“That still must have been terrifying. To wake up unable to see.”
“It was,” he admitted. “It was terrifying for months afterward, too. No one knew how well my eyes would recover although, thankfully, they have adjusted remarkably well under the circumstances. They’re even their normal color, now. But I should inquire about spectacles, I think, and some days, too much light overwhelms me.” He said wryly, “Most of the damage to my lovely visage has transpired to be cosmetic.”
He was amazed at how comfortable he felt speaking to her, how effortlessly she seemed to draw out the darkest of horrors in his past.
“You weren’t in the wrong place.”
“Pardon?”
“You were doing your duty, and your life was changed forever.” She brightened. “Much as you were the night you found me.”
“I couldn’t ignore someone in need,” he prevaricated.
She teased, “I thought I was special.”
Will closed his eyes under her touch. She had not stopped petting his face. It was a soothing and intimate gesture. “You are, even if, at the time, I was warring between my instincts as a doctor and my desire to retain my privacy. Until the matter with Benedict, I had not ventured into Brookfield during the day for quite some time. I was too afraid of what reactions I might spur.”
Tenderly, she said, “No one was frightened by your appearance. Your scars are proof that you served your country, nothing more. Even Eggy did not mention them when I visited, and children can be too frank for their own good. He would have mentioned it.”
Laughing, Will said, “I suppose you are correct.”
“May I tell you something?”
“You may.” Utterly basking in the moment and the points of contact her fingers made with his skin, she could have told Will there was a poisonous, deathly spider in his hair and he would not have moved a muscle.
Miss Copperweld paused only barely in her ministrations. “You are beautiful.”
“I know I was, once,” murmured Will. “Luckily, I was never vain. My elder brothers inherited that trait, not me.”
“No,” she said impatiently. “You are, still. The sum of all that you are is…” she sighed. “Beautiful, to me. But I did not think you were mine.”
“Why not?”
“The world is the way it is,” she said helplessly. It was the first time he had ever heard such final, firm despair in her voice. This was the woman who refused to tell him her name for days and days, the woman who always spoke forthrightly to his aunt and then to him. “You are a duke. I’m nothing but a drunk’s daughter, and apparently even that could be in question.” She laughed hollowly. “The only times I have ever been in great houses were when my mother could not leave me alone at home.” Miss Copperweld looked around the library, at its great displays of expensive, leather-bound books, and the furnishings that had been purchased by generations of Ainsworths. “And I have never been somewhere so grand as here.”
She started to take her hand away from his face. He intercepted it gently, taking it in his own. “So?”
“There are rules. Expectations.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I haven’t abided by them.”
“You haven’t,” she said. “But I’m sure you’ve friends and acquaintances who do. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m fit to be your mistress, not your…” she broke off, blushing a deep shade of rose. “Well. Regardless. I don’t think you want a mistress.”
One question mattered to Will. “Do you truly love me?”
Tears filled her eyes, brightening their brown. “Yes,” she said, her lips forming the word more than speaking it aloud. Then, she said, more loudly, “And it’s folly, isn’t it?”
Will took her hand and kissed her palm. She shivered. “No. Not at all.”
“No?”
“Let us turn that on its head for a moment, then,” he said, all but grinning with joy. “I should be as surprised that you love me.”
“Why?” she eyed him suspiciously.
“I am scarred. Ugly. Rather strange in my ways and habits, though I was not always this reclusive. Why should you be in love with me, even if I am a duke? You are clearly unafraid of making your own way in the world, and I know you are not scheming to get my wealth. Were that the case, you would have been entirely more obvious about it.”
Her expression relaxed and she wiped away the tears that had trickled gently from her eyes. “You are not ugly,” she insisted.
“Scarred, then,” he countered playfully.
“In the literal sense, yes,” she conceded.
Again, he kissed her palm, allowing his lips to trail down to her wrist. He nibbled it softly. “I’ve wanted to touch you like this for days.”
