by Ann Chaney
Moreham didn’t know how he felt about being dismissed. “I’ll remain until the butler arrives.”
Gillian huffed but remained silent as she reentered the room and gave the bell pull a solid two tugs. Within minutes a black-suited servant appeared.
“The duke is very tired. Have the usual footmen provide their assistance. His valet will be waiting. Ask them to be exceedingly quiet, I prefer my aunt not be informed of his condition until morning.”
The butler bowed. He left the room but returned moments later with two brawny footmen. Gillian supervised as the servants carried the duke from the bookroom. The butler hesitated at the door.
“No need for you to stay. I have a key. I’ll show the earl out through the morning room and lock up after him.”
The butler bowed again before disappearing down the corridor. Gillian motioned to Moreham to follow her. She led the way until they stood side by side at the morning room’s French windows.
“Good night, Moreham. I suggest you say a special prayer tonight before going to bed. If that paper is an encoded receipt for my uncle’s Christmas punch, I’ll be the one to meet you on Hampstead Heath, pistol in hand and I won’t miss.” The lady was clearly not happy with him at present. A good time to leave.
He slipped out the garden door and waited until he heard the key turn locking the door before making for the mews. His time in the duke’s townhouse had not been more than one hour but felt like days. All he wanted was to rid himself of the encoded note and seek his bed.
“Moreham, wait.”
Cross.
He turned around and waited for his friend to join him. The toothsome grin on Cross’ face said it all. The scoundrel must have been close enough to the bookroom window to hear what had transpired.
“Don’t say a word. Take this to Fitzroy. Tell him to give its decryption top priority. You can rid yourself of that cat-in-the-cream grin off your face. Arrange for around the clock watches on Whitney Place until we know what this note says. Before you ask, I am off to write a note to my mother announcing my betrothal to Miss Browning.”
“Moreham, my sympathy. Not for being leg shackled to the lady. She is a delight, never a dull moment with her for your wife. You have my deepest sympathy for gaining Her Grace, the duchess as a de facto mother-in-law.”
Moreham wanted to land a fist dead center on Cross’ face—maybe break his nose. He had not needed Cross to point out the irony of the situation. He might have found the evidence he needed to expose Whitney as a traitor, but in doing so he’d tied himself to the man, his wife and most importantly, his niece until the day he died.
Chapter 4
Not quite a day later, Gillian stood at the back of St. George’s holding on to her Uncle Whitney’s arm. How had she come to this end? She honestly had no idea. What had happened to the note she found in her uncle’s book? Again, she had no idea. She had not seen Moreham since his departure the night before. She did know his man of business had called and spent two hours with her uncle or so her maid Maisy reported.
The worst of it all was Aunt Isadora’s reaction. The lady who loved her devotedly had not stopped crying since being told of Gillian’s wedding. Lady Sylvia, Moreham’s mother arrived after nuncheon and spent the afternoon trying to soothe the duchess’ distress. Even now, the church rang with her aunt’s inconsolable sobbing.
Gillian, for a single moment, felt compassion for Moreham. With her aunt’s histrionics coupled with her uncle’s thunderous glower, Moreham must be wishing for a bolt of lightning to strike him down before he could say his vows. Cross stood at his side. He was the only person in the church smiling.
“My dear, shall we join the others?” Uncle Whitney asked. His eyes filled with tears. “It is not too late. Say one word and I’ll turn around and escort you home without one qualm.” He patted her cheek. “This is not the way I wanted you to marry, but I have inquired about Moreham and I am convinced he is a good man. As for the duchess’ disregard for the man, I wouldn’t give it much credence.”
He waited for her to speak. Her throat ached. Tears welled in her eyes. The more empathetic Uncle Whitney was, the worse she felt. All she could manage was a shake of her head.
Uncle Whitney kissed her cheek and stepped forward to walk her down the aisle. Guilt ate at her. What would her uncle say if he knew the truth? She’d importuned his trust and helped Moreham in the most dishonorable manner. Moreham had been right about the horrid guilt she bore for helping him. How she wished she’d for once not been stubborn and done as he suggested. Returned home and left the spying to him and Lady Philly.
Gillian told herself if her uncle was absolved of guilt, the price she paid would be worth it. This was the proverbial bed she’d made for herself. She deserved to be leg shackled to Moreham. Perhaps Uncle Whitney was right, Moreham was a good man. All could have been much worse. She could have married Percy Arnold.
