Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  With great patience, Bliss withdrew the gold coin and showed it to him, letting it gleam in the light of the cloudy day like a piece of the sun itself. Impressed in spite of himself, the man looked at her with new respect. “But I canna change a guinea.”

  Bliss nodded regretfully. “I understand.” She tucked the coin away slowly, making a tedious show of it. The man held out longer than she’d expected him to. Finally, of course, he caved.

  “What of yer ’usband, eh? Can ’e pay?”

  Bliss blinked. Did she look married already? Then she realized that it was a reasonable assumption, for a woman to roam unaccompanied would be either married or a person of unfortunate repute.

  The husband was going to come in handy after all. She beamed an angelic smile up at the driver. “Of course! You may come to the door this evening and he will pay you—and tip you handsomely for your trouble.”

  The man’s perpetual gloom did not lift, but he did give a shrug and a grunt, then heaved himself off the seat to open the door for her. When he gave her a hand in with awkward courtesy, Bliss warmed to him entirely. “Pray, what is your name, good sir?”

  He looked at her in surprise, as if no one ever recognized his existence, much less inquired about him. “Cant.”

  Bliss tilted her head. “Why not?”

  He snorted. “Ephraim Cant. But folks mostly call me Eff.”

  “Well, I shall not. Imagine shortening such a noble name as ‘Ephraim’! I shall call you Mr. Cant until we are better acquainted, at which time I should like to call you Ephraim. You may call me Miss—Mrs. Pryce. Is that agreeable to you, sir?”

  His expression now drifted somewhere between bewitched and befuddled, which was precisely where Bliss preferred the gentlemen of her acquaintance to exist. She smiled at him gently. “Shall we drive on to Bond Street now, Mr. Cant?”

  Ephraim Cant, former official grouch, now a prince of gallantry, pulled his cap from his head, pressed it to his breast, and bobbed a rusty bow. “Yes, m’um. I’ll ’ave ye there in the twitch of a cat’s tail!”

  • • •

  IT WAS A delightful day in all, Bliss decided. Mr. Cant had driven her everywhere she desired and, at the promise of yet more liberal tipping by her generous husband, began to accompany her into the shops to carry her purchases. A lady with a manservant, no matter how rough, immediately attracted the benevolent attention of the proprietor and further calmed said proprietor’s distress at not being able to “make change.”

  The guinea popped out of Bliss’s little pouch, which was soon replaced by a proper beaded silk reticule, and always went back in. Bliss ended the day no poorer than she’d started it, although her carriage was piled with paper-wrapped parcels and even a number of boxes.

  Other than the reticule, she’d indulged in no clothing. She had some very pretty things at Worthington House, all packed and ready for her new life as Duchess of Camberton. She only needed to send a message to her cousins to carry them to Captain Pryce’s residence. She wouldn’t need them for long, but she might as well be comfortable while she waged her campaign for the annulment. Fashion had ever been a woman’s armor, so she would need her battle gear.

  It was the house that needed attention if she meant to spend even another hour within it. It lacked even the basic necessities, so Bliss industriously set about rectifying the fault. Inspired by the deceptively simple loveliness of the items in Captain Pryce’s house, Bliss had purchased things of the same ilk. A lovingly embroidered tablecloth from Spain. A set of earthenware dishes from a county up north, painted with a delicate nosegay of wildflowers that reminded Bliss of her cousin Callie’s artwork. A comfortingly round blue-glazed teapot that recalled Old Dally’s morning cuppa to her mind. She reminded herself that she might as well indulge her taste for modest beauty now. These sorts of things would never be allowed in a grand place like Camberton House.

  That was not all she purchased, however. She put in orders at the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the chandler’s, and the collier’s for foodstuff, fine beeswax candles, and a good month’s worth of coal. She didn’t wish to be self-centered, so there were stops at the tobacconist’s, the brewer’s, and the vintner’s. All, of course, to be delivered at great speed and billed to the now legendary heavy tipper, Captain Pryce.

