She didn’t think he could say anything else that could make her feel more comforted, more wonderful, and at the same time more bewildered by his attitude, his pronouncements. But before she could tell him so, ask him to clarify, he withdrew his hand and graced her with a slight bow.
“Until next we meet, Lady Vivian.”
And then he turned and walked from the nursery, through the side gate, the same way he’d silently entered only a few minutes before.
Chapter 27
It was a glorious day for a wedding. Dressed in a day gown of violet silk with pale yellow lace trim, Vivian climbed the steps of St. Mary’s Church to attend the noontime nuptials of Grace Tildair’s daughter, Matilda, and Mr. Roland Parker, a man twenty years her senior who had lost his first wife to childbirth three years ago. Of course the entire town would be present since the Tildairs were well-respected exporters and Mr. Parker the wealthy son of a knighted medical surgeon. Vivian had been asked to supply the floral arrangements, which she’d done for a decent price, and naturally she wouldn’t turn down the invitation to attend. In general she adored weddings, and as someone highly visible in their small community, she would be expected to be seen at such a function.
She stopped once or twice on her walk to the church to acknowledge those she knew, mostly men and women of prestige, even one or two members of the lower peerage who had settled in Cornwall, to whom she smiled formally and curtsied as she should. The bells of the chapel rang continuously to announce the blessed event and soon they would all take their places inside.
At once she noticed Evelyn Stevens, her unmarried, twenty-three-year-old daughter Edwina, and the frail-thin figure of Patrice Boseley walking toward her with grim determination planted on her thin lips, her expression tight with a look of exasperation, as usual.
Vivian sighed. Of course it would have been hoping for too much to be able to avoid them.
“Mrs. Rael-Lamont, how lovely to see you this bright June morning,” Evelyn piped in before she’d even reached her.
Vivian tried to keep her acknowledging smile from appearing too forced. “Indeed, it is a lovely day,” she replied, holding her parasol so that it shielded the sun from the side of her face.
Winded, Patrice Boseley stepped around Mrs. Stevens and her daughter, and suddenly Vivian felt caged by a flock of chirping birds.
“I imagine the flowers on the altar today will be from your collection,” Mrs. Boseley said easily, with only a trace of impertinence slipping through her tone.
Vivian nodded once. “They are—an array of spring and summer blooms.”
“How nice.”
Edwina, a rather round woman dressed in a frilly pink gown that made her peaches and cream skin look almost deathly yellow, stiffened beside her. “How is your… business, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”
She knew that was a question meant to insult in small fashion, or perhaps just to remind her of her class. Either way, she ignored the rather rude intent, looking Edwina directly in the eye. “Business is excellent, especially this time of year, Miss Stevens. Thank you for asking.”
“I suppose your experience with weddings is why someone of your station is invited to the nuptials today,” Patrice Boseley offered with a penetrating gaze. “After all, Grace Tildair’s lovely daughter is marrying into the peerage.”
Vivian restrained herself from rolling her eyes. The son of a knighted surgeon didn’t exactly rank with nobility, but she supposed to these women it was close. And she, of course, ranked with the working class, a bit beneath them all. At times like this, Vivian wished above all things that she could reveal her background, her own station as the daughter of an earl, and most of all the reason she remained so gracefully composed when goaded by those who thought themselves superior, a trait of character brought on by her elegant upbringing. If nothing else, it would give her immense satisfaction to see them all fan themselves with supreme embarrassment.
But with her usual tact, she continued smiling congenially, though she did clasp her parasol tighter with her gloved hand. “How very fortunate for Miss Tildair. I’m sure the family is no doubt very proud that one of their own made such a successful match. We should all be so blessed.”
Each of the women squirmed a little from that remark, not at all certain if such a comment, stated so pleasantly, was meant to be cutting since not one of them had married above the middle class. Vivian had to admit it did feel good to mystify them into silence, though Mrs. Boseley did manage to mumble, “Yes, of course, naturally,” which to Vivian’s ears meant absolutely nothing.
For an awkward moment the five of them stood on the church steps in silence, glancing around with interest and acknowledging one or two wedding attendees as they passed them by and entered the chapel.
Edwina began to fan herself with her fingers. “My goodness, it is hot,” she said sullenly. “I suppose that means it will be unbearable inside.”
“Stop fidgeting,” her mother half scolded, reaching for her daughter’s arm to still it. “Everyone worth seeing is here.”
Meaning, Vivian supposed, that husband material would be present, and if the nearly-on-the-shelf Edwina was to find one at all she would need to be noticed for something besides her dour, complaining behavior and perspiring, moderately corpulent form.
With Edwina’s loud gasp and her expression suddenly changed to one of pure shock, Vivian thought for a second that she might have been overly appalled by her mother’s blunt chastisement of her actions in front of others. Then it caught her attention that all the ladies in their particular semicircle were staring with open mouths and wide eyes past her to the street below the steps.
Vivian glanced back over her shoulder to the cause of the commotion—and nearly fainted.
