that had magically materialized next to his. "I can see, my lord, that you are a manipulative sort of fellow."
"Only when I must be." He took her hand and laid it upon his sleeve, for all the world as if they were promenading among the guests. "Carleton, how much trouble would it be to move the festivities into this room?"
"None at all, my lord. In fact, I think it an excellent notion." The butler slipped through the crowd that was descending upon them.
"Oh, great God. They are like a pack of ravening wolves. And my mother is leading them. Brace yourself."
In the last remaining instant before the wedding guests descended with their congratulations, she realized that she might just grow to like this man she had married.
* * * *
The next hour was less of an ordeal than he had expected, thanks mostly to his wife and her new-found ally, Carleton. Together they kept the guests from crowding around him, diverted their nosy questions and smoothly moved everyone into the dining room as soon as the doors were opened.
Miss Hi-- His wife had only remained at his side for few minutes after the prayer ended. When it became clear that the strangers among the guests were bound on discovering all they possibly could about the circumstances of his marriage, she had risen and diverted their attention with quick smiles and inconsequential chatter.
"We'll have you to dinner soon." The woman who'd spoken was a perfect stranger. Clarence had no idea how to respond.
Miss Hi-- His wife, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere. "Not too soon. My husband is still convalescent."
"Oh. Lady Guillemot, I am so thoughtless. Of course we will be patient. We are just so delighted to have another young couple in the neighborhood." Her smile was tentative. "I am Marianne Abbott. Our property is adjacent to Guillemot to the north. We've only lived there two years."
"Thank you for understanding. We'll be delighted to become better acquainted when his lordship has recovered completely from his wounds."
"Hold. I am no invalid."
"Of course you are not, my lord, but neither are you in fighting trim. The last thing you need is a flock of guests wearing you to the bone. And our paying calls is completely out of the question for a while."
Mrs. Abbot tapped him on the shoulder. "My lord, you have the perfect excuse to keep us all at bay. As newlyweds, you are entitled to a honeymoon. Since you have chosen to spend it here--you have, have you not?"
Clarence had not given a honeymoon a moment's thought, but he thought it unwise to admit the omission. He nodded, hoping a silent agreement would be less a lie than the spoken word.
"A perfect notion," Miss Hi--his wife said. What the devil is the proper address for one's brand new wife? He could not continue thinking of her as an attachment to himself. "We will announce it at table."
The dining room door opened and Carleton emerged. "My lord, are you feeling up to joining your guests at breakfast?" His expression said he rather thought the answer should be yes.
"I suppose I must." Reaching for his walking stick, he steeled himself to walk the distance to his chair at the head of the table. At the other end of the fifty-foot-long dining room.
"I have taken the liberty of rearranging the seating. You will find your chair at this end of the table. Lady Guillemot suggested that you might be more comfortable there."
He glanced her way, and caught a fleeting expression that might have been concern. "Thank you both. I confess that the less I walk, the happier I will be."
When Carleton announced them, he accomplished the few steps to his chair without stumbling or wavering. He even found it possible to stand straight and tall while his wife trod to the foot of the table and was seated. When Carleton pulled out his chair, he didn't quite collapse into it.
Lisanor decided that Carleton was a jewel among butlers. He had somehow persuaded the dowager to limit the breakfast to five courses, and had even given her credit for the brilliant notion to switch the tables' head and foot. With him on her side, perhaps adjusting to life at Guillemot would be less trying than she had feared. I wonder if he might give me some hints about how best to cope with my mother-in-law.
She had already discovered that the dowager marchioness was a woman of instant enthusiasms, most of them impractical, many of them extravagant, a few of them actually sensible. She also seemed unaware that she should relinquish her duties and responsibilities to her successor. A problem for another day. First I must protect his lordship--my husband--from these gibble-gabblers.
Lisanor had been her grandfather's hostess ever since she'd put her hair up. She was adept at managing dinner guests who wanted to linger. Today she did so with a vengeance, and with Carleton's able assistance. Within an hour, the sweet had been served and it was time. She rose, and when conversation faltered, she said, "I must ask you to allow a departure from custom. As you know, my husband recently returned from the wars in Spain. The journey was onerous and exhausting. For this reason I beg you to excuse us from further festivities."
A moment's surprised silence was broken by Lord Guillemot's voice, a voice well suited to be heard above the sounds of battles, she decided. "And I must ask you to allow us a honeymoon. We have not seen each other for such a long time, and we have more than the usual need to renew our acquaintance. Please respect our wishes and do not visit nor invite us
to visit you for a month."
This bald request triggered a wave of babbling, but Lisanor ignored it. She said, "Thank you all for witnessing our nuptials. May your journeys to your chosen destinations be uneventful and comfortable."
She turned and slipped out through the servant's door behind her chair, confident that Carleton would see to getting her husband to his chambers.
Their chambers. Mrs. Smith had said that her possessions would be moved to the master suite today. Henceforth her bedchamber would be there.
A chilling sensation coiled in her all but empty stomach. In only a few hours it would be night.
Her wedding night.
Chapter Six
"This is the sitting room, my lady. The bedchamber is through that door. Just beyond it is a bathing chamber." Mrs. Smith sniffed, her disapproval evident. "His late lordship had a bathing fixture installed there."
From the housekeeper's tone, the fixture was either dreadfully decadent or just plain sinful. Lisanor was tempted to request a viewing, but Mrs. Smith was opening another door in the wall to the left of the bedchamber's entrance.
"This is your dressing room. Your maid's chamber is just beyond. She has already unpacked for you, and so I gave her leave to go to dinner. If you want--"
"If I need Pammy, I'm sure I can ring. Which of these?" She gestured at the line of bellpulls on the wall beside the entrance.
Mrs. Smith identified each of the six pulls. "Will there be anything else, my lady?"
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