by Mary Balogh
But he ought not to have promised you something he was prepared to withdraw at a moment's notice if he succeeded. Will you feel free to visit my wife and me at Woodbine? And to bring Car – Mrs. Pennethorne and your children with you, of course." Norman fixed him with a stern stare – something he had perfected at the age of eight or so. His shirt points waited hopefully a scant inch from his eyeballs. "I am only sorry, Sheringford," he said, "that I felt compelled to admit you today under the same roof that shelters Mrs. Pennethorne and my children. I did it because I have something to say that I will say once only. I wish it were possible to slap a glove in your face and proceed to put a bullet between your eyes. It would give me the greatest satisfaction. It would, however, expose Mrs. Pennethorne to gossip again and cause her unnecessary distress. I deeply regret that my brother-in-law is too mild-mannered and peace-loving a man to challenge you himself. He is a gentleman with a conscience, and I must honor him for that even if I do not like it. I spurn your acquaintance, Sheringford. If you come here again, you will be refused admittance. If we come face-to-face, you will be ignored. If you should try speaking with Mrs. Pennethorne again, I shall punish you like the cur you are. I hesitated about moving my family to Woodbine Park because /you/ once lived there. You are mistaken if you believe I am now disappointed." Dash it all, but the man was a born orator – if one liked bombast and pomposity, that was. "And now," Norman said, "get out, Sheringford." Duncan nodded, bowed to Caroline, and took his leave.
He wondered as he did so if Caroline had ever told Norman any part of the truth of what had happened five years ago – any significant part, that was. He somehow doubted it. And that meant, of course, that Norman's righteous indignation was justified. He had every right to his anger and his fervent desire to put a period to Duncan's existence.
Caroline certainly knew the truth – the /whole/ of it. He had told her himself, and it had not come as a surprise to her. If only Laura would show more wifely loyalty to Randolph and his family, she had said plaintively, blows and bruises would be quite unnecessary. On the contrary, Randolph would love her for the rest of his life – as he already did, of course – and see to it that she had everything that could possibly make her happy. She deserved whatever she was getting instead.
Just as Margaret Huxtable did in marrying him.
Duncan did /not/ call upon Randolph Turner or hold out any sort of olive branch to him. Caroline had been right about one thing. Certain actions /were/ unforgivable. Or if that was not strictly true, then it /was/ true of a man who had never shown any remorse for his unspeakably wicked and cruel actions.
Apart from that one visit, Duncan spent the nine days before his wedding simply avoiding the madness associated with it as much as he was able. A grand wedding was necessary, his mother explained to him at great length the day she arrived home from Merton House with the news that Margaret Huxtable was sending out more than two hundred invitations – or perhaps not quite as many as that since some people were in couples and only one invitation was necessary, it being a foolish waste of paper and ink and time and energy to send two.
He did not argue the point with her in the hope that she would not feel the necessity to share any more of the details with him.
Vain hope! "A grand wedding is very necessary, my love," she went on to explain with her own particular form of logic. "Anyone who attends it can hardly give you the cut direct afterward, as you will realize very clearly for yourself if you stop to think about it. You may still not be society's favorite son, but you will be firmly back in the fold, and that is what really matters." "Society," he said, "can go hang for all I care, Mama." "Oh, men can be so foolish," she said. "But even if you do not care for its regard on your own account, Duncan, you must remember that you are going to be a married man. You are going to have a /wife/ to consider, and if society snubs you, it will snub her too. You owe it to Margaret to do all in your power to ingratiate yourself with the /ton/ again." He sighed audibly. She was quite right, of course.
Dash it all! "Anyway" he said, "I daresay no one will accept the invitation – except a few of the uncles and cousins, perhaps." Another vain hope – as he had explained to Maggie a few days before.
