Wedding of the Year

by VICTORIA MALVEY

  Suddenly, Lord Wykham started to laugh. “No wonder my mother was so concerned about my attire.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I'm afraid I still don't understand what's happening here.”

  “Our parents have apparently decided to become matchmakers,” he informed her.

  She blinked. “And they matched us up?”

  Shrugging, Lord Wykham straightened away from the doorjamb. “It makes sense to match the two eldest children. It wouldn't surprise me if they've arranged for Catherine and Richard to spend time together as well.”

  “Hmmm,” Elizabeth murmured, uncomfortable with the idea of Catherine being matched with Richard. Pushing aside the thought, she smiled at John. “Would you care for some refreshments, Lord Wykham?”

  “Only if you agree to call me John.”

  Feeling at ease, she nodded. “And I'm Elizabeth.”

  “Done.”

  She gestured down the corridor. “Why don't you follow me and I can fill you in on what happened during our ride this morning?”

  “Why do I get the feeling that this won't be a happy tale?”

  “Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise?” their father said jovially as he rose to greet Richard. “I wasn't expecting to see you this afternoon.”

  Retrieving a note from his pocket, Richard held it out. “You weren't? But I received this . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” he said dismissively. “Whatever the reason, I'm glad you've come by this fine day . . . and just in time to take a tour of my daughter's garden.”

  Why, the old dear was matchmaking! Having a hard time holding in her laughter, Catherine rose from the settee, abandoning the tea she'd been having with her father. “It would be an honor, my lord, to show you my garden.” She gave her father a pointed look. “And to explain exactly why you received an invitation to call upon us.”

  Her father had the good grace to blush. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  She simply smiled at him before leading Richard into the garden. “I must apologize for this, Richard. Apparently, my father is bound and determined to play matchmaker for me and Elizabeth.”

  Richard looked slightly embarrassed. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  “As should John, for he's with Elizabeth at this very moment.”

  Immediately, Richard began to look around the yard. “He is?”

  His reaction spoke volumes. Whether or not Richard wished to admit it, he was in love with Elizabeth. He'd even cut her in order to protect her in some incomprehensible way. Though Papa had gotten the whole matter mixed up, his idea was still a solid one. Lord knew, Elizabeth and Richard seemed to need all the help they could get.

  “I do believe you owe Elizabeth an apology,” she said firmly.

  Richard took a step backward. “That's true, but I think it best if I stay away from her.”

  Crossing her arms, Catherine shook her head. “Are you trying to get out of apologizing?”

  “No,” he denied. “It's not that at all.”

  “Then you shouldn't wait another moment to beg her forgiveness.” Catherine pointed to a small building off to the left of the house. “I believe Elizabeth and John are in her workshop at this very moment.”

  “Her workshop?” Richard turned toward the building. “Where she builds her machines?”

  “Precisely,” she said, pleased at the curiosity she heard in his voice. “Now why don't you head over there and apologize to my sister?”

  “If you insist . . .” He didn't even bother to finish his sentence as he headed off toward the workshop.

  Catherine smiled as she watched him hurry across the lawn. Matchmaking was a tricky business, and best not left in the hands of their father . . . despite his good intentions. He'd almost managed to make a muddle of everything.

  13

  After consulting her notes on da Vinci's experiments into alchemy, Elizabeth carefully measured out the assorted elements. Humming softly, she added them to a large, stone chalice. Everything was progressing perfectly, she decided, as she walked to the other side of her workshop to retrieve a pestle. John sat in the corner, reading a newspaper. He'd tried to leave earlier, but her father had insisted she show John her workshop. It had seemed easier to simply do as he asked rather than argue.

  Like the gentleman he was, John hadn't offered a word of protest at her father's blatant attempts at matchmaking. John had simply claimed the newspaper and settled into the corner, leaving her to her experiments.

  Feeling a bit guilty, she glanced at John. “I doubt if you'll need to stay much longer.”