In the brilliant morning sun, the Duke of Trent’s formal carriage turned the corner of New Market Street as it made its way in their direction. It was a monstrous private coach, likely worth more than she made in a decade, freshly painted in deep forest green, the duke’s crest blazoned on the side in brilliant red, gold, and black. Two footmen dressed in scarlet livery sat atop the front seat, urging the easy, forward motion of four black stallions dressed in full regalia that pranced along in a natural harmony borne of the best breeding stock and years of high-priced training. There was never any doubt as to who occupied the plush interior, and within seconds every person on the front steps of St. Mary’s Church had grown silent, had turned to stare, to witness the magnificent, official arrival of Cornwall’s most discussed, powerful, mysterious, and feared nobleman of the realm.
Vivian couldn’t decide if she should laugh with glee, rush into his arms when he alighted, or make her escape now and hide under a pew. He couldn’t possibly be coming to the wedding… could he?
“Good heaven, you don’t suppose he plans to attend the wedding!” Elizabeth Carter blurted in a rush.
How odd that they were all thinking the very same thing. Vivian had to actually catch herself from giggling. What an extraordinary turn of events. What marvelous fun.
“The nerve,” Patrice Boseley huffed, pulling at her gloves for something to do. “Hides from the public, causes scandal here and there, and then expects to attend a blessed event? Does he hope to remain inconspicuous with this kind of pomp?”
Vivian tossed her a quick look of annoyance. “Clearly he doesn’t, Mrs. Boseley. But then really, when he’s attending a formal affair, you should expect no less from your duke, a person far above your humble station.”
Patrice blinked quickly from such unexpected audacity, then pulled a face of indignation, her lips scrunching into a bow of tiny lines, the sagging skin at her neck wiggling unbecomingly as she shook her head. To her credit, though, she didn’t comment in return, probably because there was nothing she could think of to say to counter such a truth.
Vivian once more centered her attention on the coach as it finally pulled up alongside the steps. Various individuals instinctively backed away, staring in amazement, the air quiet around the
m except for the ringing of the church bells and the snorting and clomping from the horses.
Without delay, the footmen stepped down from the top seat, and with great flair, placed a leather footstool at the side door, then opened it.
What followed was a fanfare fit for a duke attending a state function at court. Vivian stood in as much awe as everyone, not six feet away from the opened coach doorway, when he stuck his head through and then stood up tall and stately as he stepped from his carriage. In an all-encompassing joy that burst through her heart, he looked directly at her and took her breath away.
He wore formal dress in rich black, his white silk shirt and diagonally striped cravat in charcoal and white perfectly accenting the sharp, masculine lines of his handsome, deeply tanned face. His hair had been cut shorter than usual, and his piercing eyes bore into hers in a manner that touched her intimately as a secret shared between two in love. The picture was simply stunning, and for a moment, the Duke of Trent held a street full of people positively speechless.
He began to climb the steps toward her, never looking away, and after only a few seconds, the murmurs began around them.
“My lady Vivian,” he drawled, his eyes lit with humor as he nodded once.
Mouth suddenly dry from seeing him again, from hearing his deep and textured voice, she clutched her parasol as she curtsied. “Your grace.”
The other women followed her lead, each curtsying appropriately, apparently not as yet taking note of the fact that he called her a lady. He more or less ignored them, however, as his lips turned up in a wry, almost secretive smile meant for no one but her.
“I was told you would be attending the wedding today,” he said rather casually.
Vivian could positively feel the attention of the masses turn instantly to her. Her skin flushed pink, no doubt, as she felt the heat rise to her cheeks and her corset dig into her ribs, making it extremely difficult of a sudden to draw a full breath.
“I am,” she managed to reply, her voice sounding raspy to her ears.
His grin broadened. “Yes, I see that.”
Uncomfortable, she shifted from one foot to the other. “How lovely to see you here as well, your grace. If’s a perfect day for a wedding.”
His brows rose fractionally at that somewhat tedious statement.
“Indeed,” he agreed, “but if you’ll beg my forgiveness, madam, I am here for a far more… selfish reason.”
Evelyn Stevens coughed, breaking the spell between them as Vivian realized everybody in the vicinity stood motionless around them, watching in stupefaction.
“A—urn—selfish reason?” she repeated, her in-sides churning now with a blend of uncertainty and heightened anticipation.
After several long seconds of consideration, his expression softened and he took a step closer to her so that he now blocked the sun with his large form as he peered down into her eyes.
“Selfish, yes,” he continued, hands behind his back.
“It’s occurred to me over the last several months that I enjoy your company immensely, my lady. Your talents overwhelm me, your beauty staggers me, and with each passing day, I find myself wishing I could walk in your presence and be charmed by your elegance with every waking moment.”
Murmurs grew around them; Edwina began to fan herself again and her mother batted her hand; Mrs. Boseley fairly grunted in disapproval, though she maintained her dignity by not saying anything. Even acknowledging these trivial things around them, Vivian just stared at him dumfounded even as her body began to tremble and her heart swell with hope.
