by Sara Portman
“I don’t agree with anything of the sort.”
“You should. I advise you to consider my change in circumstances. The land in question will only be mine for a short while longer. Once I am married, the cottage and the garden behind it will become the duke’s. And Simon will no longer be employed by me, but by His Grace.” Emma swallowed. She had understood the truth of this all along, but speaking the words aloud sparked a tumble of discomfort in the pit of her stomach.
Mr. Crawford did not speak. Although she had not believed it possible, his stare became colder, harder. He gripped the worn wooden arms of the chair in which he sat.
“The duke was dismayed to hear of accusations against Simon,” Emma lied, feeling only a slight tug of guilt for not informing the duke. Certainly, if she had told him, he would have been dismayed. “Especially as I have explained to him what a fine, honest boy Simon has always been.” She lifted her chin before revealing her last important news. “His Grace has also assured me he has no intention to sell the cottage or its adjoining parcel of land to you, or to anyone else.”
That last bit, at least, was true. The duke had assured her she could keep the cottage. The current offer for purchase of the adjoining land, if one could even call Mr. Crawford’s attempt at coercion an offer, was a minor detail at best.
I hate you.
Mr. Crawford did not speak the words, but his snarling expression conveyed the message with eloquence. Then his snarl twisted into a teasing smirk. “Husbands say all sorts of things to brides when they are married,” he warned. “But they have more sense in dealing with matters of land and neighbors and finances. Simon may rest easy, but you should not. If I wish to purchase my family’s land, you have only a few more days during which you may prevent it. Once you are married, you have no say at all.”
Lips tight, eyes hard, Emma’s expression yielded nothing, but her heart raced. He was not wrong. Marriage to the duke did not allow Emma to keep her garden. It simply became the duke’s property instead of Mr. Crawford’s. If she had sold her mother’s garden to Mr. Crawford, it would be lost to her forever. By allowing it to pass to her husband upon their marriage, she had at least hope that he would keep his promise.
“As I said before, Mr. Crawford,” she said, with as much confidence as she could muster, “His Grace has most vehemently assured me, the cottage and garden will always be mine, to manage as I please.”
Emma wished her words were more persuasive, as she did not trust the calculating gleam in Mr. Crawford’s eye, or the niggling doubt in her own heart.
* * *
“There’s time enough to arrange another disappearance.”
John cast a censuring glance at Brydges as the two rode in his carriage toward the church in Beadwell and, more significantly, toward the fulfillment of John’s four-year engagement to Lady Emmaline Shaw.
“The ‘call to war’ explanation is a bit out of date, but I’m sure there’s enough wit between the two of us to devise some believable tale.” The man’s features betrayed none of the humor his words possessed as he leaned languorously back against the plush seats of the comfortable conveyance and casually suggested his oldest friend abandon his bride-to-be at the altar.
“I’ve no need for a tale, believable or not,” John assured him. “I fully intend to marry Lady Emmaline.”
“No temptation whatsoever to flee?”
John sensed the question, though teasing, possessed a thread of sincere inquiry.
“None.”
He spoke truthfully. John’s resolve to marry had never wavered, but even he was surprised at the peace he felt currently, compared to the dreadful resignation that had enveloped him on his first night in London. Though he had been convinced of his duty to right the injustice done Charlotte, he had dreaded the task of hastily selecting a bride from among the flighty group of debutantes with termagant mothers.
But Emma was not flighty. Her mother was no longer living and her aunt was hardly a termagant. In truth, the whole thing had worked out in a rather convenient way, and he was, for several reasons, glad today was his wedding day.
And his wedding night, he could readily admit.
“The anxious bridegroom, are you?” Brydges asked, coming uncomfortably close to John’s actual thoughts. His brow lifted. “Don’t say you are enamored of the soon-to-be duchess.”
John released an inelegant snort. Anxious, yes, but enamored? “Certainly not. When have you known me to be a lovesick fool? That sort of ridiculousness serves no one in a marriage.”
It was true. Attraction was one thing. Love? That was quite another. Emma was no more caught up in love with him than he with her. But then…she had questioned his fidelity, or demanded it rather. Odd to think of Emma as a jealous wife when she’d had to be persuaded to marry him. No, whatever had prompted that request was not jealousy. John knew what sort of damage that weakness caused and wouldn’t allow that particular emotion from either party to complicate their marriage. All the more reason why Emma was the perfect wife.
Lovesick foolishness, indeed.
Of course, there was a difference between lovesick foolishness and honor. John did not intend to fall madly in love with his wife, but neither did he intend to dishonor her. He had been caught unaware by her question and, admittedly, a bit offended. In his calmer moments, however, he could concede that affairs occurred regularly among the aristocracy. Many men of his circle believed honor demanded discretion rather than faithfulness, but John did not see circumstances in the same light. He hadn’t considered the matter before, but now that Emma had made an issue of it, he knew he would honor his promise fidelity. It was simply his way.