“I’ve wanted you to,” she said, leaning even closer to him.
Before she could tumble, he drew her close and she did not object, either with words or actions. She felt warm and soft in his arms, almost glowing with the liveliness she always projected. “Miss Copperweld, if it does not ruffle your sense of how the world is or should be, I think we should marry.”
He expected her to respond archly, for with the exception of when she watched her father be taken into the villagers’ custody, she had never truly broken in front of him. Instead, her buoyant facade shifted.
His proposal was received with apparent shock at first and, for all of one minute, Miss Copperweld scarcely breathed. Will just held her, patient enough to wait for her to digest her emotions.
When she did regain her power of speech, she promptly burst into tears and was capable of uttering only one word repeatedly.
“Yes.”
*
Six weeks later, the entire village attended the wedding ceremony. It was a fine day filled with merrymaking and the finest food and spirits that could be found. Augusta could hardly fathom the grandiosity of the breakfast, much less the idea that she was now married to a duke. Rather than dwell on the immense change her life had seen in the matter of months, she enjoyed the feelings of contentment and abundance. She had never been so well-fed or felt so loved, and even if both of those sensations were somewhat alien, they were welcome.
Not for the first time, she thought, I wish Mama was here. She would love Will.
Will.
It was still surreal to call him by his Christian name. But that bright morning, six weeks ago, in the library, he’d told her quite firmly to call him William, or preferably, Will. He said that Jane never did, but Jane rarely called anyone by anything less than their full name. She was not “Gussie”, she was “Augusta”.
Eggy seemed to be the exception.
She recalled that Will had then reinforced the direction by kissing her so thoroughly that she’d had to use the bookshelves behind her for purchase or risk falling over. Any thoughts she might have had about Lord Ainsworth, Duke of Ravenwood, being shy or retiring fled in those delicious moments.
As it transpired, he was entirely able to claim what he wanted.
And he wanted her.
After a few deliriously pleasurable minutes had passed, he pulled away from her breathlessly and declared they’d best stop, or else they’d have less to look forward to on their wedding night.
He didn’t look as though he believed what he said, and Augusta wanted to tempt him.
“That’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” asked Augusta, as a giant tome dug into the small of her back. She realized she sounded very wanton, but now that she knew what it felt like to kiss Will, she couldn’t not be kissing him. In fact, she dearly wanted to do more than kiss him, and it didn’t matter much to her if they were in a library instead of his chambers.
He looked at her ravenously, like a man starved, and pressed both his body and his mouth against her own. Groaning, she reached between them to the front of his trousers as they kissed again.
Lord only knew what they would have gotten up to had Marcus not interrupted them with a polite cough and knock on the doorframe.
&nb
sp; Will had left the library’s massive doors open. Rather, she had not closed them when she entered.
To be fair, she had not been expecting a marriage proposal. She had been expecting an offer of employment at the most.
“Come in, Marcus,” Will said with a crackle in his voice, after clearing his throat. He shifted minutely, and Augusta imagined that his arousal was making it uncomfortable to stand up straight.
Marcus, grinning like a fool, kept his eyes on Will’s face as Augusta straightened her dress. “There is the boy’s father here to see you… Mr. Cooper. He says Mr. Croft sent him to ask what kind of salve to use on Eggy’s wound.” When Augusta had completely righted herself, he flashed her the smallest of winks. “Why he’d not just trust Mr. Croft, I wouldn’t know. I’ve seen that man heal all manner of things. If I didn’t believe in the sciences, I would say he’s a Druid.”
“I suggested something from the East that Croft has less familiarity with,” said Will, and his voice was admirably level. “In large enough doses, the plant can be toxic. It’s all right, Marcus. I’d rather Mr. Cooper check with me than put Eggy in any more danger. Miss Copperweld has just told me that the boy is recovering very well.”
Will had given Augusta one last smile and followed Marcus out of the library.
