Wedded Bliss

by Celeste Bradley

  “Is there a problem?”

  Bliss did not know how to say it. She would never want to criticize Button’s work, and there was truly nothing to criticize. She merely had an observation. “There is no problem, exactly. It is simply that this gown is . . . well, it is far more mature than the one I originally ordered. It is so . . .” Bliss turned to the side and brushed her hands down the bodice. “It’s quite revealing.”

  Button laughed. “Well, you are a married woman now, dear. That spectacular bosom was always meant to be shown off, not hidden away like before. As a dressmaker I find it quite liberating—think of all the fun we’ll have with future gowns!”

  She bit her bottom lip, still not convinced.

  Button brought his face near to hers. “My lovely Bliss, you are no longer a virgin. There is no need to dress like one!”

  She felt herself go still. She stared at Button in the mirror, her eyes wide in surprise and her lips parted. It was true—the world would assume she had already consummated her marriage. The world would no longer see her as an innocent.

  None of which was true.

  She could barely breathe.

  “Bliss? Are you quite certain the robbers didn’t hurt you?”

  It was Cabot. His whisper jolted her from her private worry. His gaze locked with hers in the mirror, and then he glanced at the back of her arm, and back again. Button hurried to stand with him near Bliss’s left elbow and began clucking in concern.

  “Whoever did this to you, Bliss?”

  “What—?” She raised her arm and craned her neck to find what had disturbed them so. That was when she saw it—a bruise in the shape of a man’s hand, just below the dainty cap sleeve of her ball gown. “Oh heavens!”

  On the inside was a black and blue thumbprint. The back featured four distinct fingerprints in a similar dark hue.

  Lord Oliver!

  “You stupid, greedy little tart. Did you think I would allow you to ruin Neville’s life, to siphon off the Danton fortune?”

  Bliss was so disturbed by the memory that she did not know what to say.

  “Oh, now, do not worry so much, Bliss dear.” Button stood behind her and patted both her shoulders. “I brought the most darling little shawl to complement your gown, so perfectly stylish. It will cover it right up! Let me fetch it from downstairs.”

  Bliss nodded, watching Button scurry from the room. When she caught Cabot’s eye again, he gave her a worried look.

  The last thing she needed was interference. “Cabot, please say nothing to my family about this.”

  His handsome jaw worked for a moment. “Was it the captain, Bliss?”

  Her eyes widened. “Heavens no! Why, he would never!” She met Cabot’s concerned gaze in the mirror with deep intent. “Morgan would never harm a woman.”

  He narrowed his eyes and gazed searchingly into hers for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “Very well, then. I shall say nothing to your cousins.”

  She could never tell her friends or family that her injury was the handiwork of a respected member of the aristocracy, Lord Oliver Danton, the uncle of the Duke of Camberton. It would mean war.

  And Neville would end up on the opposite side.

  • • •

  “OH!”

  Button nearly ran into the man stepping through the front door into the foyer. Button knew exactly who he was—Captain Morgan Pryce, Bliss’s husband and owner of this house. The captain, however, had no such knowledge of Button.

  “Who on earth are you?”

  “Oh! I do apologize, Captain Pryce, but we are here to fit Bliss’s ball gown, as she did not appear for her appointment yesterday.”

  Captain Pryce’s face relaxed. “Of course. You are the dressmaker friend?” His eyes flashed toward the stairwell leading to the upper floor. “Is she upstairs?”

  “Yes, Captain. We are almost finished.”

  “No hurry. I’ll be down in the kitchen so as not to disturb you.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Button grabbed the shawl from the various spare accessories spread out on the parlor sofa and was about to return to the bedchamber when the captain stopped him. Button could not help noticing the startling blue of the man’s eyes and the rugged handsomeness of his face.

  My goodness. What a delicious plateful. Every bit of gossip he’d heard about Morgan Pryce had been correct, if not too modest.