John glanced at his friend and for the briefest of moments considered inquiring as to Brydges’s opinion regarding the subject, but quickly thought the better of it. Hugh Brydges considered the matrimonial state to be a form of torture reserved for those either destitute of fortune or obligated to produce heirs. Since he was neither, his thoughts on the matter were easy to deduce.
John shook his head and changed the topic. “My sister will be arriving soon.” With the ironic timing only the fates can deliver, John had awoken on his wedding day to the awaited letter delivering word of Charlotte’s travel arrangements.
“How soon?” asked Brydges.
“Very soon,” John replied. “A few days, a week at most. I’ll be returning to London shortly to collect her.”
As it happened, he and his new wife would have only a brief time during which to acquaint themselves before Charlotte arrived.
His new wife.
He didn’t mind that. He had some inclinations as to how they could come to know each other better.
* * *
Emma’s wedding day arrived with startling haste. Even simple country weddings took time for planning and arrangements, and the two weeks that had passed since Emma had acquiesced to the inevitability of her engagement had done so in a blur.
Her aunt and uncle had taken up residence at the inn in Beadwell, as the cottage was not large enough to house them all. Aunt Agatha clucked regretfully on several occasions that she’d not been given sufficient time to prepare, but Emma simply waved away her concerns. She chose from among the nicest of her London gowns for the ceremony and insisted all else could be managed after the wedding. There had been one painfully awkward conversation with Aunt Agatha regarding her wedding night that had been vague, uninformative, and peppered with oddly uncharacteristic stuttering on Aunt Agatha’s part.
The morning of the day itself was such a rush of activity, she barely had time to think. Her first real opportunity to collect her thoughts came at an unlikely time—during the ceremony. Although she did find it necessary to pay attention at moments in order to provide the required responses, she found during the vicar’s sermon she could allow her mind to wander and more closely examine her present situation.
She decided as the duke placed the ring on her finger that the time for questioning her decision had passed. He wa
s to be her husband—if not entirely by choice, then at least by…acceptance. The arrangements had been made for a small wedding breakfast at the inn, after which the couple would depart for Brantmoor, and Emma intended to steer all her energies toward her duties once she became the Duchess of Worley.
Oh.
She looked up at John, who still held her hand after placing the ring.
She supposed she was already the Duchess of Worley.
Or perhaps not. She understood there were still papers to be signed.
Well.
The ceremony was eventually completed—presumably having been carried off with all the necessary steps and words that must be said for a marriage, though she could not say for certain due to the distraction of her thoughts.
As the small group made their way on foot from the church to the inn after the ceremony, it occurred to Emma she was glad the wedding had not been held in London. The spectacle would have been a mad crush. How often, after all, does a near spinster marry a dead man?
Chapter Sixteen
The newlyweds’ time alone in the carriage started quietly. As the silence stretched into awkwardness, Emma searched for a topic to inspire some pleasant conversation and distract her from her burgeoning awareness of the man seated across from her, and that man’s effect on her physical state. Even the duke’s grand carriage was a relatively small space, and she was painfully conscious of her posture, the location of her limbs, the temperature of the air, and the pace of her own heartbeat.
“I received word that Charlotte is due to arrive quite soon,” he said, to her great relief. “We probably should have been married in London, I suppose, since we shall have to return there so soon. Though I have to confess, I would not have preferred the fuss associated with a London wedding. I find I tire of London quickly these days.” His smile was wan, almost sheepish, with the admission.
Emma smiled, relieved for the benign topic. “I was thinking something similar myself,” she admitted. “I try to spend very little time in London and usually do so only to please my aunt.”
“Do you not travel back and forth from your uncle’s estate as they do? Do you stay in the country even while they have come to town?”
“The country, yes,” Emma explained, “but not my uncle’s estate. I do visit there, but home for me is my cottage. I am there most of all. I did caution you, did I not, that I was not very duchess-like.”
“I recall you did, as a matter of fact, and gave it as one of the strongest reasons we should not marry.” He smiled warmly. “Yet I consider that to be one of your more pleasing attributes.”
The slow warmth that had been churning at her center developed tendrils and began to creep outward. “Do you?” she asked, averting her gaze to recover her serenity. “But I understood your primary purpose for marrying was to acquire an ally in preparing your sister to meet the ton?”
“That is my entire purpose for marrying,” he admitted without hesitation, “but the more time I have spent in London, the more I understand how I have been altered by my time away. I find myself feeling a bit…constrained… by everything. There are so many strictures and formalities…” John’s brow furrowed with the effort to find the words to express himself. “I am able to enjoy a bit more freedom in the country.”
Emma wondered if he even realized that he tugged at his cravat as he spoke.
“Suffice it to say, life in Boston as a clerk was very different than life here as a duke. There are so many things here that must be just so. I’ve no doubt you can demonstrate for Charlotte what those things are. It’s just…”
Emma watched with some wonder as he struggled to land upon the words that would convey his intended meaning. He shook his head as though settling for words that were not quite right. “Are you offended by my admission? That I was a clerk in Boston? I should have told you, I suppose.”