  “It's quite all right,” John assured her. “I'm actually enjoying a few moments of quiet.”

  She smiled at him before returning to her work. Elizabeth set down the pestle and carefully retrieved her bottle of nitric acid.

  “Hello, Elizabeth.”

  At the sound of Richard's voice, she bobbled the bottle-and almost dropped it. Breathing a sigh of relief, she gently set the explosive substance down before turning toward the door. “Richard,” she said, pleased that her voice didn't waver. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you,” he returned, before looking toward John. “Hallo, John. Fancy meeting you here.”

  John grinned broadly. “Got an invitation, did you?”

  Nodding, Richard patted his pocket.

  “Is Catherine with you then?” he asked, leaning forward to see if she stood behind him.

  “No. She's still in the garden, though, if you'd like to keep her company,” Richard suggested.

  “I think I shall.” Folding the paper, John stood and glanced at Elizabeth. “If that's all right with you, that is.”

  “Perfectly fine with me,” she said, waving John off, even though she selfishly wanted to keep him next to her. With John gone, it was just her and Richard. Immediately, she shifted her attention back onto her experiment. “What do you want, Richard?”

  “To apologize.”

  Her hands stilled at his unexpected reply. “Will you go away if I accept?”

  “Probably not,” he informed her wryly.

  She tried to keep her hands from shaking as she retrieved the pestle. “Pity.”

  “That's my Elizabeth,” he said with a laugh.

  The remark stung. “I'm not your anything.”

  “Pity,” he murmured softly, echoing her.

  She dropped the pestle. Why did he persist in tormenting her? The last time she saw him, he'd given her the direct cut, and now he was making a comment like that. She couldn't take any more of his games. “Why is it a pity, Richard?” she demanded. “You made your . . . distaste for my company quite clear.”

  “I know, and I'm sorry if I hurt you with my actions.”

  Closing her eyes, she resisted the urge to forgive him. “Why are you here?”

  “As I said, I received a note from your father, requesting me to call upon him. As he implied, the matter was of an urgent nature, I responded at once. However, upon my arrival, your father asked me to keep your sister company in her garden.”

  “I know that,” she said in a level tone. “What I meant is, why are you still here in my workshop?”

  “Because I can't leave until I know you forgive me for my shameful behavior last night at the ball.” A hint of redness stained his cheeks. “It was unforgivable of me to cut you like that, but I fervently hope you will accept my most sincere apology.”

  The pain she'd felt at his hands echoed inside her, making her ask him the one question that had plagued her all evening. “Why did you do it?”

  He remained silent for such a long time that Elizabeth thought he wouldn't answer. “Because I'm not the man for you.”

  His reply was so low she almost didn't hear it. She shook her head, completely confused. “I don't understand.”

  Frustration flashed in his gaze as he thrust both hands through his hair. “I can't explain my reasons to you, Elizabeth. Just please understand that I did what I thought best for you.”
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  “Don't expect me to thank you for it,” she said dryly.

  A side of Richard's mouth tilted upward. “I won't.” He nodded toward her worktable. “I don't suppose you'd agree to show me what you're working on, would you?”

  Elizabeth wanted to tell him no, to send him away, but the lure of having someone to share her experiment with was strong. Richard didn't trust her enough to tell her why he'd hurt her, and he'd bruised her heart dreadfully, but that didn't take away from the fact that he shared the same passion for experiments as she did.

  Perhaps this was all that could ever be between them.

  Elizabeth waved him closer. “Why don't you come see what I've been working on?”

  Wearing a curious expression, Richard moved to her side, looking down at her copious notes.

  “Da Vinci dabbled in alchemy for a while, and I found his writings on the subject most intriguing,” she explained as she added ground-up coal and a touch of sulfuric acid to the stone bowl. “I'm trying to recreate his mixture to see if it does indeed turn ordinary metal into gold.”

