Chapter 8
Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep Love!
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought . . .
Lord Byron, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”
Clarens, Lake Geneva, Switzerland
July 9, 1818
The next week passed in a series of odd fits and starts. There were quiet, dragging hours in which Arabella, left to her own devices, couldn’t wait to be wed to Lord Langdale one minute, only to be assailed by a bout of stomach-churning nerves in the next. And then there were times when she was caught up in a whirl of frenzied activity as preparations were made for the upcoming nuptials.
All her clothes were freshly laundered and packed into her trunk; most of her things would be sent off to Gabriel’s villa in Villeneuve the day before the wedding. Mrs. Kerr and Aunt Flora fussed about the fare that would be served at the small wedding breakfast at Maison du Lac: Would they have a buffet of cold collations, vegetable dishes, jellies, flummeries, and Italian ice creams, or serve a hot meal à la russe at table? Flowers—an assortment of lilies and roses—were chosen for her bouquet and the small Gothic church, Église Saint-Vincent, situated on the side of a steep hill just above Montreux; the protestant minister had kindly acquiesced to Dr. Kerr’s request to use his church to conduct the ceremony.
The Kerrs also seemed to have an inordinate number of tonnish acquaintances in and around Montreux, Vevey, and Villeneuve; indeed, the number of English and Scots tourists who liked to visit Switzerland during the summer truly astonished Arabella. Clearly at Eleanor Kerr’s behest, a parade of these busybodies descended on Maison du Lac each day for “morning calls.” They might offer congratulations to Arabella, but she suspected they probably just wanted to take a look at the veritable nobody who’d recently become engaged to the notorious Earl of Langdale.
And Gabriel . . . she saw her husband-to-be only once in the days before their wedding, which was both a disappointment and a relief—she wanted to get to know him better, but at the same time, when she did see him, her equilibrium was well and truly shaken, especially when he kissed her. She was in danger of turning into a lovestruck mooncalf, and that wouldn’t do at all. Falling in love with Lord Langdale would be foolish in the extreme. After their marriage was consummated, at least Gabriel was likely to keep his distance. At least until his title was secure . . .
Aside from making wedding arrangements, Arabella gathered that Gabriel had been busily trying to determine the whereabouts of his mother. She sincerely hoped Lady Langdale could help Gabriel to refute his cousin’s claim that her marriage to Gabriel’s father hadn’t been valid. For Gabriel’s sake and her own—she really did want to have a child one day, if at all possible.
Even though Gabriel was largely absent from Maison du Lac, he was certainly attentive in other ways. He sent Arabella flowers every day—huge bouquets of fragrant roses, lilies, and honeysuckle—and a sweet little note with each one. Counting the days until you are mine. I saw these lilies and immediately thought of you. All were signed G, the single letter rendered with a great flourish. And on the day before they were due to wed, he arranged for a modiste from Villeneuve to deliver the most exquisite wedding gown Arabella had ever seen—a confection of delicate ivory silk, rich cream satin, and the finest gold tissue. It fit perfectly, and Arabella felt very spoiled indeed.
And then at last, her wedding day dawned, bright and beautiful. The sky was a clear azure blue, the waters of Lake Geneva a deep indigo as Bertie drove the Kerrs’ landau along the road leading to Montreux and then up the steep hill to Église Saint-Vincent. The magnificent view helped subdue the storm of nervous fluttering inside Arabella’s belly.
However, when she stepped into the cool, dimly lit interior of the church on Bertie’s arm, and saw her handsome bridegroom waiting for her by the simple wooden alter at the end of the aisle, her heart somersaulted in her chest. She was immediately transported back to the dungeon of Château de Chillon. Had it really only been a week since she’d first encountered this beautiful, charismatic man? If she’d had an inkling of what would transpire between them, would she have turned and fled from the dungeon, or would she still have blithely followed him regardless?
Speculating about what-ifs and what-might-have-beens was pointless now. In less than a half hour, she would no longer be Miss Arabella Jardine but Arabella Holmes-Fitzgerald, the Countess of Langdale.