  Yes, all in all, it was an excellent day.

  • • •

  WITH MUMMY FINALLY settled and resting in the Hyacinth Room, cocooned in the vast and luxurious bed with a cool cloth for her brow and a steaming pot of tea at her side, Katarina made her escape. She simply could not wait to explore the grounds of Camberton House and get her first taste of England. The carriage ride from the harbor had been enough to show her that all the things she’d heard about London were true, only more so. The architecture was more spectacular. The air more filthy. The streets busier, and the elite more elegant.

  Though Katarina was an English lady through and through, she’d learned her English-ness secondhand by reading books and hearing the recollections of Mummy and her friends during visits to Bridgetown. Barbados was the only home Katarina had ever known, but as Mummy often reminded her, England was in her blood.

  It was time to discover what she was made of.

  Katarina walked the halls of the east wing, careful to avoid any members of the household staff. She was in no mood for another of Mummy’s lectures about propriety and the importance of a chaperone, a sermon Katarina knew by heart.

  Fear of a scolding was not the only reason for her caution, however. Though the Beckhams were invited guests at Camberton, Katarina could not help feeling a bit like a trespasser. She sensed immediately that Lord Oliver Danton was not a friendly sort of man. His welcome had seemed calculated, and his face not particularly trustworthy. Of course, her mother had not tolerated these observations when Katarina later shared them. Mummy was quick to point out that Katarina’s entire future was in Lord Oliver’s hands.

  “Your dear father, God rest his soul, wanted this for you,” her mother had said. “Don’t forget that you are the daughter of a long line of English gentry, and a place in London Society is your birthright, your destiny! Lord Oliver will arrange for us to attend only the top-tier balls of the Season—earls, barons, and viscounts everywhere we look!”

  Katarina hadn’t bothered to remind her mother that she cared nothing for balls and viscounts and neither had Papa. Her father had long promised Katarina that he would never force her into a marriage not of her choosing. Now that he was gone, Mummy seemed to have other designs.

  As a widow, Paulette Beckham had more wealth than she would ever know what to do with. What she lacked—and was intent on obtaining for her only child—was a title. And Katarina knew that once her mother set her sights on something, she would find a way to get it.

  Katarina continued down the hallway, past the endless display of framed portraits and landscapes, certain she would eventually find the grand staircase. Camberton was extravagant, certainly, but a structure could not go on forever!

  She rounded a corner to find herself beneath a towering ceiling and within steps of the ornate, gold-leafed stair railing that would guide her to the main floor. Unfortunately, a chambermaid emerged from the opposite wing, forcing Katarina to backtrack. She molded herself to the wall and waited until she no longer heard the maid’s footfalls, then took her chances.

  Katarina whipped around the corner and raced down the white marble monstrosity of a staircase, right out in the open for anyone to see. She made it to the great hall and hurried toward the back of the house, looking for a way into the walled gardens she’d seen from her bedchamber windows.

  How intriguing they’d been! With their precise design and—

  “Whoa!”

  Katarina skidded to a stop and braced her arms, but slid directly into the stranger’s embrace.

  Chapter 11

  OH horrors!

  Katarina pul
led away, a flush heating her cheeks.

  “Please forgive me, sir. I—” The man standing before her raised one eyebrow in curiosity while his mouth curled in amusement. He was terribly handsome, a slim and tall gentleman, just a little older than she, with dark hair and deeply intelligent blue eyes. He was . . .

  Oh dear! He was the young Duke of Camberton!

  She dropped into a deep curtsey. “Your Grace, pardon me. I am deeply sorry for my carelessness. It is inexcusable.” This was a disaster. If Mummy heard about this . . .

  “The error is mine, I fear.”

  Katarina straightened at the kindly voice, daring to look up.

  The duke bowed most elegantly. “I am Neville Danton. You must be—”

  “Katarina Beckham, Your Grace. I am . . .” Caught—that was what she was, and now there was nothing to do but return to her room and await the lecture.