His mother clucked her tongue. /"Men!"/ she said with the utmost scorn and a glance tossed at the ceiling. "They have /no idea/ how people think. /Of course/ everyone will accept the invitation. /Everyone/! No one would miss it for any consideration." It was an opinion that was corroborated on the gossip page in the next morning's paper. The upcoming event was heralded there as the wedding of the Season – /if/, that was, the Earl of Sheringford did not run off on the day and leave Miss Huxtable standing at the altar alone.
He was in for a grand wedding, then, Duncan realized, as surely as a condemned man was in for an appointment with the gallows.
He dressed on the fateful morning with the full awareness that he was going to be on display more than he had yet been since his return to London.
Which was saying something! "Not so tight," he half growled at Smith as his valet tied his neckcloth in a knot that was not too simple, not too elaborate. It was perfect in all ways but one, in fact. "Are you trying to throttle me?" "I think it is the occasion that is doing that, m'lord," Smith said without tampering further with the neckcloth. "You don't want it swinging about from one shoulder to the other, now, do you? And even if you do, I will not have it. I would never be able to hold up my head again among my fellow valets. Stand up and let me give that coat a final brush. You have a positive gift for picking up bits of lint, though for the life of me I don't know where you find them." Duncan finally escaped the clutches of tyranny and went downstairs, where a small group awaited him in the hall. Carling looked resigned to a day of boredom that would, nevertheless, release him of the charge of housing and feeding his stepson. His mother declared that she would not hug him lest she crush her new dress and crease his coat, and that she would not weep lest she ruin her face – she would not mention cosmetics, but they were there in full, colorful evidence. But she did blow him kisses before leaving for the church, and she did dart at him at the last moment for a quick hug, and she did dab at a stray tear with a large white handkerchief she pulled from one of Carling's pockets before she preceded him from the house.
Duncan turned to Con Huxtable, who had agreed to be his best man. They both raised their eyebrows. "Sherry," Con said, "I have no idea what happened five years ago. But if you should take it into your head to bolt between here and St. George's, you are going to have to bolt through me." "I am not going to run," Duncan assured him irritably.
Con nodded. "I do not understand how all this came about either," he said. "Margaret has always seemed to me like a sensible lady. However, it /has/ happened, or will have when I have dragged you to the church and prevented you from bolting. You will treat her right, Sherry." It was not a question. "There are many things we do not understand," Duncan said. "I don't understand, for example, why Miss Huxtable's happiness is important to you, when her family moved into Warren Hall five years ago and pushed you out." Con's dark eyes were immediately hooded. "/Circumstances/ pushed me out," he said. "My father's death, and then Jon's. It is easy to rush into hatred, Sherry, and to wallow in it for a lifetime. I /did/ so rush. I /did/ hate them – or Merton, anyway. But sometimes one needs to stop to ask oneself if a certain person really deserves to be hated. Merton and his sisters were innocent – and they are pretty hard to hate. And one needs to ask who is most hurt by hatred. Do we need to be having this talk at this precise moment?" "We do not," Duncan said, resisting the urge to pull at his neckcloth. "We need to get to the church. Under the circumstances, it would be more than usually calamitous if I were late." "Off we go, then," Con said cheerfully.
Because it was a lovely day and society weddings always attracted a large crowd anyway, Stephen's coachman had to maneuver the carriage carefully before St. George's in order not to run over some of the people who had spilled over from the pavement onto the roadway.
> There was a noticeable "Oooh" from the crowd as Stephen descended and turned to hand Margaret out – almost as if they thought /he/ was the bridegroom. But of course, Stephen always looked remarkably handsome even when he was not dressed in formal black and white attire as he was this morning.
Margaret set a gloved hand in his and stepped down to join him, smiling at him as he smiled back. He had actually shed tears back at the house after Vanessa and Katherine had left with Elliott and Jasper – and had turned his back hastily in the obvious hope that she had not noticed.