She shook her head. “I am not offended.” She did not explain that she already knew.
“Well, I appreciate that you might be unoffended or even have a preference for a relaxation of those strictures from time to time, when we are keeping no one’s company but our own.”
He had managed land upon precisely the reason she preferred life outside London. “Oh, I do have a preference for fewer strictures, Your Grace.” With a timid smile, she awkwardly amended her statement, “er…John.” She may as well speak his Christian name since she’d been mentally putting his Christian name to use for some number of days.
His brow arched. “Do you?” He leaned toward her, his warmth intensifying.
Emma’s eyes widened as she pressed herself back into her seat. What sort of invitation had she inadvertently communicated?
He released a low chuckle. “How difficult we British are to un-train,” he teased. “Spend a few years abroad and, I assure you, your training will be threatened.”
She exhaled. Was that a stab of disappointment she felt? She chose to ignore it and contemplated his statement instead. How very different life must have been for him in Boston. “You’ve had a rare gift, haven’t you?” she observed. “Not just in experiencing life in a far-off place, but in experiencing life in another sphere. Would you tell me about it?”
“You’re a smashing success in abandoning strictures, my dear,” he commented with a droll look. “No proper duchess would find interest in the life of a lowly clerk, even if that clerk did inherit a dukedom.”
Emma released a laugh and felt the lightness of it. It seemed to carry some of her anxiousness away, this ability to laugh with her new husband. “I’m sure not,” she returned. “I suppose I should refer to it only indirectly and with the use of some vague but offensive epitaph such as ‘The Folly’ or ‘Your Unfortunate Period.’”
He grinned. “Come, now, certainly we can be more creative than that. What of ‘The Dark Years’ or ‘The Humiliation?’”
Her laughter bubbled up again. “Oh that does sound bleak. And most assuredly offensive.”
He laughed as well. It rumbled low and filled their small space with warmth. “I’ll admit ‘The Folly’ applies best, as my time away was indeed self-inflicted, but I confess to a strong preference for ‘The Dark Years.’” He inclined his head. “It’s rather mysterious, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him in mock sincerity. “I’ll make every effort to refer to it as such in the hearing of others…for your sake, of course.”
“Of course.”
Emma pivoted in her seat and found she was a bit more comfortable leaning against one of the cushions. “But since we are not in the hearing of others presently,” she pointed out, “and since I suffer from an unpardonable lack of disapproval for your choice to go to your family’s aid, I would like to know more of your time in Boston. Perhaps it would help me to understand Charlotte better.”
John’s shrugged as though to imply there was not much of interest to tell. “What would you like to know?”
Everything. In truth, Charlotte was not the only person whom Emma wished to know better. As she had resolved to make the best of their marriage of convenience, she found herself impatient to know more about this man to whom she was forever bound and of whom she knew frighteningly little.
Where does one begin when one wants to know everything?
“How did you travel there?” It was as good a place to start as any.
“Not easily. There were no trading ships going to Boston because of the war with the Americans. I took advantage of a connection of my father’s and was able to arrange for passage on a naval ship. I was gone before he was able to prevent it.”
“Once you arrived in Boston, how did you find your mother and sister?”
“It wasn’t difficult. I had the direction from my mother’s letter.”
Of course. Silly question. “Well, what did you do when you found them?”
He thought a moment before answering that question, as though straining for the exact memory. “I suppose we had a reunion of sorts,” he said finally. “I had
not seen either of them in some years.”
She had forgotten that. Well, not really forgotten as much as hadn’t really considered it. She would have crossed the world for her own family, but would she have done so if she had not known her family?
“How long did you believe them dead?” she asked.
“Ten or eleven years, I’d say.”
“Ten or eleven years,” she mused. “So long?”
“Yes. I learned of their existence shortly after I completed my schooling. For several years after that, I sent money when I could, but my desire to aid exceeded my allowance and my debts grew. That is when you became my father’s plan to rescue me from my presumed dissolute lifestyle as a gambler and spendthrift.”
“Until you learned your mother was ill,” she supplied.
“Yes. Until then.”
“What was it like, seeing them again after so much time had passed?”
He hesitated before answering.
“Odd,” he said finally. “Good.”
She sensed his simple answer was probably as articulate as one could be regarding the complicated emotions of those moments of reunion. He’d been a motherless child for so many years and yet he’d determined as a man fully grown that he owed his mother and sister the very care and compassion he’d been denied through no fault of his own. It was, she thought, really quite noble of him. Her eyes roved over him. That nobility was rather appealing. He was rather appealing. She realized then that she had at some point during their conversation scooted forward in her seat and was leaning inward even farther than that.
His eyes caught hers as they had several times as they conversed, but this time her cheeks warmed.
He noticed. He had to have noticed, because the lightness and laughter in his eyes intensified to…something else, something that very eloquently reminded her she was married to this man and the vehicle that carried them was not so much racing toward a place as it was racing through the day toward the night. Her wedding night.