by M C Beaton
“I felt I could not,” said Mary. “I felt it would be so cruel and … and … all the guests had been invited. I would not have let this happen …”“Emily told me she drugged you.”
“You must not think badly of her. She was doing it to save me. Emily is very young.”
“I do not know whether her distress after the wedding was because she was afraid of reprisals or whether she really was acting the part of the sacrificial lamb.”
“The marriage must not stand,” pleaded Mary. “Many other women would be proud to be your wife.”
“But not you,” he said dryly. “Have I changed so much?”
“Yes, you are like a stranger to me.”
“Strange,” he mused, “and yet the years have not touched you at all. You look the same, you are the same … except in one respect.” His eyes flicked toward where Mr. Cummings stood anxiously at the edge of the floor.
Mary blushed. “I feel so foolish,” she said. “It is not in my nature to be fickle. You must forgive me and forgive us all. Emily must not be made to suffer.”
“Many ladies,” said the earl with some asperity, “would not consider the prospect of being a rich countess as suffering.”
“But Emily …”
“Have you spoken to your sister?”
“Yes.”
“And she said …?”
“Emily said she was content with the arrangement.”
“I believe she is,” he said. “It is an arranged marriage, a situation much more common than a love match. Perhaps ‘twill serve.”
“I do not know what to think,” said Mary wretchedly. “Mama and Papa are so happy that their ambitions have not been ruined. I know their ambitions may seem disgracefully worldly, but you must agree, my lord, that they are not unusual in that. It is the way of the world.”
“Damn the world,” said the earl of Devenham. “I do not care for the rules of a world that is bounded by Grosvenor Square and St. James’s Square. We will see what comes of it. I am not a brute. I am at fault for insisting the wedding go ahead. I shall, therefore, give Emily until eight this evening, which is supposed to be the time when I leave on my honeymoon, to come to a decision. If, by that time, she does not wish to be my wife, I shall take steps to have the marriage annulled.”
“You are very generous,” said Mary. “It is more than we deserve.”
“Perhaps I owe something to the memory of that very green captain who was so very much in love.” He raised her hand to his lips.
Emily came up and put a possessive hand on the earl’s arm. “Flirting, Devenham?” she cried. “And us newly wed? Fie, for shame, Mary.”
“We owe Lord Devenham a great deal,” said Mary repressively. “Few men would be possessed of such charity under the circumstances.”
“Pooh!” laughed Emily. “I am neither hunchbacked nor ill-favored. My lord has gained quite a bargain. Come, Devenham. It is the waltz.”
She went off on the earl’s arm, throwing a laughing glance over her shoulder at Mary, who stood rooted to the spot.
“I do not know this Emily at all,” thought poor Mary, shaking her head in bewilderment.
When the time came for Emily to retire and change from her bride’s clothes to her traveling dress, Mary followed her upstairs to her bedroom, hoping to find the old Emily waiting there. But Emily had a coterie of female guests about her and was laughing and chattering as if she did not have a care in the world.
She laughingly refused Mary’s offer of the clothes that had been made for the trousseau. Mama was so generous, Emily said, that her own clothes were fit for any bride.
Attired in a figured sarsenet of white ground with small sprigs of pink color and wrapped in the very latest thing in cloaks—fine Bath coating, descending to the feet, with a large military cape and hood—and with a shade bonnet of fine brown cane with a high crown of brown satin, ornamented with chenille and velvet flowers perched on her head, Emily tripped lightly down the stairs to where her husband was waiting in his traveling carriage.
She stood with one foot on the carriage step, turned, threw her wedding bouquet into the crowd. Mary caught it, and held it to her bosom, her eyes wide and appealing as she looked at Emily, willing her not to go through with it if she did not want to.
For one moment, Emily caught her sister’s intense gaze and the smile left her face. She made a half-movement as if to run back, and then, with a little shrug, waved her hand and climbed into the carriage.
The coachman cracked his whip, The guests cheered, and the well-sprung carriage moved off down the drive. Outside the gate, the villagers cheered and huzzahed. The carriage window opened and the earl threw out a handful of silver and copper.
The crowd cheered again.
Mary found Mr. Cummings at her elbow and leaned slightly against him for comfort, watching and watching until the carriage disappeared from sight.
Chapter Five
Silence reigned inside the carriage; thick black night, outside.
“Where are we bound?” asked Emily at last in a small voice.
“We are on our way to Maxton Court.”
“To stay with friends?”
“Maxton Court, my love, is my new ancestral home.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Did Mary not even tell you where she was to spend her honeymoon?”
“No.”
“Well, now you know.”
“Is it far?”
“Two counties away. We will stop soon at a posting inn for the night.”
Emily fell silent. The night ahead loomed up full of menace. What exactly were those mysterious marital rights? Would she be expected to kiss him a lot? It would not be all that bad, she thought, feeling very warm as she remembered that first kiss.
“My servant has ridden ahead to arrange accommodation for us,” he said.
All at once, Emily thought longingly of her own bed at home—narrow, white, and virginal. How wonderful it would be if had been someone else’s wedding, and, now that the guests were gone, she could sit with her feet on the fender and talk to Mary about the day’s events.