For better or for worse, her life was about to change forever.
* * *
* * *
Gabriel handed his lovely young bride up into his phaeton before leaping up beside her. The young tiger handed him the reins, and then with a flick, they were off, barreling away from Église Saint-Vincent, following the winding road down the terraced slope, between low stone walls and verdant hedges.
“Hold on, my fair Lady Langdale,” he said as he negotiated a particularly tight turn halfway down the hill.
“Don’t worry, I am,” Arabella replied. Her bonnet had slipped off the back of her head, and her golden curls were flying. “I don’t doubt you are skilled at driving a phaeton, but I fear my heart might give out before we reach the bottom. Which would be a shame for you, my lord, if I don’t survive long enough for you to enjoy our wedding night.”
Gabriel immediately slowed the pace of the matched grays strapped into the phaeton’s traces. “It’s my sincere hope that you will enjoy it too,” he said in a soft, low voice he knew would make her blush. “And I apologize for driving too fast. Blame it on my selfish eagerness to have you all to myself at long last.” He leaned closer and added, “It’s been far too long between kisses.”
Was that an unladylike snort he heard? Gabriel slid his new wife a quick glance before he fixed his attention back on the road. She hadn’t blushed at all. His seductive wiles clearly weren’t working on her. At least not yet. “You doubt me already, Arabella? I know I’ve been largely absent and I’m sorry for that.”
“No, you don’t need to apologize, Gabriel,” she said, her slender shoulders lifting and falling with a small resigned sigh. “It’s quite all right. My reaction was thoughtless. I know you have other pressing business to attend to.”
Guilt shredded Gabriel’s gut. He’d neglected Arabella. Hurt her feelings. And he didn’t want her to feel that way before they’d even begun. He wasn’t a total cad. He needed to clear the air. “No, I’m the one who’s been thoughtless. But I thank you for your forbearance. Now that we’re wed, I’ve been possessed with a renewed urgency to find my mother. I fear time is running out and it won’t be long before Timothy begins proceedings to stake his claim.” The inquiry agent Gabriel had employed in London before he quit town had recently sent word that his uncle Stephen was still hanging on by a thread. But that had been two weeks ago . . .
“I do understand. Truly,” Arabella said, her lips twitching with a timid smile. She reached out and gave his forearm a tentative squeeze.
Gabriel smiled back and this time she did blush, a bright shade of pink. Her shyness and total lack of artifice touched him. Gone was the brave young woman who charged out into the storm like Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, medicine, and war; who tended to his injured shoulder with the skill of a practiced physician. She hadn’t been hesitant about touching him then . . .
He was impatient for her clever touch now.
Transferring the reins to one hand, he tugged off one of his riding gloves with his teeth, then covered Arabella’s small bare hand on the seat beside him. And a genuine smile of pleasure broke across her lovely face.
That was better.
Truth to tell, part of the reason Gabriel hadn’t visited Arabella was he hadn’t wanted to frighten her with the strength of his ardor. For reasons he still couldn’t fathom, he desired her with an intensity that astonished him. She wasn’t attractive in a conventional sense, but she drew his eye as no woman had in some time. And while she mi
ght be young—she’d recently shared with him that she was one-and-twenty—there was no doubt she was wise beyond her years. Not only that, he liked her.
Even though he’d done the honorable thing for once in his life, Gabriel knew deep down he wasn’t a saint. If they didn’t have mutual friends—Charlotte and Nate Hastings—he supposed he might’ve set about simply seducing Arabella to satisfy his curiosity as well as his lust. Indeed, perhaps the only real reason he hadn’t cried off marrying her in the end was that he feared Charlie and Nate’s new wife, Sophie, might harangue Nate to call him out—and that would not turn out well for either of them.
Yes, this devilish attraction he had for Arabella was damned inconvenient. Especially when his place in society was far from secure. Come what may, he would endeavor to be a good husband to Arabella, but earl or not, he would never be her, or indeed any woman’s, chivalrous knight in shining armor; he wasn’t entirely heartless, but he didn’t want to deal with an emotion as troublesome as love. He had to bite his cheek to suppress a wry smile. Given his reckless nature and wandering eye, he was more of a knight-errant. Or as London’s Beau Monde Mirror had oftentimes dubbed him, the Errant Earl.