  “Fascinating,” Richard murmured, reaching to pick up the bottle she'd set down earlier.

  “Careful with that, it's . . .”

  But even as Elizabeth gave the warning, Richard tilted the bottle, sending a drop into the marble bowl. A loud explosion shattered the quiet of the workshop as billowy smoke arose from the container.

  “. . . nitric acid,” Elizabeth finished, snatching the bottle-from his hand and replacing it on the shelf.

  A fine coat of dark powder covered Richard's face. He blinked at her, then his teeth flashed white within the dark cover as he grinned boldly. “Oops.”

  His silly comment sent her into gales of laughter. “Oh, Lord, Richard,” she gasped when she finally had herself under control. “How can you have me spitting mad one moment and rolling with laughter the next?”

  Swiping a finger along her cheek, he lifted it to show her that she must be covered in the same black film. “I guess it's just a gift.”

  A loud explosion ripped through the air.

  “What the devil was that?” exclaimed John, leaping up from the bench in the rear garden of the Shipham house.

  “Undoubtedly something my sister is working on,” Catherine said without concern. She'd lived with Elizabeth long enough to know that strange noises and smells often came from the awful workshop of hers. “Why don't you sit down again, so I might finish telling you my version of my encounter with Lady Serena?”

  “I'd rather if you didn't,” John said ruefully.

  Catherine snapped her head up. “What? Aren't you interested in helping that young man?”

  “Please, Catherine, let's not get into this old argument again.” Sitting down on the bench, he shifted toward her. “You know perfectly well that I am working toward finding that gentleman, so I refuse to even respond to that accusation.”

  As she opened her mouth to reply, John lifted his hands, stilling the words. Snapping her mouth shut, she waited for him to continue.

  “Now as for Lady Serena, I don't know what you expect me to say. You claim that she is the woman we saw . . . yet the lady herself denies it. And when I consider that it was dark, foggy, and we were too far away to see the woman's features clearly, it seems fair to say that you are probably mistaken.”

  “But I'm not,” Catherine insisted. She'd never been more certain of anything in her life. “It's more than the way she looks. Lady Serena tilts her head in the same manner, she uses her hands when she speaks just like the woman did that evening, and her profile is an exact match. I just know she's the woman we saw.”

  John stared down at her for a long moment, before nodding once. “Very well, Catherine. Since you're convinced Lady Serena is the woman, I shall speak with her.” Even as Catherine began to thank him, John cut her off. “But . . . if she denies it again, I shall allow the matter to drop.” He leveled a finger at her. “And you must promise me that you will do the same.”

  If he thought for one moment that she would agree to such a demand, he was sadly mistaken. “I shall do no such thing,” she protested. “How can I be certain that you won't call upon her, ask a few questions, then leave without probing further into Lady Serena's answers?”

  “You will simply have to trust me.”

  His pompous answer annoyed her. “Why am I the only one expected to trust in this matter? You wish to speak with Lady Serena alone and expect me to trust you. Then you want to speak to the runner alone, and once again, you expect me to sit back quietly and allow you to handle the entire matter.” She thrust out her chin. “Why can't you trust me to discuss this issue with Lady Serena or even the runner?”

  “It's not that I don't trust you . . .”

  “Then prove it!”

  Silently, John stared down at her. Finally, he sighed loudly. “If I allow you to come to the meeting I have scheduled tomorrow with Mr. Lewis, will you promise me you won't badger poor Lady Serena anymore?”

  Though she took offense at the word “badger,” she was far too satisfied with the rest of his concession to reprimand him. “I promise.”

  John slanted her a look. “Why do I know I'm going to regret this?”

  “Oh, no. Stodgy old Lord Wykham has returned,” Catherine lamented. “So much for spontaneity and carefree thinking.”

  “Might I point out that I am currently sitting alone with you—in your garden—after having been called to your home—by your father—with his poorly hidden guise of an important matter.” His smile was laden with masculine satisfaction. “Yet here I sit, pleasant and amenable. Hardly the actions of a stodgy old man, Lady Catherine.”

