“Well, I must say I quite agree. Flowers would, indeed, be lovely, my dear,” the countess interjected brightly.
“Then flowers it shall be,” Victoria said with forced cheer, glancing once again at her reflection. Even to herself, her face appeared pale, her eyes pensive.
Rising beside her and examining the gown with a fierce frown, Mrs. Bowman nodded sharply. “Mm. It is good.” She met Victoria’s gaze in the mirror. “I have it finished for you and delivered today. The rest is ready, too. That will be sent to the duke’s house as well, yes?”
“The rest?” Victoria blinked.
“Sì, your …” The woman gestured toward Victoria’s bosom and down to her knees. “… nightwear. And the day dresses and ball gowns you requested.”
“Oh!” Victoria had completely forgotten the expansive trousseau she had ordered before the incident, when she had planned to marry Stickley and needed something to look forward to, even if it was a carriage load of new frocks.
Of course, her mind had been a muddled bowl of porridge since she had agreed to marry Lucien, so it was no surprise she had forgotten a shopping excursion from over six weeks ago. It seemed an entirely separate existence, the life of a young woman on the verge of a well-planned if not terribly thrilling future. Now, she felt years older. Decades, even.
“Yes, thank you,” she replied finally. “The duke’s house will be fine.”
As the modiste ushered Victoria into the dressing area and helped her out of her wedding gown and into the walking dress she had arrived wearing, she couldn’t help thinking that, as of tomorrow, Clyde-Lacey House would no longer be her home. Instead, she would be married to Viscount Atherbourne. She didn’t even know where he lived.
“Is not so bad, you know.” The dusky, accented voice of Mrs. Bowman interrupted her thoughts. The modiste stood behind Victoria, fastening the buttons at the back of her pale pink, long-sleeved cambric dress and helping her into her rose sarcenet pelisse.
Victoria frowned in confusion.
“Marriage. You are afraid, yes?” Mrs. Bowman gave Victoria’s skirts one last sweep to remove the wrinkles and came to stand in front of her, hands on hips and a knowing look in her intelligent brown eyes. “You should not fear. Women have much power.”
Victoria glanced down at her hands where they tangled at her waist. She consciously relaxed her fingers, embarrassed to have her emotions so visible to someone who was little more than an acquaintance. Although the conversation was disconcerting, Mrs. Bowman’s statement made her curious. “What power do we have? I do not even have rights to my own funds.”
“You are to marry Atherbourne?”
Victoria hesitated before nodding. How did a modiste know such things?
She seemed to read Victoria’s question in her face. “Ladies talk much here at Bowman’s,” she began cryptically. “They say he is … well, you will not find marriage as trying as you imagine.”
“But you said we have power. What power?” Curiosity burned inside Victoria. She needed to know.
Mrs. Bowman gave her a piercing look. “You will soon discover a husband’s happiness cannot be complete without his wife’s happiness. If he is reminded of this at the right moment …” She snapped her fingers and waved them with an Italian flourish. “… he is yours.” She held up one finger in front of Victoria’s nose. “But you must not let him know you know you have the power. That is the key.”
Victoria frowned. This was distinctly unhelpful. And confusing. “But how shall I know when is the right time?”
Mrs. Bowman pursed her lips and arched a brow, considering Victoria with an elevated tilt of her head. “You will know.”
Dash it all, the woman was full of mysterious information, and yet offered nothing. It made her want to stamp her foot in vexation.
“Lady Victoria, perhaps we should be off,” Lady Berne said from the other side of the dressing room curtain. “We have much to arrange before tomorrow.”
Victoria quickly tied the ribbon of her bonnet, stepped past the curtain, and smiled into the countess’s round face. “Yes, let’s be off.”
As they strolled south along Bond toward Bruton Street and Berkeley Square, Victoria considered what the modiste had said and wondered if it could be true. The idea that a wife might have influence and power of her own within the confines of marriage had not occurred to her, but then, that wasn’t too surprising. She had been raised in a proper household, her parents content with one another but rarely openly affectionate. Her mother had died when Victoria was but seventeen, and before that had never spoken of what a relationship with a man entailed, much less shared such valuable secrets as how to wield actual power over her husband.