A wave of homesickness assailed her as she leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Tired?”
“A little.” Her eyes flew open at his question. This companion, this husband, would always be at her side. She stole a look at him. He was really very handsome when he was relaxed, as he was now. He could not have had the chance to have many affairs. He had returned several times on leave to London. He had not called on Mary during any of these visits home, since, prior to his earldom, there was no hope of the Ansteys inviting him.
He would, therefore, still have been a captain on those leaves, and Emily naively assumed London society to be as nice as the Ansteys in their choice of beaux for their daughters.
“Why, he is probably as innocent as I am myself!”
Much comforted by this thought, Emily began to relax.
Emboldened at last by the friendly silence of her companion, she asked, “Were the Spanish ladies very pretty?”
“Some,” came the answer.
“But Spanish society is very strict, more so than we are here, so it would not be possible for you to have had many … er … personal relationships.”
“On the contrary. War breaks down many barriers of decorum.” His eyes gleamed with mockery in the light from the carriage lamps.
“Oh,” said Emily, pleating a fold in her gown. “But when you were on leave in London, it must have been so hard. I mean, the ton is so mercenary.”
“And therefore I had to lead a celibate life? Not quite. I was a great favorite at balls and supper parties.”
“You are teasing me,” accused Emily.
“Not I. You cannot have everything, my sweeting. You have my title, my fortune, myself. You cannot expect virginity as well.”
“Devenham!” shrieked Emily. “You should not speak thus. It is not fitting.”
“I was catching the hook, my love. You were fishing.”
> “I was being polite … making conversation.”
Emily slid a look at him out of the corner of her eyes. His face was closed, enigmatic. I have married a stranger, she thought. What on earth is going to happen tonight?
The inn was comfortable and well-appointed. Their private parlor was charming. Their bedroom had one large four-poster, which seemed to dominate the room.
Their servants had traveled in another carriage. The earl left to check that the horses were properly stabled for the night, and Emily seized his absence as the opportunity to change for dinner. Felice bustled about, warming a change of underclothes at the fire, heating the curling tongs on the portable stove, and looking as if she had not a care in the world.
Felice was happy because the second footman had promised her he would apply for a post in the Devenham household, and Felice herself was delighted to be appointed lady’s maid to the new countess.
Emily would have loved to unburden some of her worries on the maid, but Felice was so neat, so efficient, and so foreign that Emily found she could not summon up the courage to say anything to the girl.
The earl entered the bedchamber soon after Emily was dressed and said that if she waited in the private parlor, he would join her.
Waiting beside the fire in the parlor, Emily drank two glasses of wine to fortify herself. When he eventually arrived, he had changed from his wedding clothes into a severe black coat with white cravat, black pantaloons, and striped stockings. As was the fashion, the pantaloons hugged his muscular legs, showing the ripple of each strong muscle under the cloth.
The earl was charming over supper. The earl was witty. The earl was very seductive. And the more charming, witty, and seductive he became, the more terrified Emily felt. His presence seemed to be assaulting all her senses at once. She felt overwhelmed by the increasing air of sensuality that seemed to emanate from his body.
Emboldened by the wine she had drunk, Emily did her best to laugh at his stories and parry his flirtatious remarks. But no amount of wine could drown the ever-present image of that large double bed.
At last, he came around the table and helped her from her chair.
“Go and prepare for bed,” he said softly. “I will join you very shortly.”
“Yes, Devenham,” she whispered.
He put his arms around her and smiled as he felt her body tremble against his own. Mistaking her fear for the stirrings of passion, he said huskily, “Go to bed.”
Emily trailed from the room. Once in the bedroom, she sat in a chair and stared at the bed. Felice entered quietly, and Emily waved her away. “I will undress myself, Felice,” she said. “Do not come to me until the morning.”
Felice curtsied and left.
“I can’t,” thought Emily. “This is dreadful.” A whole unknown and threatening world of hot, masculine lust lay in waiting.
Like a sleepwalker, Emily got to her feet, wrapped her thick cloak around her, left the room, left the inn, and simply walked off, out into the night.
A thick, wet, November mist had fallen. She had only walked a few steps from the inn when she found herself wrapped in dripping blackness. Water dropped from the trees like tears and sparkled on her hair. The road was muddy and her thin silk slippers were soon ruined. She had no idea where she was going. She had one thought and one thought only—to put as great a distance between herself and the inn as was humanly possible.
Emily thought she heard footsteps behind her. The mist wavered and thinned a little, and by the faint yellow glow of candlelight from a cottage, which seemed to materialize at the side of the road, she saw a small road branching off. She turned onto it, quickening her pace.
The mist closed in again. At times, she could not even see the edge of the road, which was growing progressively rougher, and at one point she almost tumbled into the ditch at the roadside.
Water dripped and plopped mournfully from the trees, and chuckled in the ditch.
A dog leaped out of the bushes and ran snarling and snapping at her ankles. It caught the hem of her cloak, growling and worrying the cloth with its teeth.