The memory began to fade from her thoughts.
Looking at him today, on their wedding day, Augusta was infinitely thankful that this kind, clever man was hers. They had delayed the ceremony partially to make sure the banns had been read and that guests who did not reside near Brookfield could attend—neither Lady Jane nor Augusta would hear of Will declining to invite his old friends, or old family friends—but they also had visited a tailor and modiste, respectively, in London. Will’s wedding attire was the first new clothing he had purchased in months. The outing was also the first one he had undertaken since coming home from battle, not counting his time in transit between London and Blackbrook when he’d been sent home. But that had not been nearly the same.
He looked magnificent. His waistcoat, trousers, and overcoat were all in tones of deep green that mirrored his eyes, while the white lawn of his shirt and cravat underscored the greens. His curly, dark hair was still longer than many men wore theirs, but it had been brushed to a shine and remained, somehow, tucked behind his ears and neatly queued.
Augusta herself felt no less decadent. After considering the colors his tailor had chosen for him, the modiste they’d called upon declared that a more delicate jade hue would suit her coloring perfectly while complementing Will’s clothing. The stately, silver-haired woman, Mrs. Kelley, had served Will’s mother and was visibly touched to serve his fiancée. She praised Augusta’s luminous brown hair and eyes, and had the tact not to mention the various scars that still peppered her otherwise immaculate, peach-toned skin. She had at least grown less pale since coming to Blackbrook.
It couldn’t be helped, but some scars would still show over the neckline of her wedding dress. Augusta found that she did not mind, for with Will, she was moving forward from those dark times.
And if Mrs. Kelley was surprised to see the state of Will’s own scars, she did not show it. Augusta was grateful for her tact.
For the most part, their excursions into London had not merited more than the small handful of dark looks from strangers. Since Augusta had not been raised to adhere to a highborn lady’s sense of manners, and had not been afraid of anyone but her father, she was more than ready to return any stares with murderous, pointed glares.
The first time Will caught her doing so on a crowded little stretch of Bond Street, he burst out laughing.
“What?” she said, somewhat defensively.
“You could scare Wellington himself with that expression,” he said, bringing her more closely to his side. “You and Jane, both.”
“People need to know that they cannot look at you as though you are a… an… an oddity,” she declared. “They would not do so if you were lame or… missing an arm… or…” She scowled. “If it is a woman who sends them that reminder, then so be it.”
“I love you,” he murmured into her ear, still chuckling a little at her pugnacious attitude. “But you have already saved me from them.”
Smiling at the remembrance, now, she said to Will, “Look, I think Lady Jane—Aunt Jane—has finally gotten the chance to greet her paramour.”
Aunt Jane had outdone herself in preparing the guest list, and the grounds comfortably contained everyone as the ceremony itself closed and the festivities were waning. But as she had also taken it upon herself to act as hostess because, as she put it, Augusta’s first try at hosting an event as an aristocrat should not be her own wedding, she’d had hardly a moment to herself.
Will followed Augusta’s eyes. They watched as a handsome, silver-haired man in his mid-sixties drew Aunt Jane’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently. It was the first time Augusta had ever seen the stalwart lady blush, but it filled her with happiness to see Aunt Jane so pleased. When, one night, she’d explained the entire situation to Will, her darling fiancé was mortified that his aunt had elected to look after him rather than take her own courtship further.
Augusta had to explain that it had been an act of love, not sacrifice, and as an older widow, Aunt Jane felt more secure in biding her time than a spinster or a younger lady might. It turned out that she’d been correct in her instincts, for this man looked highly taken with her.
“Perhaps the next wedding we hold shall be Aunt Jane’s,” said Will, brushing a kiss to Augusta’s hairline.
“If they bother with marriage. At their age, I don’t know if I would. I’d tell everyone it was none of their business. Do you think she would want it here, or would she prefer to have it in London?”
