The Wedding Affair

by Leigh Michaels

  In silence, Kate cleared up the last of the stems, wiped down the table, and carried the empty buckets to a side door where Halstead’s gardeners could retrieve them later. When she was finished and believed she once more had control of her temper, she returned to the back of the church.

  The vicar was rocking on his heels as he studied the memorial plaque the duchess had placed in honor of her husband shortly after the sixth duke had died. “How fortunate this church is,” he said, “to be the burial place of so many notables, and how fortunate they are to have such beautiful surroundings for eternity. But that is nothing to the point. I hope you will keep in mind what I have said as you reflect on your future, Miss Blakely.”

  “Oh, I shall,” Kate said crisply. “And now let me make myself clear. You may be a vicar, sir, but you are anything but a Christian gentleman. You are not worthy to fill my father’s shoes. As for your offer of marriage—before a day comes when I would exchange vows with you, there would be a snowstorm in hell. Good day, sir.”

  She walked out, her head held high, and made her way toward the coaching inn. And while she thought about what to do next, she might even give in to some of those loose ways she had learned and join Andrew in a tankard of ale.

  ***

  Every lady at Halstead was excited about the ball—with the possible exception of Penelope. And every lady at Halstead was closeted with her maid as the hour grew nearer for the guests to gather—again, with the exception of Penelope, who was even beginning to regret that she had sent Etta back to London.

  When the door of her room opened, she didn’t spare a glance for the little maid who was supposed to be coming to help her dress. “At last—I’ve been waiting for you forever.” She stood up, dropping her blue velvet robe onto the stool by the dressing table.

  “Have you indeed?” the earl said coolly.

  “I…” Penelope felt every inch of exposed skin flush with shame—and there was plenty of skin on display, for she found herself standing in the center of the bedroom wearing nothing but her chemise and stockings. She hadn’t even been able to don her corset by herself, much less the petticoats and ball gown that lay ready across the bed.

  “The effect has been worth your patience. You must know you make quite a picture there, with the fire behind you. The light shines through your chemise and makes your hair look like gold—but perhaps you planned that effect.”

  “I wasn’t waiting for you.” She knew she sounded sulky.

  He tipped his head to one side. “Then who is the lucky guest for whom you arranged this tableau?” He came across the room toward her, his step light but firm.

  “I didn’t arrange…” Penelope’s heart started to thud as he advanced. Did he think she had invited some other man into her room? And if that was the case, what would he do about it? She couldn’t quite stop herself from shivering at the thought, though the frisson running through her might be either fear or anticipation. “I was expecting Maggie. The maid.”

  He stopped a foot from her. “Where’s Etta?”

  “I paid her off this morning and sent her back to London.”

  “Why?” He wrapped her robe closely around her.

  The warm brush of velvet against her skin confirmed for Penelope that the little shiver she’d felt had been anticipation—with perhaps a sprinkling of hope—for she didn’t feel relieved that he had covered her.

  How perfectly stupid she was being, Penelope told herself, to hope that simply seeing her in such a way might rouse him to desire. After all, he’d seen much more of her on other occasions, but he had only made love to her when she had pushed him.

  She sat down at the dressing table again and picked up her hairbrush just to keep her hands busy. “Because I am bone-weary of being told I will never be a lady.”

  He paused, hands raised to the knot in his neckcloth. “She told you that?”

  “Frequently. She was not my choice, you know. My father hired her and assigned her a futile task. But I do regret she is not here to fix the mess I’ve made of my hair.” She tried again to smooth the mass into a knot at her crown. A lock fell out and tumbled down her back. Penelope let her curls fall around her shoulders.

  The earl hadn’t moved.

  “Tomorrow is the wedding, my lord,” she said quietly. “And then we are free to go back to London.” And start the game all over again…

  He started to unbutton his shirt. “I’m not going to London. At least, I shall not stay. I’ll take you back if you wish me to, though I imagine you would prefer to join some of the other ladies on the journey. The duchess will be going in that direction, I believe, and she would be pleased to give you a seat in her carriage.”

  Penelope’s heart twisted. She felt for a moment as though he had reached into her chest and squeezed. “And you, sir?” Her voice was low, husky.

  He didn’t answer.

  Tears stung Penelope’s eyelids. “I believe I have a right to know where my husband is, my lord.”

  “Why would you want to know? Tell your father what I did. If there is any way to free you, Ivan Weiss can find it.”

  “You sound so noble, as though my wishes were supreme. At least be honest with me. If you find me so repulsive you cannot bear to keep the bargain you made—”

  “No,” he said under his breath. He reached out gently to touch the springy curls that had fallen down her back. “Your hair fits you. It’s just like you, in fact—unexpected, unpredictable, always going its own way.”

  Penelope could scarcely believe her ears. He sounded approving and not at all repulsed. Very well, she thought. If he liked unexpected and unpredictable, then she would be those things. “My lord, you said last night that you wished me to have what I wanted. What if I told you I don’t want to be free? I want to have your child.”

  “Only because your father desires it so strongly that you believe you wish it, too.”