  “Mr. Button, might I trouble you for a moment or two?”

  Button let the shawl drape over his forearm and nodded. “Of course.”

  “Is Mrs. Pryce still determined to attend that bloody ridiculous ball? Are you quite certain? Because I can scarcely believe she would want to expose herself to ridicule like that, considering the scandalous nature of our . . . our marital situation.”

  Button coughed politely to cover his surprise. He was the direct sort, wasn’t he? “Captain, all I can tell you is that we have delivered her gown. What she intends to do with it is another matter.”

  The captain shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I do apologize, Mr. Button. Forgive me. It’s just . . . I don’t know how familiar you are with the details . . .”

  “I am not privy to my clients’ personal lives, Captain.” Completely untrue, of course, but it would have to do for the moment. “Forgive me, but I must return to Miss Worthing—er, Mrs. Pryce.”

  “Of course.”

  The captain turned on his boot heel and glanced about the foyer. It looked to Button as if the man were lost, as if he were puzzled by the interior of his own house. Button felt a pang of sympathy for him, but he had to get back to work if Bliss’s dress were to be ready for tomorrow’s ball.

  “One more thing, Mr. Button.”

  He nodded but took a backward step toward the stairway.

  “How long have you known Bliss? How well do you know her?”

  “My acquaintance with the family goes back many years.” That was enough of that, however. Button could not continue this line of questioning. “Captain, I do beg your pardon, but you are her husband. If you wish to know her better, I suggest you speak with her directly. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Button left the clearly perplexed sea captain alone in his foyer. He had been witness to many unusual marital pairings in his line of work, but this one was perhaps the most curious of them all.

  • • •

  KATARINA KNOCKED ON the door to her mother’s bedchamber, hoping she was still awake.

  “Come in.”

  She peeked into the candlelit room and smiled at her mother nervously.

  “Good heavens, daughter! Up so late?” Mummy began frantically waving her inside. “And parading about the halls of Camberton House in your dressing gown—hurry in here and close the door!”

  Katarina did as she was told. Her mother patted the edge of her bed and motioned for her to climb in. Once snuggled next to her, Katarina was unsure how to begin the conversation. Perhaps it would be best to slowly work her way to the crux of the matter. “How did your appointment go today, Mummy?”

  “Oh, Katarina! What a thrill for me, after all those years of settling for our dressmakers back home. That Lementeur is a true artiste! A visionary! But I shall hold my praise until both our gowns are finished and delivered in time for the ball tomorrow, for although everyone claims he is a magician, I have no idea how they can meet such a deadline.”

  Katarina stared at the flames in the fireplace, still debating how to broach the subject. In the past, the only discussions of love included her mother’s reminders to stand up straight, memorize the rules of Society, and keep up with her piano, French, and lace work—and, of course, her knowledge of accounts.

  But love? Never had Katarina been the one to bring up the topic.

  She felt her mother’s warm hand cover hers. It was a protective gesture, one she had e
njoyed all her life. It was true that Mummy could be trying at times, but Katarina never once doubted Paulette Beckham’s devotion to, and deepest love for, her family.

  “Speak, child. There is clearly something troubling you.”

  Katarina turned to her mother. “What do you think of Neville?”

  Mummy tipped her head back and laughed. “Oh, my darling girl, I am honored you would come to me for approval, but the question is—what do you think of Neville?”

  Katarina found herself without words. Though she had not known how her mother would react, she had never envisioned this . . . camaraderie. It was almost as if her mother considered her a woman.

  Mummy smiled warmly. “I trust you, dearest Kat. You have a fine mind. I have taught you well. And you are quite perceptive for a young lady of nineteen.”

  Katarina nodded, her throat tight.

  “That said, perhaps it is time I speak plainly.”

  Katarina tried not to wince, but she feared the worst.

  “As you know, your father and I met at a ball in London, when he was here to negotiate additional business for Sunbury. The plantation was owned by your grandfather Beckham at the time.”