  “Is there some way I may be of assistance, Miss Beckham?” The duke’s voice was friendly, if a bit detached. “My uncle informed me that you and your mother were to be our guests for the Season. Is your mother with you now?” He peered over her shoulder.

  “Of course! Yes, Your Grace, but she is resting at the moment. I was looking for a way to the gardens.” Katarina gestured straight ahead, then doubted her sense of direction and motioned to her right.

  The duke smiled and pointed to her left. “I shall accompany you, Miss Beckham.”

  “I couldn’t possibly ask you to—”

  “It shall be my honor, Miss Beckham.”

  That was how Katarina came to spend a thoroughly enjoyable—and improper—half hour in the company of Lord Neville Danton, fourteenth Duke of Camberton. As it turned out, they shared a common interest in botany, and the duke was quite knowledgeable. He showed her around the gardens and their immaculately groomed boxwoods, lush flower beds, fountains, and tidy gravel walkways. To her great surprise, the duke seemed unconcerned that she was out and about without a chaperone.

  “I suspect the gardens in Barbados are quite beautiful as well,” he said.

  Katarina kept her hands clasped daintily in front of her as they walked, fighting back the desire to caress each leaf between her fingers and pull each bloom to her nose. “Indeed, Your Grace, but even with constant attention they are never this orderly. The tropical flora always manage to dominate the designs of civilization, I’m afraid.”

  He nodded and even smiled a bit, but did not reply. Katarina could imagine that it was a chore for the duke to engage in meaningless chitchat with a bothersome houseguest. His crinkled brow and stiff shoulders revealed he was troubled. Well, of course he was! A duke had many responsibilities, and entertaining a silly girl was no doubt adding to his melancholy.

  Katarina was preparing to excuse herself when a rather large butterfly landed on the duke’s coat sleeve. From its shape and black and royal blue markings, she recognized it as a member of the Machaon species.

  “It seems we’ve company, Your Grace.” Katarina nodded toward the duke’s sleeve.

  He ceased walking, careful not to jar the beautiful creature. “Ah yes. These fellows are frequent guests to our gardens. I believe he is a—”

  “Papilio machaon, a swallowtail, and a she. There are no claspers on her wings.”

  As if that were her cue to go, the visitor flapped her wings and ascended into the breeze.

  Oh drat. She had just interrupted—and corrected—a duke in his own gardens. He must have been horrified by her manners, as he stared at her with his lips parted in disbelief.

  My, he was handsome, even when perplexed.

  And she had ruined his opinion of her already. Mummy was always reminding her that men preferred to know more than women—or at least, to believe they did. Katarina could never seem to keep her sharp mind to herself.

  “A female, you say?”

  Oh dear. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “What was the species, again?”

  Katarina pursed her lips, hesitant to answer. Few people enjoyed her references to binomial nomenclature, as Mummy often pointed out. However, the duke had asked her a direct question.

  “Papilio machaon, Your Grace.”

  He nodded seriously, then looked away. Suspecting she had offended him beyond repair, Katarina curtsied and prepared to take her leave. “I fear I have taken too much of your time. Thank you for showing me the gardens, but I should return to my room.”

  “Wait, Miss Beckham.”

  She glanced up.

  “You have spent time observing butterflies in Barbados?”

  “Oh yes! Frequently.” She straightened. “I have long studied Lepidoptera. My island contains a vast array of plant and animal life.”

  The duke’s eyes flashed. “You don’t say?”

  Their visit continued on for another quarter hour. Katarina learned that butterflies were one of the duke’s interests, and they spent an enjoyable ten minutes debating the purpose of the complex pattern and color palette of a butterfly wing.

  “Many might just say the wing is brown,” the duke explained with charming seriousness, “but upon closer inspection, a whole world of texture and design is revealed. What looks drab at first opens up to an entire landscape of texture, hues, and flashes of brilliance. But I have found few people are patient enough to see past the brown.”

  Since Katarina occasionally mourned her own rather lackluster looks, this made her like the young aristocrat even more.