She wrenched her cloak free and ran headlong down the road, until she was gasping for breath and had a painful stitch in her side.
When she finally slowed, she realized the road was gradually petering out into a grassy track.
She came to a five-barred gate with a thick thorn hedge on either side. Exhausted and unable to go any further, she sank down on a wet tussock of grass and huddled inside her cloak.
After a few moments, the icy cold began to seep into her very bones.
Emily got to her feet, wondering what to do. She did not want to retrace her steps for fear of meeting the dog or, worse—her husband. Stiffly and painfully, she put one sore foot on the first rung of the gate and began to climb.
When the earl of Devenham entered the bedroom and found it empty, his first thought was that his bride had gone out to the Jericho at the back of the inn, being too timid to use the chamberpot.
After a quarter of an hour had passed, he went in search of her, and, not finding her anywhere about the inn, came to the logical conclusion that she had run away.
His pride reeled under this fresh blow. She had looked so very pretty during supper with the candlelight gilding her hair that he had quite persuaded himself she had deliberately stolen a march on her sister by marrying him herself.
To reinforce that idea, there was her behavior at the wedding. And since he was not given to much self-hate, he could hardly be blamed for thinking that he must have some attraction. He was hardly the kind of man who would drive a young girl to sacrifice herself because the idea of her sister’s marriage to him was so repugnant.
He only had had his title and fortune for a short time, but already he had noticed all the alchemy wrought by fortune and title.
In fact, ever since the Ansteys’ harsh rejection of his suit those ten years ago, he had not really had to suffer any great humiliations. He was adored by his men. He was accounted a prime favorite with the ladies, and the Duke of Wellington had called him the best dancer in the army—high praise indeed, since the Iron Duke dearly loved his officers to be able to dance well. He had enjoyed the intermittent favors of a mistress. Mrs. Cordelia Haddington had been pleased to welcome him into her bedchamber and into her expert and clever hands every time he returned to London on leave.
But the bed was empty. Emily was gone, her nightdress and nightcap still laid out on the bed.
Having realized this humiliating fact, his first desire was to go straight to bed and forget about the whole thing. His second, to rouse the inn and the countryside and get out men and dogs to join him in the search.
His third was to try to find her himself.
He went downstairs, roused the landlord, and asked if he could borrow a lantern, saying that something of value had dropped from the carriage and that he was going out on foot to look for it.
He refused the landlord’s offer of servants to help him in the search. The landlord, he knew, put his lordship’s refusal of help down to the eccentric ways of the Quality. The earl felt he could bear that.
What he was damned if he would stand for, until it became inevitable, was the scandal and laughter that would be caused when it became known that his young bride had run off on her wedding night, rather than suffer his lovemaking.
The earl’s harsh countenance, albeit a handsome one, had, until that night, been misleading. Although he had acquired an autocratic manner and social veneer, there were still remnants of that eager young captain he had once been. But Emily’s flight had effectively squashed the last grain of romanticism and love in his character—or so he felt. It was as if his outer casing were moving inward until his whole body felt like a stone. The only fires that burned in him as he set out into the mist were the fires of anger.
Once clear of the inn, he diligently searched the mud of the roadway until he found what he was looking for, the marks of a pair of small, slippered feet.
&
nbsp; He followed them carefully and patiently, forcing himself not to hurry in case he lost the track, cursing the clammy heaviness of the mist.
He almost lost the tracks at the turning in the road, but he finally picked up the trail again. A little way down a side road, the dog that had frightened Emily made a rush for his boots.
The earl stood stock-still. “Go away, you miserable cur,” he said evenly, “or I’ll kick you to death.”
The dog bared its teeth in a yellow, ingratiating leer and slunk off into the bushes.
The earl held the lantern high, noticing that the footsteps in the mud were deeply indented at the toe. The dog must have frightened Emily and she must have started to run.
“Good,” he thought nastily. “Serves her right, the ungrateful jade.”
He carefully made his way along the road, following the erratic trail of footsteps which went at some points from one side of the road to the other.
He came to the five-barred gate. Again, he held the lantern high, and then, with an exclamation of impatience, shone the light over the gate, noticing that the footsteps went straight out across the ploughed field on the other side.
He swung himself lightly over the gate. He was halfway across the field when he came upon one of Emily’s slippers. He picked it up. It was a poor, tattered, muddy wreck and there was a faint trace of blood in the silk.
“She must be demented,” he muttered, completely unable to understand why he had engendered such mad terror in anyone.
At the far end of the field, tussocky dry grass led into a pine wood. He searched this way and that for some clue as to which direction she had taken. He did not want to call out for fear she would go into hiding. His boots making no sound on the floor of pine needles in the wood, he continued to search, noticing that the mist had thinned and that faint silver moonlight was beginning to penetrate the wood.
He found her in a little glade.
He stood very still at the edge, thinking that she looked like a princess in a fairy tale.
She was lying in the grass with one arm thrown out. The moonlight illuminated the moving and shifting mist and her hair, cascading about her face, had turned to silver.