When she had agreed to marry Lucien, standing in the drawing room gazing into his eyes, Victoria had known it was the only decision she could have made, for Harrison’s sake and for her own future. But ever since, she had felt adrift on a sea of uncertainty. Would he be kind to her? Did he wish to use her—again—as leverage against Harrison? She did not know how he might do so without her cooperation, but she could hardly rule it out. Would he seek to further humiliate her? Swallowing hard, she acknowledged that it was her greatest fear. As her husband, he would hold absolute domain over her person, her assets, her life. If so inclined, he could torment her in numerous ways, both public and private. Harrison had made that very argument when she had told him of her decision. Now, however, with little more than an offhanded comment, Mrs. Bowman had given her a glimmer of hope. If she could, in fact, retain some power within the marriage, at least she would not be helpless.
“What do you think, dear?”
Victoria absently glanced at Lady Berne. “Hmm?” The countess smiled, and Victoria knew she had been caught woolgathering. “I beg your pardon, my lady. It seems my thoughts refuse to settle today.”
The dear woman hooked her arm through Victoria’s and patted her hand understandingly. “It’s to be expected. Tomorrow is your wedding day, after all. So many changes all at once. It is exhilarating, and yet I daresay I remember feeling much trepidation myself before I wed Lord Berne.” She smiled fondly, her eyes clouding with nostalgia. “He was terribly handsome, you know. Could have chosen any of a dozen beauties that season. But he landed on me, and that was that.”
Victoria smiled, momentarily caught up in the countess’s happy recollection. “What drew you together?”
“It was the horrid punch at the Duchess of Harrington’s summer ball.”
Victoria laughed. “Indeed?”
The lady’s warm brown eyes sparkled merrily, and she leaned closer as though imparting a delicious bit of gossip. “Oh, yes. The duchess was a vain, haughty woman whose wig was always rather precariously set upon her head. I have no notion as to why. One would have thought she would take greater care, but …” She shrugged. “In any event, Sir Albon Throckmorton—a more addlepated gollumpus I’ve never met—was having a heated exchange with a potted plant which had imposed upon his posterior. He collided with the duchess, and her wig did not survive the tussle.”
Giggling and shaking her head at the absurd image, Victoria asked, “It fell off?”
“Directly into the punch bowl.”
“How embarrassing for her.”
Lady Berne grinned wickedly. “Mortifying, yes. But, as I stood very near the refreshment table, the incident proved providential. Lord Stanton Huxley, the dashing first son of the Earl of Berne, was just behind me, intending to fetch a cup of that wretched punch, presumably. When the wig landed in the bowl, he quickly pulled me to safety.”
Victoria grinned and nodded. “Lord Berne is a true gentleman.”
“Oh, I suspect it wasn’t so much that he was trying to rescue me as that he wished to ensure I remained between himself and the splash. But that was neither here nor there. I said something about how the good Lord had answered my prayer in smiting both her grace’s dignity and her dreadful punch in one fell swoop. I believe I referenced the miracle of Moses and the Red S
ea.”
“You made him laugh,” Victoria said fondly.
“So loudly we began attracting attention. I was forced to dance with him just to get him to quiet down.”
Several minutes of companionable silence fell between them, filled only with the din of the street—clacking carriage wheels, clopping horses’ hooves, the shouts of coachmen, and the buzz of shoppers—as Lady Berne seemed lost in reminiscence and Victoria contemplated what tomorrow would bring. Quietly, she leaned toward the older woman and asked, “Is that the secret, then, to a good marriage?”
The countess’s surprise was evident in her raised eyebrows. “What, dear? Humor?”
Victoria nodded.
She frowned gently and pursed her lips as though trying to puzzle through the answer. “Well, I suppose it plays a role.” She nodded to confirm. “It certainly makes the thorny patches easier to bear. But I must say marriage is not so simple as one secret ingredient.”