If Timothy succeeded in his quest, perhaps Gabriel would soon be known as the Errant Bastard.
At least he had been honest with Arabella about his shortcomings. He’d never been in love, and he truly doubted he could remain faithful to any woman. Once he’d had his fill of Arabella and his ravenous need faded, she wouldn’t be taken by surprise when he sought satisfaction elsewhere.
When they reached the bottom of the hill, Gabriel steered the phaeton eastward toward Villeneuve.
“Oh . . . I think you missed the turn to Clarens,” said Arabella, turning in her seat to glance back down the road.
“No. I didn’t.”
“But the wedding breakfast—”
“Your family and the Kerrs can enjoy it on their own. I told Bertie we wouldn’t be attending after all.” Gabriel didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about spiriting her away. As far as he was concerned, her ungrateful aunt Flora and the judgmental Kerrs could go hang. “You’re all mine now, my sweet Arabella. We shall dine at Villa Belle Rive.”
Gabriel swore he heard his wife mutter the word incorrigible beneath her breath. But when he stole a glance at her face, she was smiling.
Just outside of Montreux, not far from Chillon Castle, they hit a bump in the dirt road and he couldn’t suppress a groan as his shoulder protested. Arabella noticed immediately.
“You really should still be wearing your sling,” she said with a frown. “I don’t wish to nag you on today of all days, but you’re clearly flouting my medical advice.”
“Call me vain,” he said with a grin. “I didn’t want to spoil the lines of my beautifully tailored superfine coat on my wedding day. My shoulder is much improved though. The liniment oil you gave me has worked wonders.”
Arabella nodded. “Good.”
“You can rub some in later if you like.”
A bright red blush flooded Arabella’s smooth-as-ivory cheeks. “If you behave yourself.”
He laughed and kissed her hand. “My dear Lady Langdale, we both know that’s never going to happen.”
* * *
* * *
Gabriel’s rented villa was beautiful. A mansion really. Arabella gasped as Gabriel drove his phaeton up the gravel drive to the grand set of double doors.
The three-story château was situated on the very edge of the lake on its own tiny peninsula. Its walls were tinted a pale shell pink while the gabled roof was a soft blue-gray. Elegant poplars lined the drive, and banks of white roses flanked each side of the villa’s front terrace.
When Gabriel helped her to alight from her seat, Arabella found she was pressed between the carriage and her new husband.
“Welcome to Villa Belle Rive, my lovely wife.” Pulling the already dislodged straw bonnet from her head, Gabriel swooped down to steal a tender kiss. “I hope you’ll be able to forgive me for not carrying you over the threshold.”
“If you tried, I’d have to scold you severely.”
Gabriel threaded his fingers through hers and led her toward the front door. “Only a scolding? Now, if you were to offer a spanking to go along with it, I would be sorely tempted to whisk you off your feet.”
Arabella couldn’t be certain, but judging by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, she suspected Gabriel’s jest contained an innuendo of a sexual nature, but for the life of her, she could make neither head nor tail of it.
She was only just beginning to understand how wicked her new husband might actually be.
Gabriel introduced her to the villa’s small contingent of staff who stood lined up in the airy vestibule. The butler, housekeeper, cook, and half a dozen servants were Swiss. A pair of liveried English footmen and Gabriel’s valet, Ryecroft, were also present.
The trim, middle-aged man bowed deferentially. “My lady, welcome to Villa Belle Rive. Your trunk has already been installed in your chambers, and Colette”—he gestured toward one of the young Swiss housemaids—“is at your disposal. She speaks a little English.”
“Thank you, Ryecroft.” Arabella smiled at the girl; she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. “Bonjour, Colette.” She’d never had a maid to attend to her personal needs before, and the whole idea was quite novel. The maid blushed prettily as she bobbed a curtsy.