  “No. My father wants an heir.” She looked straight at him. “I want a child.”

  “I admire you for wanting to make the best of things. You were given no choice. He bartered with your life—”

  “I agreed to the bargain.”

  “But you had no real understanding of what the bargain meant. Not until you were, as you yourself said, chained to me for life. On our wedding night, you were terrified and yet rigidly determined to do what your father required.”

  Penelope shivered under the memory that cascaded over her. Her wedding night had been warm, a beautiful spring evening in London, but Penelope had been as frozen as if she was naked in the snow…

  “I could not force you,” he said softly. “And I couldn’t bear to look at what I had become. I had not allowed myself to think until then, you see. But when I realized what I had agreed to… Your father sold you—just as surely as he transfers a cask of spirits from one owner to the next—not for money, but to breed a noble heir for him.”

  She had thought on their wedding night that he had turned away from her in disgust. But if that was not true…

  “You were a stranger then,” she said. “Now you’re my husband.” And my love. But he would never believe her if she told him. “And now that I know what I was missing, I am not willing to return to the pattern of the past. I am, admittedly, inexperienced—but I find I like being a wife.”

  His hand stilled. She relished the weight and warmth of his palm against her hair.

  “You say I do not repulse you,” Penelope went on steadily. “But if it is only your refusal to allow my father to win that prevents you from taking me to your bed, then you are hurting us both in the effort to injure him.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it in that way before.”

  “Of course, you hadn’t. Because you believed me to be unwilling, you didn’t see yourself as stubborn but as honorable.” She took a deep breath. “I believe there are ways to satisfy ourselves while still allowing you to enjoy taking revenge on my father.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “We could
, for instance, give him a string of granddaughters.”

  The earl seemed to freeze, and Penelope thought she had gone too far, risked too much, pressed too hard. A wave of pain flooded over her, but she felt a glimmer of satisfaction, too—for at least she had reached out for what she wanted. Not getting it made her sad, and she would cry over the loss as soon as it was safe to do so. But she had given her all.

  The earl snickered.

  “Sir?”

  “I was picturing your father with three or four little girls, all with your curly hair, as he ties up ribbons one after another.” He was laughing outright now, a deep, rich belly laugh Penelope had never heard before, not even when he was with his friends. “And every time one of them bobs a curtsey, another hair ribbon comes loose. He’ll never be done with hair ribbons!”

  Penelope felt as though she’d unexpectedly stepped off a ledge, for everything inside her seemed to shift and twist and settle into a new spot as she fell more deeply in love.

  He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, then gently tugged her dressing gown loose until it pooled on the bench around her hips. He traced the edge of her chemise with his tongue, pushing the strap aside and unfastening the strings to give him access to more bare skin…

  Conscience made her say, “We’ll be late for the ball, my lord.”

  “Do you mind?” His fingers skimmed over her shoulder blades to push the chemise down and then brushed over her ribs until he could cup her breasts. “Shall I stop—my lady?”

  He had never before called her my lady. Confidence surged over Penelope. If not for her father’s bargain, the earl would not have married her, and that she could accept. But if he was proud enough of his wife to give her the title…

  “No,” she whispered. “No, don’t stop.”

  He made love to her with agonizing slowness, tasting and savoring every inch of her, until Penelope thought she would scream with frustration and desire. To distract herself from the torment he was causing, she mimicked his actions, exploring his body with her hands and her tongue. She learned her own power when she ran her fingers lightly up and down the velvet surface of his penis and felt it grow even harder under her touch. As she started to investigate the fascinating sac that lay below, she found herself flat on her back, her wrists pinioned as he loomed over her. “What do you want, Penny?” he asked hoarsely.

  “You,” she gasped, and then she stopped thinking and let herself be swept away on the tide of exultation as he plunged inside her and took her to the heights of satisfaction.

  ***

  His valet hovered anxiously as Simon finished arranging his neckcloth. A timid scratch on the door made Hemmings jump and drop the diamond stickpin he was holding out. He scrabbled around on the carpet and handed it to Simon. “I thought we were finished with the young ladies’ stunts,” he muttered as he went to answer the door.

  Simon had thought so, too. His scheme to court Olivia while providing an alternate supply of young men to distract the bridesmaids had turned out to be as shrewd and effective as any sleight of hand supplied by a stage magician.

  But then he and Olivia had quarreled. Though it really wasn’t correct to call it a quarrel, Simon told himself. Nothing more than a disagreement, really—and over such a thing as a pony ride! Despite her obvious efforts to maintain a bright facade, Olivia had been distracted all day, and the pack hadn’t taken long to pick up the scent and embark on the hunt again.

  Things would still work out well in the long run, he told himself. He only had to survive the ball and the wedding itself. By the time the wedding breakfast was over, Olivia would create a scene as planned, making it clear he was no longer welcome to pay court to her. Then everyone would remember how moody she had been, and the break would come as no real surprise.

  Hemmings came back. “Not a bridesmaid after all,” he said. “Just the tweeny pressed into service to carry a message from the duchess. She would like you to come to her rooms before dinner.”