  He liked to listen as well as talk. The duke peppered Katarina with questions about species common to both the West Indies and England, particularly their migration patterns. Their conversation had been so riveting that Katarina was shocked when she looked up to see the sun dip behind the garden walls. “I must return to my mother, Your Grace. No doubt she will be waking soon.”

  He nodded. “Of course, Miss Beckham. I have greatly enjoyed our conversation. It was a welcome . . .” The duke paused, shaking his head, deciding not to continue with the thought.

  It was plain to see that something weighed heavily on Lord Neville Danton’s mind.

  He straightened and put on a smile. “I hope you and your mother will dine with my uncle and me tonight. Is she well enough, do you think?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. We would be delighted.”

  But oh dear. There was one problem—how could Katarina have obtained such an invitation if she had not left her room?

  She began to say something, then stopped herself. She glanced around the garden, unsure how to worm her way out of this fix.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Beckham?”

  She sighed. “In truth, Your Grace, I’m afraid I left my room without permission and without a chaperone. If I accept your invitation, my mother will learn of my transgression.”

  “Ah.” The duke’s eyes crinkled up in amusement. “Then I shall send an invitation to your mother directly, and our most pleasant afternoon in the garden never even happened.”

  Oh, she liked this man. Katarina gave a rare smile. “Wonderful! Then I shall look forward to making your acquaintance tonight, Your Grace. Rumor has it that you are a very interesting conversationalist.”

  • • •

  THE DINING ROOM in Sunbury Plantation’s great house was extravagant by Barbados standards, but quite plain compared to the one in which she now sat. The scale and opulence of the dining room in Camberton House made Katarina feel insignificant, which was surely the intention. The dining table itself was the largest single piece of furniture she had ever seen, and the idea that the duke and his cold-water fish of an uncle took their daily meals here, alone, waited on by a virtual army of staff, was almost comical.

  She imagined one servant per piece of silverware. The Servant of the Salver. The High Footman of the Fork.

  She wasn’t far wrong. The party of four now dined at one far edge of the table, dwarfed by the vas
t, gilded ceilings. Despite the thick carpets, magnificent tapestries, and velvet draperies, their voices echoed in the emptiness. The tinkling of silver and china glanced off the paneled walls.

  No wonder the young Duke of Camberton was melancholy. Katarina would be, too, if she were expected to sit in this glittering cavern with the sour Lord Oliver as her only company.

  “I feel ever so much better after resting, darling Ollie.” Mummy had been attempting to engage the old man in conversation, with only mild success. “Our rooms are so luxurious! I’m certain Katarina and I will be most comfortable here during the course of our lovely, long visit.”

  Oliver accidentally clanked his spoon against his soup bowl. “Wonderful to hear.”

  Katarina dared to peek across the table at the duke. Neville Danton was already looking her way, one eyebrow askew, clearly entertained by her mother’s audacious conversation style. Katarina stifled a giggle.

  Mummy had been aquiver with joy upon receiving the duke’s dinner invitation, which made Katarina curious.

  “We are their houseguests,” she told her mother. “We require regular nourishment. Where else would we eat?”

  After Mummy finished laughing, she called for their new ladies’ maid, who had promptly been hired by the efficient Regis, to assist them with dressing. Then she patted the sofa and pulled Katarina down alongside. “Oh, little Kat! You’ve so much to learn.” Mummy had kissed her forehead. “Don’t you see? The duke himself invited us, which means he is aware of our presence. He will be an excellent social connection for you, my dear. One can never have too many dukes in one’s circle.”

  As she had met the Duke of Camberton only briefly, Katarina was curious to see how he would carry out their harmless deceit at dinner. As it turned out, he was masterful. Mummy never suspected that any prior meeting had taken place.

  The duke did not speak much, reaffirming Katarina’s suspicion that he was troubled. Then again, perhaps he did not have the opportunity to slip a word in over Mummy’s enthusiastic chatter.