“She does love the city,” said Will thoughtfully. “But I suppose it also depends on where his people are. He is a widower, you say?”
“Yes,” said Augusta. She smirked. “They have both done all of this before. I wonder if they shall just elope to Gretna Green.”
“Never,” said Will with a grin. “Aunt Jane is far too fond of planning events. If they elope, there will be no wedding party for her to craft.”
A young, ginger man approached them and Will’s smile grew.
This must be Peter, thought Augusta. She had heard so much about him in the last few weeks that she felt as though she knew him already, and she knew for certain that he possessed red hair and, she’d been told, an infectious smile.
“Will,” he said.
“Thank God you’ve finally dispensed with the ‘Lord Ainsworth’ and ‘Your Grace’,” said Will, keeping hold of Augusta’s hand as he went forward to clasp Peter around the shoulders in a display of true affection. “Even when you were staying here I couldn’t get you to stop.”
“Well,” said Peter. “Better late than never, I suppose.” He glanced at Augusta. “I now know that you were never Miss Brooke, but that is how I knew you in Will’s letters.”
“You wrote letters about me?”
Will went very faintly red and said, “Augusta, this is Peter Mills, a dear friend and fellow physician.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Peter,” she said. “When we have more time on our hands, I would love to hear about these supposed letters.”
With one loaded look at Peter, who seemed ready to laugh at his friend, Will disengaged has arm from Augusta’s and said heavily, “I shall leave the two of you alone, shall I? I don’t see how I will be unembarrassed by any of this talk and I need to meet Aunt Jane’s suitor.”
Augusta went on tiptoe for a deep, parting kiss and Will sauntered off to join Aunt Jane and her dashing man.
“He really did write about you,” said Peter. “It was nothing salacious, but I think that as soon as he realized he might be feeling something… more… he had to confide in someone.”
“I wonder if Aunt Jane knew,” said Augusta, following Will with her eyes and smiling when she saw him join his aunt. With animated speech, she
introduced him to her suitor, who bowed and shook Will’s hand cordially.
The grounds were gorgeous, studded with candles, the trees festooned with ribbons of forest and lighter greens. It looked like a fairyland, especially as the sun was dipping below the horizon and the golden hour began to bathe guests and surroundings alike in amber light.
“He believed she did,” said Peter. “But like me, I am sure that Lady Jane only wished for Will’s happiness. He has faced a lion’s share of loss.” He surveyed Augusta warmly. “You have managed to help him find it. Even if he did not wax too poetic in his missives to me, his tone still changed after he began to speak to you.”
“Even though I did not tell him the truth at first?”
Peter chortled. “Oh, I think that was good for him. A good mystery gave him something to chew on besides his sorrow.”
After half an hour or so of merry chatter with Peter, who as it happened was an adept conversationalist, Aunt Jane meandered over to mutter in Augusta’s ear, “You must be ready to come away from all of this, my dear.” Then she said to Peter, “Hello, Peter. I am so very glad to see you again.”
“And, indeed, I am pleased to see you on so wonderful an occasion,” he replied with another of his sunny smiles. Aunt Jane gave Augusta a small nudge between the shoulders, which would have been invisible to anyone unless they were standing directly behind the two of them.
“If you’ll excuse me… Peter, Aunt Jane. I must check on Eggy and make sure he has not discovered the punch.”
“Eggy?” Augusta could hear Peter asking as she sailed away, pretending she had urgent hostess-related business to attend. Surreptitiously, she found her way to Will, who was lingering near a footman with a tray of glasses of champagne.
“Indulging overmuch?”
He looked relieved when she sidled up to him. “Not at all. Merely staying out of the way.” Augusta took a glass and sipped. Today had been the first time she had champagne, and she resoundingly liked it. “I haven’t been the center of attention this way since… oh, possibly ever. It was one nice part of being a youngest son.”
“Would you like to make a strategic retreat?”
Duke of Sorrow Page 18