“No, of course not,” Victoria murmured. “I was just wondering …” Her voice trailed off as she debated how to ferret out the information she wished to know without invading the countess’s privacy or the bounds of propriety. Deciding simply to ask the question directly, she glanced around the bustling street to be certain no one was near enough to overhear. “I have heard there are ways a wife might wield power within her marriage. Is this true?”
Clearly startled by the question, Lady Berne stiffened and slowed her stride, stopping to face Victoria for a moment before realizing they were apt to draw attention if they remained halted. Grasping Victoria’s elbow again and resuming their strolling pace, the countess murmured, “My dear, did your mother never explain … er … matters beyond the wedding?”
Victoria shook her head, a flush heating her cheeks.
“Oh, my.” The countess cleared her throat and opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to reconsider.
“You needn’t answer, my lady. It was an impertinent question, and I should not have asked.”
“No, no.” Lady Berne squeezed her arm reassuringly. “I was simply collecting my thoughts.” She chuckled. “I have not yet had this little talk with my daughters, so didn’t realize …” She waved her hand in dismissal. “No matter. A young woman should have some idea what to expect before she is married. I daresay, your dear mother was probably waiting until you’d made a match, much as I have been waiting with my own girls. I am certain she would wish for me to inform you of your wifely duties.”
Victoria could feel the blood burning her face and wondered if the air around her fair shimmered with the heat. “Duties?” she squeaked.
“Yes, dear. Your husband will expect you to lie with him in the marriage bed. You must do so in order to have children, of course.”
“Of course,” she replied hoarsely.
“Most men desire children. Oh, that reminds me, you must maintain quiet, my dear.”
“Qu-quiet?”
“Well, not absolute silence, naturally, but I can think of no gentleman who would prefer a great deal of caterwauling and carrying on rather than a state of blessed peace and quiet.”
Cringing at the memory of how she had “carried on” during her embrace with Lucien on the Gattingford terrace, Victoria tried to imagine being still and quiet while Lucien touched and kissed her as he had that night. She was determined to be a good wife, but in light of this new information, it might prove an even greater challenge than she had anticipated.
“If you manage his house well, provide him with children, and do all in your power to bring him comfort and ease, you should do splendidly as his viscountess.” Lady Berne beamed at Victoria. “There. Now do you feel better?”
Victoria pasted a smile on her face and nodded, eager for the excruciating conversation to end. “Thank you for your gracious advice. You have been most kind.”
The countess nodded and they continued into Berkeley Square. The neat, orderly row of town houses was a familiar comfort. Just as they arrived at Clyde-Lacey House, a grand brick structure spanning double the width of the other houses, Lady Berne tugged Victoria to a stop. “Oh! My dear girl, I almost forgot the most important thing.”
Inwardly, Victoria winced, hoping this nugget of wisdom would prove less embarrassing than the rest. “Yes?”
“As soon as you are able, discover what his favorite dish and his least favorite are. When you are well pleased with him, ensure the meal he loves most is served at least once a week.”
Blinking in surprise, Victoria absorbed the advice and nodded. Then she asked, “And I should learn his least favorite dish so the cook may avoid serving it?”
“Oh, no dear. You should learn it so you may serve it whenever he displeases you.” She squeezed Victoria’s hand as they climbed the front steps. “For his sake, I do hope that occasion is a rarity.”
~~*
Chapter Seven
“While I agree men fancy a good meal, Meredith, I daresay the stomach is not the most direct route to a man’s heart. That organ lies a good bit lower.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Countess of Berne upon learning of said lady’s supper menu.
Lucien’s wedding day began with a crack of thunder and a torrent of rain, the deluge washing the London streets and battering the windows of Blackmore’s drawing room throughout the small, quiet ceremony.
Even now, amidst the clink and chatter of the wedding breakfast, it had not let up, a backdrop of constant whooshing punctuated by the occasional ominous rumble. With fewer than a dozen guests in attendance, the voices of Victoria’s family and friends failed to drown out the sounds of the storm.