But he had turned to her again without drying his eyes. "Meg," he had said. "Oh, Meg, you have always been the most wonderful sister any boy or man could ever ask for. I had no idea today would be so painful – or so happy at the same time. He is a good man. I am convinced of that. And I think you are fond of him, even though you have known him for such a short time." He had taken both her hands in his and squeezed them tightly. "/Are/ you fond of him?" But she had been on the edge of tears herself and had merely nodded. "And he is of you too," he had said. "I am sure he is. He will love you, Meg. I can safely promise that. How can anyone know you and not love you?" "You are not biased by any chance, are you?" she had asked, smiling. "Ah, Stephen, I have loved you all dearly. I still do and always will.
But forgive me if I want to go to my wedding now and not be late." He had chuckled, turned to pick up his hat, and offered his arm.
The crowd outside the church let out a collective "Aahh!" as she stepped down from the carriage. And indeed she did believe she was looking her best. She had resisted all the brightly colored garments Lady Carling had thought appropriate for the occasion and had chosen a cream-colored dress of satin and lace, which was high-waisted and simple in design but that had been expertly cut so that it molded her figure to perfection.
She wore a new straw hat trimmed with white rosebuds.
Jasper had told her it was a good thing she was the bride or no one would even spare a glance for the poor woman. And then he had turned and grinned and winked at Kate.
Stephen offered his arm now, and they made their way into the church.
Margaret was assailed suddenly by the panic that had grabbed her earlier. What if he was not here? What if he was not even late? What if he was not coming at all?
But it was an ignominious fear. She trusted him better than to believe he would abandon her now. She pushed the terror aside even before they stepped inside the church doors and she realized that the church was full to capacity and that no one looked worried or unduly agitated. What seemed like scores of heads turned in her direction, and at the end of the nave the clergyman gave a signal with one hand and two gentlemen stood. They both turned to see her.
One of them was Constantine. The other was the Earl of Sheringford.
Her bridegroom.
Margaret swallowed and fixed her eyes on him as Stephen bent to straighten the hem of her dress at the back and then gave her his arm.
She saw no one else. All the trappings of the wedding were quite unimportant despite Kate's protestations about the importance of memories. It did not matter if there were a dozen people here or two hundred. She was getting married and her bridegroom was here, at the front of the church, turned toward her and watching her as she approached.
And he was the bridegroom she wanted, she realized with great clarity.
She felt an upsurge of happiness and smiled at him.
He smiled back, and for the first time it struck her that he was really quite handsome after all – tall and dark and lean with intense eyes and features that were rugged rather than classically sculpted.
He did not smile often, did he? The expression imparted kindness to his face. He must /be/ a kind man. A poor abused lady had confided in him when she had confided in no one else. It was to him she had run when she was in real trouble. He loved his young son first of anyone else in his life because the child needed him and the affection and security he had to offer.
It was a strange moment for such a revelation.
She was marrying a kind man, Margaret realized.
And it was enough. She moved toward him with hope.
A short while later Stephen placed her hand in Lord Sheringford's, and together they turned to face the clergyman.
The church was hushed.
Half the /ton/ was in the pews behind them, Margaret realized. More important, so were their families. But it did not really matter. She was where she chose to be, and she was with the bridegroom she wished to marry. He might be a near stranger, she might have known him for only two weeks, but it did not matter.
Somehow this felt right.
Please, please let it /be/ right. "Dearly beloved," the clergyman began.
It was all so terribly public. Although they stood with their backs to the congregation through most of the nuptial service, Duncan could /feel/ them there – avidly curious about this strange wedding of their most notorious member to one of the most respectable.
They would all wait as avidly afterward for something to go wrong.
Margaret Huxtable believed this was fate, and he had had the strange thought himself that perhaps the whole course of his life had been directed to that moment when they had collided in a ballroom doorway.
But he did not know her.
He had no idea how he would make her happy.
He was marrying her for Toby's sake. He would not be doing this if it were not for the child, would he? He would be out somewhere far from London, searching for employment. He would not have set foot in London to beg for Woodbine to be restored to him if he had had only himself to consider. "I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen," the clergyman was saying, and it was all over.