Dressed in a pale pink day gown with lacy rosettes around the hem, Gillian hoped she looked like a lady in love. She couldn’t countenance the thought of anyone learning the truth. Playing his part of bridegroom, Moreham had sent over a prettily wrapped gift. Her wedding gift, a string of flawless pearls that she now wore.
Her uncle escorted her down the aisle to stand beside Moreham. She did not look his way but kept her eyes on the vicar. Moreham took her hand and held it while the familiar words of the marriage ceremony echoed through the church punctuated by Aunt Isadora’s sobbing in the background.
Each time Moreham spoke, the desire to flee overwhelmed her. She squeezed his hand to keep from breaking away and running down the aisle.
The vicar’s pronouncement “until death, do they part” shot through her like an arrow. The vicar declared them married. Moreham tugged her hand and she turned to look up at him. For an instant, she felt nothing but pity for him. To be married had to be as nightmarish for him as much as it was for her, maybe more so. Moreham was the one marrying into a family suspected of treasonous activities.
Before she could say a word, his mother made her way to her side and smothered her in her arms. “Oh, my dear, you have made me the happiest lady in the kingdom. I never dreamed Moreham would marry such a lovely lady. In truth, I’d begun to accept he would never marry,” Lady Sylvia gushed.
Moreham stepped away to speak with Cross while her uncle led her aunt to her side. Lady Sylvia stepped back to allow Aunt Isadora to embrace her.
“My dearest girl, didn’t I tell you something like this would happen? You must come home to us if you are ever unhappy. I care not a fig for what anyone thinks when your happiness is at stake. Send word day or night and we will come to your side without question.”
“Now, Isadora, that is no way to talk at Gillian’s wedding. I have told you I have every faith in Moreham to take care of our girl,” Uncle Whitney chided. He took the lady by the hand and led her away from Gillian so Moreham could take his place at her side once again.
Her new husband leaned closer than she thought necessary and whispered in her ear. “My lady, before we can take our leave, we must sign the registry. Once that chore is completed, we will leave for Whitney Place.”
Why was everyone whispering today?
Moreham urged his wife forward. How strange to think of Gillian as his wife? The ceremony had taken only minutes but seemed to last hours. He’d witnessed other weddings. He had never thought about how pledging his troth would cause each breath to hurt and his heart to race.
He’d answered when required to do so and shut down his mind for the rest of the ritual. He refused to think of this as a true marriage. Though he was loath to do so, he found Gillian’s warm hand on his arm comforting, yet stirring at the same time. The closer they moved to the church doors, the warmer his arm became. Heat moved up his arm and to his horror invaded his chest.
For a moment, he wanted to drop her hand and run out the church doors. His pride won the day and he remained at Gillian’s side.
Moreham said a thankful prayer once
they were in his carriage. Only then did he realize, he’d neglected to kiss his bride. What an idiot he was. What man regardless of the circumstances forgot to kiss his bride? No doubt at that very moment Sturm and Cross were laughing at his oversight.
Gillian shifted next to him. All thought of his friend’s amusement forgotten. There was a more important question. What did his bride think of his failure to seal their union?
“Moreham, are you unwell? You’re pale, the same hue as Aunt Isadora’s bed linens.”
Gillian’s question caught him off guard. He struggled once again to find the correct words to say.
“I– rather we–I mean to say I only just now realized I failed to perform my first duty as a husband.”
Gillian frowned at him, clearly confused. “Failed?”
“I didn’t kiss you…at the church.”
Gillian tossed back her head and laughed. Not the titter of a girl but the full-bodied laugh of a woman.
“I think considering my aunt was sobbing throughout the ceremony you should forgive yourself for. I shudder to think what she would have done had you kissed me.”
From his perspective, that kiss would have been the high point of the wedding even with the duchess’s crying. He promised himself once the blasted wedding breakfast was concluded and he escorted Gillian to their home, he’d pull her into the first room with a door and proceed to kiss her thoroughly. Woe be to the poor soul who interrupted their privacy.
Would his kiss be Gillian’s first? Had Arnold kissed her? What of some other gentleman? His insides burned at the thought of the traitor or some faceless man kissing her. He refused to name what he was feeling. Better to focus on Arnold.
He was committed to finding the mastermind behind the traitors. Percy Arnold’s escape from his custody had only strengthened his resolve. He took complete responsibility for Arnold’s subverting custody. The least he could do was link his name to Gillian. Even he knew this was the most expedient manner to protect her.