The formalities over, Gabriel offered Arabella his arm and escorted her up a sweeping marble staircase. The walls above the walnut paneling featured frescoes of near-naked water nymphs and other fantastical creatures cavorting by a pond in a wooded glade. “Your chamber is adjacent to mine,” he said as they traversed the gallery at the top of the stairs. “And after you’ve freshened up, I wondered if you might like to join me for our own private wedding breakfast. Our suites share a balcony, which overlooks the lake.”
“Of course. I would love that.” Arabella was grateful that Gabriel didn’t seem to be in a hurry to rush her off to claim his husbandly rights just yet. They paused by a set of white wooden doors with brass handles, and Gabriel pushed them open.
“I shall join you shortly,” she said.
Gabriel’s gaze caught hers. “I’ll be counting the minutes,” he replied in a low voice as smooth and rich as aged whisky.
Arabella’s toes curled in her gold slippers. Heavens above. Her new husband might not be smitten with her, but if he continued to employ his rakish charms, she didn’t think she would mind at all if he rushed her off to bed. The door closed behind her and she released a wistful sigh. If only we really were in love, then everything would be perfect . . .
Left alone, Arabella inspected her bedchamber and the adjacent dressing room with wide-eyed amazement. Like the rest of Villa Belle Rive, her suite was lavishly appointed.
A set of wide French doors opened onto a stone balcony that overlooked Lake Geneva, with its impressive backdrop of towering snow-capped mountains and brilliant blue sky. The doors and windows were festooned with ivory lace and pale blue damask curtains trimmed with antique gold. The velvet bed hangings and silk counterpane adorning the enormous four-poster bed had obviously been chosen to match. Each piece of satinwood furniture featured gilt trimmings, and sitting atop every table was an enormous arrangement of fragrant white roses, lilies, and honeysuckle.
To the left of the gray marble fireplace was another door, which Arabella supposed led to Gabriel’s chambers. When she padded across the thick Aubusson rug—also in shades of pale blue, gold, and ivory—to the dressing room, she discovered all her clothes had been neatly arranged in the armoire and her grandfather’s medical bag sat on a wooden chest. In lieu of a chamber pot or a necessary cabinet, there was a water closet.
Never, in all her life, had she stayed in such opulent apartments. She’d known Gabriel was wealthy, but it seemed she’d grossly
underestimated the extent of his fortune. Apparently her husband was as rich as Solomon.
After tending to her disheveled curls in the looking glass—the wind had played havoc with her hair during the open-air carriage ride to Villa Belle Rive—Arabella stepped onto the wide balcony. Large ornamental pots of lavender had been placed at regular intervals around the pretty space, and a small arbor of climbing roses stood near a wrought iron dining setting.
Skirting the table that contained an array of domed silver platters, silver cutlery, and fine china plates, Arabella removed her glasses and took up a position by the stone railing to drink in the breathtaking view. The delicate scent of the roses drifted by on a gentle breeze, and a feeling akin to contentment flooded her. Villa Belle Rive was aptly named indeed.
At the soft snick of a latch, Arabella turned to find Gabriel emerging from his suite.
Her heart skipped a beat as he prowled toward her with the grace of a sleek black panther. “I forgot to give you something,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his superfine jacket. “Our marriage lines, my lady wife,” he added, presenting them with a flourish. “They are yours to keep.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Arabella took the folded piece of parchment. As was customary, Dr. Kerr had given her their marriage certificate at the church. However, because she hadn’t wanted to stuff the all-important document into her small reticule, thereby crushing it, she’d entrusted it to Gabriel. “I’ll put it away.”
Gabriel arched a winged brow. “And then we shall dine?”
“Yes. I would like that.”
When Arabella returned, it was to find Gabriel pouring French champagne into delicate crystal glasses. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat carefully; she didn’t want to snag the delicate silk and gold tissue gown on the wrought iron. She placed her glasses beside her linen napkin in case she needed them again.
“To us,” Gabriel said, touching his glass to hers. His gaze burned hotter than the summer sun shining above. “To bright and happy days and the fulfillment of all our mutual desires.”
How to Catch an Errant Earl Page 11