The Wedding Affair

by Leigh Michaels

  So she always curtseyed to him as deeply as she would have done to the queen, had she ever been properly presented at court, before she offered her cheek for his kiss. “What brings you to Berkeley Square today, Papa?”

  “I hear you’re packing up for a stay at Halstead.” Delighted pride filled his voice. “My girl to be a guest at Halstead!”

  Of course he would have heard, Penelope thought. Ivan Weiss provided ale to every fine residence in the West End of London, along with most of the inns and coaching houses within range of his headquarters, and with each delivery his men made, they seemed to return gossip to their employer.

  “The wedding of a duke’s sister is about as close as you can get to royal,” he went on. “I called in just to see whether you need anything extra. Dresses or female fripperies?”

  “No, Papa. There’s no time, anyway, but I already have everything I need.”

  He laughed. “Never thought I’d live to hear a woman say that! But here—you might like something new anyway.” He pulled his hand from behind his back and held out a velvet box. “Women always like jewelry, and having a new bauble to flaunt will help make you feel at home with those fine society tabbies.”

  Penelope took the box with reluctance. Ivan Weiss’s taste in jewelry was no better than his eye for art, and his choice was guaranteed to be the most startling one in view. Penelope had long since given up trying to modify his ideas of what was fashionable.

  Today’s offering was a gold brooch bearing a central stone that was dark yellow and as big as her knuckle. It looked like an unwinking cat’s-eye, and it was so heavy that it would drag down any dress she pinned it on. But the good manners her father had paid so much to instill in her made her say, “This is very thoughtful of you, Papa.”

  He looked her up and down. “You seem a little peaked. Are you increasing, Penny?”

  She shook her head.

  “I think maybe you are,” he offered hopefully. “Your mother looked the same way—a little pinched in the face—when she was first carrying you.”

  Far better to be honest, Penelope thought, than to face deeper disappointment later. “I am not with child, Papa.”

  Ivan Weiss’s face fell. “Well, what’s keeping you then? I’m getting to be an old man, and I want little ones to dandle on my knee. A whole raft of them, starting with a grandson who’ll be an earl one day himself.”

  Yes, Penelope thought. Now we reach the crux of it.

  He looked at her darkly. “Are you telling me there’s something wrong with that fancy earl of yours? I’d think, seeing as how producing an heir is the only thing that will increase the allowance I pay him, he’d be working hard to get you in the family way.” He eyed her shrewdly. “Or maybe he’s doing his best, and it’s you that’s the problem, Penny?”

  She wanted to tell him it wasn’t her fault that her husband refused to do his duty. And yet… perhaps it was her fault. If a wife was so displeasing to her husband’s eye that he could not bring himself to share the marriage bed, then who else could possibly be to blame but the wife?

  Penelope had heard tales whispered under the blankets at her boarding school of how men behaved with women, but masculine hesitation to leap into a bed had not figured in any of those stories.

  Nor had the duenna Penelope’s father hired to chaperone her through her brief betrothal given so much as a hint of why a man might not avail himself of any woman who was accessible to him. Quite the contrary, in fact. Though her discussion of wedding-night mechanics had been brief and—in Penelope’s view—singularly unhelpful, the one thing Miss Rose had been clear about was that by the morning after her wedding, a bride would have no doubts left regarding what a husband and wife did together.

  So if the man was not the problem, the woman must be.

  If I had tried harder to lure him to my bed…

  Perhaps Lady Daphne’s wedding was not something to be dreaded after all, but an opportunity to be seized. They would be away from their normal routine, away from the London house that held such mixed memories, away from the bad habits they had fallen into.

  And perhaps in a different place and surrounded by happiness and liveliness and the joy of another bride and groom, they might yet find their way to some kind of real marriage.

  Even if she had to seduce him… if she could only figure out how that was done.

  Penelope decided she’d think about a plan later. In the meantime, she squared her shoulders and faced her father. “Yes, Papa. I’m the one who’s to blame.”

