by Anna Gracie
mouth, then straightened, having done his duty. A lump rose in her
throat and she bit her lip to stop it trembling. Such a cold, hollow
sham of a wedding.
It was her own fault, she knew. She had stupidly allowed herself to
dream of how it would be, and so of course she was disappointed. She
invariably was. Life was always a disappointment when compared with
her dreams. So the dreaming would have to stop. But, oh, she'd never
felt so miserable or alone in her life. Tallie felt a tear roll down
her cheek, then another. She surreptitiously wiped them away. She
straightened, preparing herself for the walk back down the aisle. She
looked at the sparse, silent congregation and cast a quick glance up at
the grim face of her new husband.
A straggle of the poorer villagers were watching from the very back of
the church--come, possibly, with the expectation of largesse from the
rich and happy groom. Tallie sighed. The villagers were, like
everyone else, doomed to disappointment in her wedding, for the veri
est blind man could see that her groom was not happy. There would be
no largesse.
Magnus was indeed not happy. He was furious. Had been from the moment
his cousin Laetitia, swooning artistically, had claimed she could not
move another step that morning, that her head was positively shattered
and the pain simply too, too much for a lady to bear. She had
collapsed onto a Grecian sofa, reviving sufficiently to forbid that the
children be taken to the church, claiming they were sickening for
something, a mother always knew. It would be the basest cruelty to
tear her beloved ones away from their mama when she was in such agony.
A frail wisp of lace had been delicately brandished and applied to dry
eyes. A battalion of small crystal bottles had been hastily arranged
on a small table nearby--smelling salts, a vinaigrette, cologne water,
feathers to burn. Magnus had been helpless in the face of this
determined barrage of feminine sensibility. The children had looked
perfectly healthy to him. Nor had he missed their disappointed little
faces when they'd come downstairs dressed in their best and their
mother's decision had been announced.
Then Laetitia had insisted that she could not possibly spare Mrs.
Wilmot--no one's hands were as gentle and healing when it came to the
headache. And, of course. Brooks would have to remain at the
house--someone had to run the household while its mistress was
indisposed.
Magnus had seen that Brooks and Mrs. Wilmot had also been crushed with
disappointment. They too had been dressed in their Sunday best--Mrs.
Wilmot in a large flowered hat, with a bunch of violets pinned to her
bosom. For a mo menthe half expected her to argue with Laetitia. But
they were elderly servants, entirely dependent on Laetitia's good will
and with an uncertain old age facing them. Like the children, they had
had no choice but to obey.
Magnus had fumed impotently. He could not veto the orders of a woman
in her own house, particularly when those orders concerned her own
children and servants.
But when Laetitia had claimed, in a failing thread of a voice, that she
could not do without the comfort of her husband's presence in this, her
hour of infirmity, Magnus had intervened. He had practically frog
marched George into the carriage, turning a deaf ear to Laetitia's
wailing and George's blustering. The short trip to church had been
accomplished in a mood of grim silence.
Alighting from the carriage, Magnus had looked around, frowning. There
had been suspiciously few carriages. He'd told Laetitia to arrange a
small wedding--meaning he didn't want a huge noisy crowd. But this.
He'd entered the church in a mood of black foreboding. His suspicions
had been confirmed. The only people seated had been the two or three
people he'd invited himself--none of them particularly close.
Not that he had many close friends--he would have liked Freddie to
stand up with him, but Freddie had sent word that there was an outbreak
of typhus in the village and he could not leave his wife and children,
nor his parish, at such a time. Nor would he wish to risk conveying
the disease to Magnus and his new bride.
So the only people seated in the church had been a couple of chaps from
his club, a fellow he'd known at Oxford, who lived locally, and
Magnus's valet, his groom and his tiger. A congregation of six--three
of them servants and all male.
Magnus had cursed long and silently. Better to have no one at all than
to humiliate his little bride with such a poor showing. For himself,
he cared not a jot--marriage was a business transaction, and required
the bare minimum of fuss. He was acquiring a wife who, with God's
blessing, would give him children, and she was acquiring wealth, a
title, and security for her lifetime.
But women set great store in weddings.
The bigger the better. With hordes of people. Expensive gowns and
jewels. Flowers. Champagne. Happy throngs of celebrating guests!
That was what women liked--he was sure of it. And little Thalia
Robinson would be no exception; he was sure of that, too.
So where the hell was everyone?
And what the hell was he going to do?