  Katarina scooted back a bit so that she could better observe her mother. Obviously, she was enjoying her reminiscence.

  “But when it was time for him to return to Barbados, I could not bear the idea of never seeing him again. So we married. I know he was quite wealthy and had very good connections, but we married for love, my dearest Katarina. A love so deep that I was willing to move to the edge of the earth for it. I wish that kind of love for you.”

  Katarina’s eyes went wide.

  “I was from a respectable family, though not highborn. You, however, are an heiress, my dear—a beautiful heiress of the gentry—which puts you in a position of power. Please take advantage of it.”

  Another silent nod.

  “But for heaven’s sake, do not separate love from reason. Be sure that the object of your affection is a good man with a station in Society, of excellent reputation. He does not have to be a duke, but if he is I will not complain.”

  Mummy patted her hand again. “So, do you think Neville is a good man?”

  “Oh, I do!”

  “As do I.” She placed a kiss on Katarina’s temple. “All I ask is that you do not rush the process. We are here for the entire Season. Enjoy the attention you are about to receive and choose carefully. Do you promise me that?”

  “Of course, Mummy.”

  “Now, as for Neville’s fondness for the bottle—”

  “But he has a very good reason!” Immediately embarrassed by her outburst, Katarina took care to lower her voice. “His brother stole his fiancée!”

  Mummy waved her hand through the air. “I know all about it, dear. It’s all the servants can talk about, and I have a niggling suspicion Lord Oliver is behind the entire debacle. He is an unpleasant soul, that one.”

  “But, Mummy!” Katarina was shocked. “I tried to tell you as much only yesterday—”

  “Shh. It takes more than one conversation to be sure of a man’s character, my dear.”

  Katarina shrugged. She was not of the same opinion but chose not to argue the point.

  “And that is why I endured several conversations with ‘darling Ollie’ before I knew with certainty—Lord Oliver Danton is a faradiddling weasel!”

  Chapter 26

  NEVILLE was sober at last—shockingly, disturbingly so. As he stood, waiting, in the main hall of Camberton House, he calculated that he had gone without a drop of strong drink for well over twelve hours, a period of time during which he had been as miserable as a man could be.

  Perhaps he had already come to prefer the hazy detachment of alcohol over the sting of reality, for all he could think about was how a shot or two of whiskey would have made this upcoming event more bearable.

  For the moment, he only had to bear the minor wait for Miss Beckham to finish dressing. His uncle and Mrs. Beckham waited with him.

  He found he could not control his thoughts—they kept returning to what this evening should be. If not for Morgan’s interference, Neville would be attending the Fletchers’ ball with his gorgeous bride, Bliss, and not his uncle and houseguests. The happy couple should be making their social debut as the Duke and Duchess of Camberton.

  His Bliss, his lady, his wife . . .

  Mrs. Pryce.

  Neville tugged at his cravat, glancing at the hall clock. It was past nine, and though a duke’s late arrival to a private ball was practically de rigueur, Neville wanted to get the evening over with as quickly as possible. He had no desire to be the object of whispers and pitying smiles tonight. Indeed, he had no desire to be with people at all.

  His mind veered to the contents of the wine cellar, the half-empty whiskey bottle he’d set on the mantel, and the refuge of his corner library chair. All so very tempting . . .

  At least one thing about the evening was cause for gratitude: Bliss and Morgan would not dare make an appearance at the Fletchers’. At least he would not have to come face-to-face with the traitors. He would not have believed it of Bliss, but she had not called upon Camberton House, nor sent him a single message—

  “I do apologize for my daughter’s delay.” Mrs. Beckham tapped her gloved fingertips to her cheeks, a way to induce a blush, Neville supposed. “I believe there was a complication with Katarina’s hairstyle, and, as you might know, a lady’s hair must be perfect if she is to feel beautiful. I do so want my Katarina to feel beautiful tonight. This is her first London ball, you know!”