He reached for her hand and held it boldly, causing a whisper or two from someone behind her. Yet she didn’t dare move.
“My darling Vivian,” he said after a long exhale, “wife to the late Leopold Rael-Lamont, eldest daughter of the Earl of Werrick—”
Audible gasps from several of the women, low grumbles from the men, cut him off, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he steadied his gaze and caressed her fingers through her gloves.
“Every breath I have ever taken,” he maintained softly, “every trying season of my life, has been merely a bridge that has led me to this moment with you.” He raised her fingers to his lips and gently kissed them. “I love you, and would beg you, in front of the good people of Penzance, before the church of our Lord, to accept my humble proposal of marriage, to become my duchess in name, in rank, and in my heart. Do me this honor, and I will cherish you always.”
It took her seconds to comprehend what he asked her, but it wasn’t until he pulled a ring of fine, glittering emeralds from his pocket and slipped it over her gloved finger that the emotion of the moment overcame her at last and it struck her fully that he had just asked her to marry him—on this beautiful June morning, all dressed in finery, in front of Evelyn Stevens, in front of Patrice Boseley and Elizabeth Carter, and possibly two dozen other people who now stood around them in stunned silence.
Never could a moment have been more magical.
She trembled, inside and out, her throat closing tightly as tears of happiness and pride and love spilled onto her cheeks.
“Vivian?” she heard him ask in whisper, though he smiled knowingly and with complete assurance of her acceptance.
She grinned, raising his hand to her mouth, kissing his knuckles in return. “I would most gladly accept your gracious proposal, your grace, for indeed, I love you, too.”
For a slice of a second nobody did anything. Time ceased. Then a cheer broke out from behind her, followed by waves of well wishes and a host of steady congratulations. Good blessings abounded as the church bells rang in celebration of the commitment of love. Then the Duke of Trent offered her his arm and together they entered St. Mary’s for an inkling of the joyful day to come that would be their own marvelous beginning of a lifetime shared.
Epilogue
They sat together on a gorgeous fall day, side by side on the shoreline, gazing quietly at the water, watching boats enter the harbor as the sun began to make its downward pitch toward dusk.
They’d eaten a late luncheon of cold chicken, cheese, and wine, and now the two of them simply relaxed in the quiet of each other’s company, content.
It had been more than four months since Mil’s magnificent proposal of marriage, and in that time, they’d enjoyed each other, posing as a betrothed couple awaiting their time to marry, which by all accounts would be next summer. They were usually chaperoned in some manner, or at least in the company of servants, so their intimate time with each other had been practically nonexistent. Although somewhat frustrating, both she and Will knew that in only a matter of months they would be together privately, as husband and wife, and until then they cherished the hours they shared as they grew closer in their love.
And love him she did. Every day more, sometimes so much her heart ached and she found it difficult to describe her feelings to him, though she also realized without any doubts that he cared for her as much.
The Matrimonial Causes Act had passed, and they only had to wait a little more time before she would begin the application for her quiet divorce. She prayed the scandal wouldn’t touch her family, and with Will’s reassurance, she felt satisfied that all concerned would do their utmost to keep it hushed. Still, she wouldn’t change her mind about it now. Nothing on earth would ever keep her from the man she cherished with every breath.
“I’m getting chilled,” she said at last, grabbing onto his arm and rubbing her palm along his shirtsleeve.
He chuckled. “I can’t believe you ever lived in Northumberland. Good God, it’s beautiful out here.”
She snorted forcefully. “Of course it’s beautiful. That doesn’t mean if’s warm.”
He sighed and stood, reaching down to help her to her feet. “Then I suppose if’s time to see you home, my lady.”
“Do not make me feel guilty, you brute. I shall see you tomorrow.”
He made no comment to that, which she found odd, and after brushing off her skirts, she glanced up to notice
his attention now focused on the house.
Vivian turned. A lone servant girl walked toward them in quick strides, note in hand.
“Your grace, an urgent note just arrived for you,” she said breathlessly, handing it to him.
Will took it immediately, dismissing the girl with a nod. Lifting the flap, he removed a single sheet of white paper and began to read.
Vivian watched him, unconcerned at first, until she noticed his brows draw together negligibly.
“What is it?” she asked, hands on hips.
And then he grinned, his grin soon becoming a chuckle, then an outright laugh.
“What?” she pressed, reaching for the card.
He let her take it from him—the note that would change her world.
Your grace, through thorough investigation into the whereabouts of Leopold Rael-Latnont, it’s been discovered that the man died nine years ago in a Paris brothel, the cause of death an apparent overdose of opium…
The paper floated from her hand like a feather in the wind.
She looked up to his face, a mix of emotions crossing hers, some she had only just begun to feel.
“It’s over,” he said softly, gazing intently into her eyes.
For moments she didn’t know what to say, how to respond. Then he reached for her, and with no hesitation at all, she walked into his arms.
It truly was over. Her new life had begun.
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