What the devil had Laetitia been up to? He'd told her to organise
everything, damn it! And it wasn't as if she'd indicated it would be
any sort of imposition--far from it.
Women liked organising these affairs--look at how Laetitia had jumped
at arranging that blasted house party with all those simpering
debutantes. She'd organised that at a moment's no 5
tice. She'd had weeks to arrange his wedding. Three whole weeks. And
a day or two to spare. He'd given her carte blanche with the
arrangements. And the costs. And had sent her a stunning emerald
necklace.
So where were all the happy blasted guests?
The organist had played the opening chords and Magnus had turned to see
Miss Thalia Robinson, his bride, standing at the entrance of the
church. Smiling blissfully. Beatifically. For a mo menthe frozen,
staring, riveted by her smile--dazzling, even from behind the lace veil
she was wearing. Her smile had driven every angry thought from his
head. Every thought.
She had looked radiant. Beautiful. And utterly happy.
Was this the same girl he'd overheard sobbing? Alone and forlorn on a
cold afternoon in her cousin's garden maze. Sobbing as if her heart
would break--because Lord d'Arenville had offered her marriage.
The girl who, with reddened eyes and blotchy skin, had accepted his
offer in a bleak little voice laced with defeat?
The girl who'd coldbloodedly laid down her set of conditions only days
before the wedding?
But today she was smiling. Music had filled the church, soaring up
amongst the blackened oak rafters as she had stepped out onto the strip
of red matting which ran down the centre of the aisle. Her movement
had jolted him out of his daze, and as he had watched her walking
slowly towards h
im, floating proudly to the music, he'd gradually
become aware of what she was wearing. And his frown had slowly
returned.
Magnus was no great follower of feminine fashions, but he knew when
something looked right. Or, in this case, when it looked wrong. Though
exactly what it was he hadn't quite been able to put his finger on.
The pale shimmering amber colour was not particularly fashionable, but
it suited her. The fabric seemed rather too stiff for the soft, gauzy
look which was so a la mode today, but that was not the problem. His
eyes had been drawn to the neckline, and for a mo menthe hadn't
believed his eyes. It was crooked. Distinctly crooked. And so, now
he had come to notice it, were her sleeves--or at least one of them
was. And the gown hung all wrong. She had a nice little figure, he
had realised suddenly, but this gown was utterly atrocious.
His temper had grown. How the devil had Laetitia allowed Thalia
Robinson to go to her wedding dressed in a gown like that? Women
always strove to look their best, but the most important time of all,
the day when every woman expected to look beautiful, was on her wedding
day. It was another thing Magnus understood about women. Which was
why he'd specifically told his cousin to spare no expense in fitting
out his bride. So why was she not wearing the finest gown a London
modiste could provide? Good God, she looked for all the world as if
her gown had been made by some half-wit in the village!
The closer his bride had come, the more he had noticed. Stains on the
gloves, inadequately removed. A dam in the lace of her veil. A
crooked hem. Uneven stitching. the list had grown.
And through it all Thalia Robinson had smiled, as if this truly was the
happiest day of her life. As if she was not dressed in a frightful
travesty of a wedding dress. As if the church was not virtually empty
of well-wishers. As if Magnus was the man she loved. He'd stared,
angry, bemused, dazzled. And then she'd cracked him on the nose so
hard that tears had come into his eye and he'd been embarrassed, and
growled out something which had caused the smile to drop from her face
and the joy to seep out of her body. He'd watched it happen before his
very eyes--one moment she had been joyous and radiant, the next
miserable.
So then Magnus had really been furious. With himself.
He'd tried to keep her from noticing how few people there were in the
church. He was sure she hadn't yet seen who was or wasn't there--her
eyes hadn't left his on her proud, triumphal march down the aisle;
she'd been smiling at him and only him.
But he hadn't succeeded. He knew to the second the moment she had
realised there was no one on her side of the church. That no one had
come to see Thalia Robinson married. The small gloved hand lying so
limply in his had suddenly gripped him, tightening convulsively around
his fingers. She had made no other sign, had stood straight and
slender, looking ahead at the stained glass window above the altar, but
Magnus had felt her trembling. Beneath the darned veil he had seen her
biting her lip, struggling to maintain her composure. He had slid his
arm around her, and unknowingly she had clutched onto him, tighter than
ever, hanging onto his hand as if it was all she had to hold her up.
That pathetic, wounded look she'd given him had pierced him to the
core. He would never forget it.
She had expected well-wishers--the children, the housekeeper and the
butler at least. And was reeling under the cruel impact of the empty
pews. And Magnus had been able to do nothing about it. Except become
even more furious.