A hard hand thumped Lucien between the shoulders just as he was about to take a bite of spinach and ham torte. “Well, old friend, it appears no one else is prepared to congratulate you, so allow me to be the first,” Lord Tannenbrook said evenly.
Lucien coughed on a wave of wry laughter and shook his head at his sole ally, who was seated on his right at the long dining table. “I expect you may be the only,” he murmured, glancing around at those who conveyed their disapproval of him quite effectively through barren politeness. “But it matters little. What’s done cannot be undone, regardless of how the duke or anyone else may feel about it.”
James took a bite of toast and nodded his agreement.
Since his arrival at Clyde-Lacey House, the atmosphere had been chilly. Far from unexpected, but uncomfortable nonetheless. The duke had barely spoken to him. Colin Lacey had arrived drunk and worked at getting drunker as the morning wore on. Lord and Lady Berne had greeted him with tight reserve, even while embracing and coddling Victoria as though they were hens and she their lone chick. Clearly sensing the tension in the room, the priest had scowled and asked Victoria repeatedly if she was certain she did not wish to reconsider. All in all, he felt fortunate she had not planned a larger affair.
Lucien’s eyes slid past James to the head of the table where his pale, subdued bride sat in quiet conversation with the Earl of Berne. He hadn’t previously thought her beautiful, but in spite of her withdrawn demeanor today, she was strikingly lovely. Her gown, a diaphanous confection of white, silver, blue, and green, made her eyes and skin fairly glow. Her golden tresses had been swept artfully upon her head, dappled with tiny white flowers and green leaves. A few stray curls played about her face and touched the strand of pearls around her delicate white neck. He imagined unfastening the necklace and tracing his tongue along its path. Then lower, he thought as his eyes settled on her sweet, lushly rounded breasts, and lower still.
A hard, sudden thrust of desire surged through his body, tightening his groin and quickening his breath. Like a bolt of lightning, it was swift and frighteningly powerful. Bloody hell. The last thing he needed was a distraction of this magnitude. Forcing his attention away from Victoria, he collided with James’s knowing gaze.
Damn. Apparently, his lust was obvious, at least from Tannenbrook’s perspective. His fixation on bedding his new wife, while understandable in differ
ent circumstances, was unseemly and unwise here in enemy territory. He could only hope others at the table hadn’t noticed him staring at her like a desperate youth mooning over a buxom milkmaid.
“I say, Atherbourne, p’rhaps we should bring these festivities to a close. You’re looking rather eager to move on to a more private celebration, what?” The slurred voice of Colin Lacey, overloud and followed by a drunken snicker, arrived from directly across the table. “Or, here’s a thought. Why not just take her out on the terrace? Seemzh you like that sort of thing.”
Silence fell hard over the table, broken only by the protest of wind and rain against the dining room windows, as the group wrestled with the discomfort of the inappropriate outburst. Seated on Lacey’s left, Lord Berne, a distinguished-looking man of roughly fifty years with thinning pewter hair and a jovial demeanor, coughed into his napkin. To Lacey’s right, the earl’s second oldest daughter, a plump, painfully shy girl with dull brown hair, a round pug nose, and large eyes now wide behind her spectacles, sat with her mouth agape.
The man between them took no notice of the tumult he had caused, grinning blearily at Lucien and chuckling. His pale blond hair, a shade lighter than his sister’s, was cut a bit long on top, where it curled in charming disarray. His features were finely drawn and boyishly handsome, bordering on feminine, but years of dissolution had made his blue eyes dull, his skin pale, and his expression distastefully cynical.
“Colin,” Blackmore rebuked frostily from the foot of the table. “That is quite enough.”
His eyes resting briefly on his bride’s wild flush, Lucien felt irritation itch along his spine. Bloody whelp. It was one thing for Lacey to make an ass of himself, or even to try to embarrass Lucien. It was another to humiliate his sister on her wedding day.
“For once, your grace, you and I agree,” Lucien remarked with a cold smile. “That is, indeed, quite enough.”
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