  He let out an exasperated whoof. “Damn it, Penny—”

  She hadn’t heard the drawing-room door open, but suddenly she felt a whisper of air stirring against her neck and turned to see her husband standing on the threshold.

  The earl displayed his usual air of languid grace. He was dressed in fawn-colored pantaloons and a bottle-green coat today, and the tassels on his Hessian boots were still swinging. Somehow the dark green of the coat threw reddish highlights into his curly, dark brown hair.

  What was he doing at home in the middle of the day? Since the morning more than three weeks ago when she’d confronted him over the invitation, Penelope had barely seen him. In fact, she’d scarcely caught a glimpse of him during daylight in the entire three months they’d been married.

  But then she hadn’t seen much of him at any other time of day, either. Occasionally he dined at home and they silently occupied opposite ends of the long table. Once in a while he stepped aside politely as she passed in a hall. But since the very first night after their wedding, when he had come to her bedroom only long enough to tell her that he would not be returning…

  She hoped he hadn’t heard what her father had said. A man like the Earl of Townsend, with all his culture, couldn’t understand one like Ivan Weiss who had rough edges aplenty.

  “Mr. Weiss,” the earl said gently, “pray allow the fancy earl to pay his compliments.”

  Penelope winced, though she had to admire the way the earl had delivered the sarcastic comment as delicately as he would flick his whip to brush a fly off the ear of one of his horses without injuring the animal. She had seen him do it once, when he had taken her for a drive through the park in his curricle, right before their wedding…

  Her father turned brick red from embarrassment—or rage. But he said, calmly enough, “You’re going to a wedding at Halstead, I understand.”

  “Yes, I am a distant relative of the Somervales. I’m sure you can tell me, sir, whether Lady Daphne is my third cousin or my fourth. I do find genealogy such a tiring pursuit.”

  “It appears you have no stamina at getting descendants, either,” Ivan Weiss said dryly.

  The earl’s gaze turned steely.

  Ivan Weiss did not seem to notice. He reached into his pocket and drew out a letter. With slow, deliberate movements he unfolded the paper and held it up as if to peruse the words.

  The earl hadn’t moved, and a bystander would probably not have noticed a change in his expression, but Penelope had become so closely attuned to his every attitude that he might as well have shouted that he recognized the sheet of paper. Whatever was written there, he knew about it—and seeing it made him uneasy.

  “Regarding this remarkable communication,” Ivan Weiss said, “the answer is no.”

  “I had assumed as much, sir, since you did not deign to answer.”

  Weiss plowed on as if he hadn’t heard. “I will not fund such a misguided venture at this time. My terms have not changed, and since you know quite well what they are, there’s no sense wasting breath in further discussion until you’ve taken the necessary steps to meet my requirements. You understand?”

  The earl bowed. “Of course, sir. I pray you will excuse me. I must depart for Halstead sooner than planned, at the request of the duke, so I must make arrangements.”

  “Sooner?” Penelope was startled. “Then I must get back to my packing, too.”

  Ivan Weiss scoffed. “Why do you think I hired that harridan of a m
aid for you, Penny? Let her do the work.” He eyed her closely. “I’m getting to be an old man, you know. Time’s a-wasting.” He kissed her cheek, bowed stiffly to the earl, and departed.

  Silence descended on the drawing room. But despite what her husband had said about being pressed for time, the earl made no move except to pour himself a glass of port. He sipped and studied Penelope over the rim of the glass.

  Penelope felt shivery inside. He hadn’t looked at her like that since… since their wedding night, she thought. And then everything had gone wrong.

  “What was that all about?” she asked. “The letter, I mean.”

  “Nothing of significance.”

  She didn’t believe him, for there was a note of heaviness underlying his voice that said her father’s refusal had mattered very much indeed. In any case, the earl would not have asked for a favor from the father-in-law he detested unless the matter was vital.

  Surely Ivan Weiss wouldn’t have rejected a reasonable request… would he? “My father is a good man at heart.”