  The duchess was already dressed for the ball, resplendent in mauve satin and diamonds, when her maid showed Simon in. Her gloves and fan lay on a chair, however, and she was sorting through a pile of correspondence roughly the size of a haystack.

  Simon wouldn’t have been surprised if the spindly little French table she used as a writing desk had collapsed under the weight of all her letters. “You wished to see me? Are you ready to go downstairs?”

  “Not just yet.” The duchess didn’t look up. “I wish to discuss arrangements for the wedding.”

  Simon suppressed the urge to swear. “The wedding is tomorrow, Mother. Daphne hasn’t time to add any grand plans. Or is it Harcourt who’s coming up with ideas? Would you like me to take him aside and remind him the time for suggestions is long past?”

  “Not Daphne’s.” The duchess pulled a letter from the stack. “Your wedding.”

  Your wedding. The words seemed to skewer him to the carpet. “Oh, there’s plenty of time to think about that.”

  The duchess looked up, finally. “Is there, really?”

  “No need to get into a fuss while Daphne’s big event is still hanging over us. Nothing can be formalized until Lady Reyne’s period of mourning is over, anyway. She’s something of a stickler about waiting a full two years.”

  The duchess snorted. “I’d find it easier to believe that Banbury tale if she were wearing black now. In any case, if you wait another year, Simon, the child who should be the next Duke of Somervale could be three months old at his parents’ wedding.”

  “Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that girl to keep her mouth closed.” He recalled, too late, that Maggie hadn’t actually promised to be silent…

  “Which girl are you referring to?” the duchess asked politely.

  Simon realized his mother hadn’t known after all. She’d been fishing for information, and she’d landed herself a whale.

  “Thank you for confirming my suspicions. And pray, do not at this stage try to convince me that you and Lady Reyne have been simply playing piquet in her bedroom instead of… other games.” From under a pile of letters, she drew out a small velvet box. “I had this sent up from the bank vaults in London, since you will soon need it.”

  “The Somervale betrothal and wedding rings,” Simon said. Reluctantly, he took the box.

  It’s all right, he told himself. What did it matter if, when Olivia publicly jilted him, he happened to be in possession of the Somervale rings? An increased level of public embarrassment might even win him sympathy from his mother, and if he was lucky, a reprieve from further matchmaking efforts.

  He didn’t feel lucky.

  The duchess stirred through her correspondence again and drew out a letter. “You should also know, Simon, that Mr. Blakely—though always annoying—is occasionally quite correct. The archbishop is visiting in the neighborhood. I have invited him to dinner before the ball, and he has accepted. So you can take care of arranging a special license tonight.”

  Simon swallowed hard and told himself having a license was one thing; standing up in front of a priest and taking vows was another.

  “The wedding will have to be a quiet one, of course.” The duchess raised her voice. “Miss Blakely? Come in, please.” She flicked her hand at Simon, shooing him away. “That’s all, dear. Go and take care of the arrangements now. And if you haven’t yet offered for the lady, perhaps you should think about doing so—and quickly.”

  Sixteen

  Kate couldn’t overhear the low-voiced conversation going on in the duchess’s sitting room, though she had to admit she’d tried to listen. Which, she supposed, only confirmed what the vicar had said about the effects of her time at Halstead—for Kate couldn’t recall feeling the urge to eavesdrop before.

  Still, only a saint could have sat there and not wondered what the duchess could possibly be saying to her son that left the duke so nearly speechless.

  “Miss Blakely?” the duchess called. “Come in, please.”

  Kate
shot a look at the duke as he left. He looked pale. And perhaps—determined?

  The duchess surveyed Kate critically. “I must commend the modiste for her selection of fabric, but I think the simple style must have been your choice.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A very good result—and with the dull surface of the fabric and the deep color, no one could think it in poor taste.”

  The vicar could, Kate thought. But what the vicar thought was no longer any worry of hers.

  “You will be wondering why I asked you to take a moment from your busy day to see me, Miss Blakely. I am extremely grateful for the assistance you have given in the past few days. In fact, I cannot express how much I appreciate you, so I hope you will not be offended by a token gift.”

  Kate’s heart beat a little faster. What the duchess called a token would no doubt look like a fortune to someone in her circumstances.

  The duchess picked up her fan and gloves. Underneath them lay a small leather-bound book with an elaborate design picked out on the front cover in gold. “This prayer book was a gift to me long ago. I hope you will find the study of its contents to be as rewarding as I did.”

  A prayer book, Kate thought helplessly. What more useless gift could the daughter of a vicar receive? She owned half a dozen already; what was she to do with yet another? The duchess must still think she was going to marry Mr. Blakely—for a prayer book, even though redundant, was a gift the vicar would approve.

  I should tell her I’ve refused him, Kate thought. But something inside her shuddered at the thought of talking about it. She was too embarrassed even to confess she had given Mr. Blakely’s offer serious thought…

  The calfskin warmed in her hands as she held the little book. The worn satin ribbons that held the book closed slid across her wrist, tickling her.