Tallie's Knight

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