  “Yes, you have repeatedly informed us.”

  Neville glared at his grumbling uncle, stuffed into his formal ball attire and obviously tiring of the wait. Lord Oliver did not enjoy the company of Paulette Beckham—he had made that abundantly clear. In fact, Neville had never seen his uncle treat a lady with such sharp impatience. He found it disgraceful, really, as he expected more gallantry from his father’s brother.

  But then, Uncle Oliver’s conduct of late had been dreadful all around. He had betrayed Neville’s trust in the most hurtful fashion, had he not? Neville felt no fondness for the old man at that moment, and knew it might take quite some time before trust was restored and forgiveness could take hold. If it ever did.

  Neville turned his attention to Mrs. Beckham. She might seem to be nothing more than a flittering matron in a satin ball gown, but thanks to Katarina, Neville knew better. While Uncle Oliver considered Mrs. Beckham’s comments no more than insipid prattle, Neville realized they were part of her long-term strategy to distract—even fool—Lord Oliver. Certainly, Mrs. Beckham had already convinced him that she was a vapid Society mother, devoid of business aptitude. It was an assumption the old man would surely come to regret.

  Served him right.

  Neville smiled at Mrs. Beckham, deciding he would quite enjoy a game of chess with the Lady Pirhana. He was about to suggest a match when he heard the rustling of fabric from the floor above. All eyes moved to the top of the grand staircase.

  At first, Neville’s mind could not make sense of what he saw. Who was this woman? Were they not waiting for Katarina? And then it dawned on him . . . the woman was Katarina.

  He heard himself gasp.

  “Here she is! Isn’t she absolutely stunning?” He was aware that Mrs. Beckham was practically jumping up and down in delight. “Just look at her hair!”

  Neville was already looking . . . at her hair, certainly, as it had been pulled back close to her head and adorned with a spray of magnificent feathers. But he was also looking at her, at Katarina. Neville had not noticed her height before. He had observed her slenderness, of course, but somehow he had missed the fact that she was elegantly tall.

  And why had he not noticed the graceful length of her neck before? Or the dramatic line of her cheekbones? Or the gentle rhythm of he
r shoulders as she walked?

  Katarina made her way down the stairs. That dress. It had to be the dress that had so altered the appearance of their bookish houseguest. The color was nothing he had ever seen before, a saturated shade of purple, snugly fitted to her bosom, the bodice alive with tiny iridescent jewels. A great deal of her faultless skin had been exposed from throat to bosom.

  Was she stunning? Absolutely. Indeed, Neville had to admit that at some point in the last two days, little Katarina Beckham, princess of a sugar kingdom, had become a queen.

  Moments later, on their way to Fletcher House, Neville found himself overly aware of his proximity to his houseguest. She sat across from him, her gown catching every hint of light, her face composed.

  Why was he finding it difficult not to stare? He had seen his share of beautiful women in beautiful ball gowns. Was it guilt he was feeling? Was he wrong to notice the allure of one woman when he was supposed to love another? Katarina caught his eye and smiled at him. It appeared she was thoroughly unaffected by his nearness.

  Neville envied her composure. It reminded him of Bliss.

  He stared out the window to the London streets, wondering where she might be this evening. Was she with Morgan, sharing his table, his home . . . his bed? Or had she returned to Worthington House?

  How could she have done this to him?

  Such was Neville’s distracted state when they arrived at Fletcher House and ascended the grand staircase to the ballroom.

  Despite his love of fine architecture, Neville barely noticed the fanciful details for which the home was famous. He detected only a monotonous blur of mirrors, gilded ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Oh, how he wished this evening was done.

  Chapter 27

  THE members of Duke of Camberton’s party were introduced immediately upon entering the ballroom. Neville heard his name and title announced and that of the lady he escorted, Mrs. Paulette Beckham, of Barbados. Right behind them came Uncle Oliver and Katarina.