Somehow he had missed his own nuptial service. But it did not matter. He was a married man anyway. He was married to Margaret Huxtable – Margaret Pennethorne, Countess of Sheringford.
Ah, Tobe.
And a few minutes later, having signed the register, they were walking back up the nave of the church together, acknowledging the smiles – and tears – of their relatives and the more curious stares of other guests.
The only persons Duncan really saw were his mother, her eyes shining with tears, and his grandfather in the second pew, frowning ferociously at him, but in just the way he had always used to frown as he searched his pockets for a shilling.
And then they were stepping out into sunshine and a cheering crowd and church bells just beginning a joyful peal.
As if a wedding had taken place. As indeed one had.
His own.
He looked down at his bride on his arm. It seemed that every time he saw her she looked more beautiful than the time before, but on this occasion she definitely did. "Well, Maggie," he said. "Well, Lord Sheringford." "We are going to have to correct that," he said. "You cannot be forever Lord Sheringfording me now that we are married." "Duncan," she said. "Come," he said, and led her toward an open barouche his grandfather had sent for the occasion.
It was only as they approached it that he saw it had been decorated with gaily colored ribbons and bows – and with a couple of old boots to drag behind. And there were the perpetrators, mingling, grinning, with the crowd and clutching handfuls of flower petals, which they hurled with great glee as the bride and groom passed.
A horde of his cousins – partners in crime and other mayhem from his childhood and youth.
He was really back in the fold, then, was he?
Strangely and ignominiously, his throat ached is if he were about to weep.
His bride was laughing as he handed her into the barouche and she settled among the garish ribbons and turned her face to him as he settled beside her. Her hat and dress were dotted with petals. He reached for the pouch of coins tucked into the side of his seat and tossed them by handfuls into the crowd.
The carriage rocked on its springs and drew away from the curb – with a great clattering from the boot
s – as the congregation was spilling into the outdoors.
Maggie tucked a hand into his without any apparent self-consciousness. "Duncan," she said. "Oh, Duncan, was it not all /wonderful/?" He squeezed her hand.
If it had been wonderful for her, then wonderful it was. He owed her that. He owed her a great deal. "It was indeed," he said as the cousins and other members of the crowd whistled and cheered and there was no abatement in the noise the boots were making – someone must have hammered nails all over them. "I suppose we had better give them all back there something to /really/ talk about.
Something juicy for tomorrow's gossip column." And he leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips – a lingering kiss that she made no attempt either to avoid or to end. Her lips clung to his and pressed warmly back against them.
The whistles behind them grew more piercing.
17
THE whole of her wedding day was wonderful, Margaret found as the hours rushed by. Finding it so took her somewhat by surprise. She had looked forward to it with determined optimism, it was true, once her decision to marry the Earl of Sheringford had been made, but – /wonderful/?
The nuptials themselves had been perfect, surely every woman's dream wedding. She had concentrated upon every moment of the service, every word that had been spoken, every vow they had made. She had concentrated upon the warm strength of her bridegroom's hand as it had held hers, upon the contrasting coldness of the ring as he slid it onto her finger, upon the faint musky smell of his cologne. She had even become fully aware, after the first minute or two, of the congregation behind them, an integral part of this solemn occasion. Her family was there and his.
Half the /ton/ was there.
And when they had been leaving the church, although they had not moved along the nave at a crawl, she had seen /everyone/ – Stephen beaming at her, Elliott smiling, Nessie dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief, Katherine smiling through eyes bright with tears, Jasper winking, Lady Carling clasping her hands to her bosom and sinking her teeth into her lower lip, the Marquess of Claverbrook with eyes that did not quite match the ferocity of the rest of his expression … Oh, and everyone else. She saw them all individually, it seemed, and almost everyone was smiling back at her. People were not spiteful at heart, she thought.