  “Indeed.” The earl’s tone was clipped. “I see you have a new trinket. Have I missed an occasion? Your birthday, perhaps?”

  Penelope had forgotten the box she held. “No. It’s a sort of celebration gift… because of the invitation to Halstead.”

  “May I see it?”

  Reluctantly, she opened the box to display the brooch.

  His gaze flickered. “A remarkable piece. Shall I see you wearing it at the wedding?”

  Though she had thought she was learning to recognize his moods, this one defeated her. Was there a tinge of humor in his voice? No, it must have been entirely her imagination. She looked down at the brooch. “I think not, for the gown I plan to wear is pink. You said we’re to go early to Halstead, my lord?”

  “The duke has requested me to come as soon as I can, but you need not make haste.”

  Penelope wondered why he had been summoned ahead of time. If she was really a wife, she could ask what was going on. “When do you go?”

  “I will leave tomorrow morning, so I must warn my valet of the change in plans.”

  “Tell me what hour, and I’ll be ready.”

  “You must not disturb yourself, ma’am. I’ll drive down tomorrow in my curricle, and you can come in a few days in the carriage.”

  Along with the rest of the baggage, Penelope thought. “A drive in your curricle would be quite nice,” she said with determination.

  “This is hardly the same as a brief jaunt through the park. The trip to Halstead takes hours, and you would be exhausted and wind-burned long before we arrived.”

  “I will manage. In any case, if my father should hear I was staying in town while you have gone ahead without me…”

  His eyes went dark. “Do not attempt to blackmail me. I no longer have any reason to fear losing your father’s good will.”

  She wondered again what request he had made in his letter. “But I do,” she confessed.

  For a long moment they stood in silence, gazes dueling. Then he said, “Very well. I leave at nine. If you wish to come, be ready then—and leave any notion of complaining behind.” He set his glass down hard on a nearby table and went out.

  Absently, Penelope took out her handkerchief and wiped up the port that had sloshed over the fine finish.

  That’s a beginning, at least, she thought. The trouble was that she had no idea how to go on.

  Three

  The situation, Simon told himself firmly, could only improve.

  As matters stood, the Duke of Somervale was on display in the middle of the village street, being gawked at by every cottager within shouting distance. He was standing next to a termagant who had a tongue so sharp that she could flay a squirrel without using a knife. He had half a gallon of grape juice soaking his buckskins and staining his neckcloth. Even his horse seemed embarrassed to be seen with him, for the gelding tugged at the reins, anxious to be off.

  And perhaps most annoying of all, Lucinda Stone had had the brass to laugh at him.

  Simon tipped his head back so he could level a cold stare at her. Lady Stone might be his sister’s godmother and his mother’s friend, but she stood in no special place with him, and the sooner she realized it, the better.

  “I see you’ve finally learned to appreciate your own consequence, Somervale,” Lady Stone went on blithely. “Your mother will be pleased about that. You have quite a nice sneer—though it would be far more effective if you were still sitting on the back of your horse so you could literally look down your nose at me.”

  She was right, and her tone was so sly that Simon couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

  The woman standing next to him, so close his hand still hovered under her elbow, took a step back as if she was startled by the sound.

  “Even dukes laugh now and then,” he muttered, turning to inspect her. At first he had thought this sharp-voiced female must be the child’s nurse, but now that he took a second look, he could see that this woman was no servant, regardless of how she was dressed. Her features were fine and delicate, and her hands were small—though because of her rough gloves, he couldn’t see whether they were as dainty or soft as a lady’s were expected to be. And her accent was an educated one. Perhaps she, like Miss Blakely, fell somewhere in between the nobility and the lower classes.