  “I suppose you have a point,” she conceded. Her heart began to race at the glimmer of attraction she saw in his gaze. As she watched, John's smile slid away, leaving taut lines and shadows of desire on his face.

  All she had to do now was lean closer, press against him, and offer him her lips. Then she could again feel the magic she'd discovered in the maze. One touch, and John made her ache for a deeper understanding of passion, for a way to satisfy the burning needs inside her, for him to show her the ways of love.

  But then what?

  The thought halted Catherine's forward motion. After this afternoon, she had hope that he could, that he would, continue to change, to loosen, but was she willing to risk her heart on a possibility? Her fear held her back.

  Unfamiliar with caution, Catherine heeded it nonetheless. Clearing her throat, she straightened, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from reaching for him. “Tell me, John, what do you wish for?”

  He blinked and straightened as well. “What do I wish for?” he repeated with a shake of his head.

  She knew she'd confused him with her sudden change in topic, but Catherine wanted to know more about this man who was beginning to occupy far too many of her thoughts. “Yes. When you're all alone or just before you fall off to sleep, what do wish for?”

  Leaning forward, John propped his elbows on his knees. “Promise you won't laugh?”

  His question touched her deeply. “I promise.”

  “I wish I were climbing the mountains of Scotland with no destination other than wherever my feet chose to go . . . or sometimes I think of journeying to the colonies and learning more about the Indians there.” As he spoke, his voice softened, taking on a dreamlike quality that wove itself straight into her heart. “Or I could go to Crete and tour the ruins there or to Egypt and sail down the great Nile.” Sitting back, John laughed self-consciously. “I suppose all that sounds rather foolish to you.”

  “No,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the word. Swallowing, she tried again to speak. “It sounds wonderful.” She had to clasp her hands even more tightly to keep from reaching out to him. “But all of those dreams are attainable,” she pointed out. “Why don't you fulfill at least one of them?”

  She felt like crying as she saw the dreams drain from his eyes and the proper expression of Lord Wykham remove all
the animation from his face. “Because of all my responsibilities,” he said, his voice once more crisp and clear. “I can't very well hie off to foreign lands and leave my estates to molder, now can I?”

  Not an ounce of the dreamer colored his tone. “Surely you could hire an efficient man-of-business to manage your estates for a short while.”

  “And what of my mother? Who would care for her while I was gone?”

  “She's a mature woman, John,” Catherine pointed out dryly. “I do believe she's capable of caring for herself.”

  “Then you don't know my mother,” he muttered under his breath. “She's a delightful woman, but rather . . . fickle. She was always getting into one mess after another until I took over the household. She's just one of those women who needs someone to care for her.”

  “You do have a brother, remember?”

  “Richard, care for Mother?” John shook his head. “He has too many demands upon his time and couldn't care for Mother and my business affairs as well.”

  Catherine tapped her foot impatiently. “You are bound and determined to place insurmountable issues between you and your dreams, aren't you?”

  “I haven't placed them there!” he protested.

  “Yes, John, you have. You know as well as I do that your mother, your brother, and your precious estates would be perfectly fine without you for a few months.”

  Thrusting up from the chair, John stared down at her. “Have you heard nothing that I've said?”

  Catherine rose as well, meeting him on equal ground. “I've heard everything you said . . . and everything you left unspoken. Do you know what I think the problem is, John?” Without waiting for him to respond, she answered her own question. “I think you've been so burdened with responsibility for so long that you don't know how to be any other way.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “Is it?” she countered. “You wouldn't waltz on a deserted balcony with me because you've taken it upon yourself to protect my reputation; you won't allow me to speak to Lady Serena because you've taken it upon yourself to protect me; and you won't let yourself believe that your life wouldn't be destroyed if you take a short respite from it.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Don't you see any of this, John?”