Then he'd tugged off her glove--her attention had been elsewhere at the
time--and slipped his ring on her finger. She'd repeated her vows in a
wooden little voice, and as he'd listened he had stared down at his
ring, gleaming on the small, stained paw with the childishly chewed
nails. And had wondered what the hell he was doing, marrying this
little orphaned stranger, so very much out of her depth in his cynical,
sophisticated world.
And so very innocent and vulnerable and alone.
The coach swayed and bounded along the road at a breakneck pace.
Tallie had been proudly informed by Lord d'Arenville's coachman that
the vehicle was the latest design, built for speedy modern travel and
sprung to ensure the smoothest ride. She hung onto the travelling
straps like grim death, wedged into the corner of the coach as tightly
as she could to prevent herself being thrown off the seat again.
Tallie was feeling rather queasy. She had travelled very little in her
adult life--only from Miss Fisher's seminary to her cousin's
|p? |B house. If this was what travelling entailed. And this was
England, where the roads were said to be the best in the world. Her
mother must have been stronger than she'd realised. Lord d'Arenville
had not exaggerated when he had said that travel was difficult for a
lady to endure-But of course! That was it! The realisation hit Tallie
like a bolt of lightning. That was the reason for this dreadful
journey--undertaken in such a rush and at the last minute! Departing
in the late afternoon, when nobody ever travelled in the dark unless
they could help it! Pretending he had quarrelled with Laetitia and
would stay not a moment longer in her house. Bundling Tallie into his
coach on her wedding day, tossing her embarrassingly small bundle of
belongings after her and riding off on his own horse as if the hounds
of hell were in pursuit. What nonsense!
As if Lord d'Arenville--The Icicle--ever dashed about the country in a
rage. The man was a positive by-word for cold self-control. He must
be trying to frighten her, to get her to change her mind about foreign
travel. The day before, he'd made no secret of his opposition to it.
Hah! Lord d'Arenville would find his bride was not so simple--she was
awake to his dastardly machinations! She would have her Grand Tour.
He'd promised.
Tallie sat up, her queasiness forgotten in the light of her
discovery.
For some reason she felt immensely cheered. She'd had some slight
suspicion that she'd been, in some unknown way, the cause of his
quarrel with her cousin.
The moment they had arrived back from the church he'd sent her upstairs
with a maid to refresh herself while he spoke to Laetitia.
Tallie, annoyed to be dismissed like a child, had crept back down the
stairs to listen at the door, but had heard frustratingly few actual
words--only the sound of their voices. His voice had been icy-cold,
cutting, as if flaying her cousin with sarcasm, but Tallie could not
see why he should have been so cross.
She had a right to be upset--a tearful Mrs. Wilmot had explained how
Laetitia had prevented herself. Brooks and the children from coming to
the wedding. But he would care little about that; he'd wanted a small
wedding--she'd heard him say so. And look at how few people he'd
invited!
Pressing an ear to the thick wooden door panel,
Tallie had been sure
she'd heard something about a dress. Her dress? She'd pressed her ear
harder to the door. But then he had said something about a village
half-wit, so that couldn't be it. And Laetitia had denied any
responsibility for it and burst into noisy tears. It had all been very
peculiar, and Tallie had been most intrigued, but then she'd heard his
footsteps coming towards the door and she'd fled up the stairs.
So, it was all a hum--Tallie was convinced of it. And she was going to
teach her husband a lesson about attempting to trick women out of their
promised rights. She pulled open the shutters which covered the coach
window. The sound of the pounding hooves and the creaking springs was
almost deafening. Holding the leather straps tightly, Tallie knelt on
her seat and peered out of the window.
It was very dark. Clouds moved across the sky, obscuring the moonlight
intermittently. Wind whipped at her hair, tiny pellets of rain stung
her cheeks and dark shadows whooshed past the window at an incredible
rate. Goodness knew how fast they were travelling--Tallie had heard
some gentlemen kept teams of horses that could travel at twelve, even
fifteen miles an hour. The speed was a little scary, but also very
exciting.
Tallie took several deep breaths. The fresh night air was most
exhilarating, and she felt a thrill of naughtiness as she breathed it
in--Miss Fisher had maintained the night air contained evil humours.
Her pupils had been strictly forbidden to breathe it. Tallie wound the
straps around her wrists more securely and leaned farther out, inhaling
blissfully. Her husband was out there somewhere ahead, riding his own