  The finely turned ankle and the slender calf she’d displayed as she jumped down from the wall had caught his eye even in the midst of his concern for the child. And now that the child was no longer in danger, he found himself thinking again of the flash of bare skin, the peek at forbidden territory…

  Simon had seen his share of women’s legs, and a good many of them had belonged to well-born ladies. But no ankle had ever seized his attention like this one, making him want to explore. He’d never been much of an ankle man anyway; he was more likely to notice a generous bosom, something this woman did not have. While her shape was pleasantly rounded—so far as he could tell under the almost shapeless gown—no one could call her proportions voluptuous.

  He realized he was staring when sparks of gold flared in the hazel depths of her eyes, and he was annoyed. Why was she offended by him taking a second look? She’d gone all soft and mushy as soon as she’d found out who he was, but now she was spitting fire merely because he’d taken her up on her unspoken invitation to pay closer attention to her attributes!

  And what was Kate Blakely thinking anyway, being friends with a woman like this one? The soft-hearted vicar’s daughter must have taken up with a wayward acquaintance. But why? For the well-being of the child, perhaps.

  He turned his attention to the little girl. She seemed to be all right now, though she was huddled close against the woman’s shoulder. She was, however, peeking at him through long, dark lashes. He had no notion of how old she might be, but she was fine-boned and small, except for what seemed to be very long legs. Her eyebrows had a haughty arch that looked odd against the babyish roundness of her face, but a closer look told him that her brows matched those of the woman who held her. Definitely mother and daughter.

  The duchess had not stopped talking—but then, Simon thought, she seldom did. He’d just have to be patient and let her run down. She was rattling on about some sort of letter. He let his gaze drift past the child and back to the woman who held her. She might not be as well endowed as some, but she was well proportioned. A neat little armful, in fact…

  “My dear Miss Blakely, how very right you were to move out of the vicarage, regardless of what Mrs. Meecham believes to be your due. What an uncomfortable situation you have been in, since your father’s death.”

  The gelding nudged Simon’s shoulder and whinnied, and the little girl’s eyes went wide as she stared at the horse.

  “Your letter did not catch up with me until I reached Halstead, but I understand from Mrs. Meecham that you are well settled here at the cottage for the moment.”

  Simon’s mystery woman set the child down and stepped forward. “I am hap
py to have Miss Blakely as my guest, Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace,” Miss Blakely said, “may I present my hostess and friend—Olivia, Lady Reyne.”

  Lady Reyne? Simon felt the impact of the title like a blow to his abdomen, for it meant there must be a Lord Reyne somewhere. But of course she would have a husband, for she had a child. Why was that fact something to bother him?

  And hadn’t he heard something about a Lord Reyne? From one of the gossips, perhaps?

  “Oh, yes,” the duchess said. “My housekeeper mentioned you had moved into the village, Lady Reyne. I hope you will enjoy—”

  Lady Stone snorted. “Do get on with it, Iris. My delicate skin has had about all the sun I can stand for one afternoon.”

  Delicate skin, my arse, Simon thought. Lady Stone’s face generally looked as if she was the end product of a tannery.

  “Very well, Lucinda,” the duchess snapped. “I must tell you, Miss Blakely, that your letter came to my attention at a most convenient time, for indeed I do know of someone who is in great need of your assistance—me! Daphne has invited a dozen of her friends to be her bridesmaids, and they have already arrived at Halstead. I confess I underestimated how exhausting a houseful of young ladies can be. I would like you to come and help me until the wedding.”

  “You must have run mad to even consider it, Iris,” Lady Stone put in.

  “Having them all in one place seemed a good idea. Fittings and all.” The duchess gave an airy wave of her hand. “But the dressmakers have been very efficient, and the young ladies are at loose ends. Miss Blakely, I beg you will assist me in keeping them entertained.”

  And prevent them from making fools of themselves around the gentlemen, Simon thought wryly. Including me, I hope. He heartily endorsed the idea, though he didn’t have a great deal of confidence in its success. Even Miss Blakely, efficient though she undoubtedly was, would have her hands full with the assignment.

  “The gel’s in mourning, Iris,” Lady Stone put in. “She can’t go to parties.”