He wished he could keep reality at bay, but he had to speak to Gillian now. “Gillian, your actions for the next few days are very important. You must present the happy face of a new bride to everyone. There is much at stake. Far more than you know.”
Gillian Buckley, Countess of Moreham…how strange that sounded to him…stared at him in shock. Her face lost all color. “Moreham, I cannot do this. You must think of another way. My aunt is distraught over our marriage. Uncle is convinced we are a love match. I am a silly woman who wanted to help save the two people who love her as their own. You were right. Please help me save them. Save my uncle’s life.”
“You must trust me.” He took her hands in his and held tight. “You may not be too far off with your belief Whitney is innocent. There is still the possibility Whitney is being used as a pawn. Blackmail could be why he is involved. We will never know unless we proceed. We must continue. Please believe me when I say I will do everything I can to safeguard you and your loved ones. I protect what is mine.”
Gillian finally nodded her agreement as his carriage slowed to a stop in front of Whitney’s town home.
“We have arrived. Time to smile and be the blushing bride I know you can be. I have faith in you. I know you can do this.” Moreham patted her hands hoping the gesture shored up her resolve to see this through.
His wife leaned forward and pressed her lips to his with the inexperience of a virginal miss. He pushed her away, but not before seeing the hurt in her eyes. He wished they were in love. What a silly romantic notion! Not well done of him at all.
Cross leaned against the massive church doors and waited as Moreham’s carriage pulled away from the church. He sensed rather than saw Sturm step out from the shadows.
“A monkey.” Sturm snapped his fingers before holding out his hand.
Cross growled. “How did you know he would actually marry her? He could have fled to the country and left us to continue on with the assignment. That’s what most gentlemen would have done.” He tossed the small purse filled with his one hundred pounds to Sturm.
Sturmbridge laughed. “Not likely. You, my dear friend, are not a student of human behavior. Should have paid more attention to Moreham. He’s been entranced with his countess since she danced with him that night Arnold was arrested at Whitney’s ball. Remember when she rode with him in the park. He didn’t pay us any mind when we rode past that morning. He only had eyes for her.
“When she entered the church on her uncle’s arm, I don’t think Moreham could remember his own name. He is besotted with her. The funny part is Lady Gillian believes she is immune to Moreham. Should be an interesting time watching the newly wedded couple discover they are in love and that, my friend, is what the playwrights call irony.”
Sylvia Buckley, Dowager Countess of Moreham entered her carriage to find her friend Lady Philomena Preston waiting. “Oh Philly,” Sylvia’s voice quivered with emotion. “He is married. Gillian was the perfect choice for him. Did you see how she tried not to look at him? Did you see him sneak a look at her when she said her vows? I think my son was disappointed when the vicar did not give him leave to kiss her. My heart almost burst at that hungry look in his eyes. For a moment, I thought he was going to succumb and kiss her anyway.”
Tears ran down Sylvia’s face. Philly reached out to her friend and hugged her. It wasn’t every day a mother’s dearest wish came true. Moreham now had a countess.
“I think I am more than ready for the wedding breakfast. Sylvia, I am getting too old for all these machinations of people’s lives.”
“We have done nothing untoward.”
“How can you say so? We have plotted against Moreham from the first. Who thought to arrange they meet in my library? Who sent word to Whitney to return home last evening?” Philly demanded.
“Yes, I’m guilty on both counts. Don’t forget, you abetted me by remaining in the shadows that night. You are as complicit as I am.” Sylvia shot back. “Now, let’s be off to Whitney’s pile. We must console Isadora. Why she still harbors such ill feelings toward Moreham over that business last season with the Phillips gel, I have no idea. I have told her time and again, she is wrong.
“Isadora Grimsley has always been a stubborn one. How do you think she managed to steal Whitney from me? She’ll come around. She has to, we won’t allow any other outcome.” Philly replied.
Chapter 5
Whitney Place
Earl and Countess of Moreham’s Wedding Breakfast
Moreham sat at the head of Whitney’s table with Gillian by his side. This had to be a dream. Any moment he would awake and be in his own bed. How could he have entered St. George’s a bachelor and exited a husband? The absurdity of that question led to another observation. How many men left those sacred walls thinking the exact same thought?
Walking down the aisle with Gillian’s hand barely touching his arm, her posture as ramrod straight as his own spoke of the challenge they both faced in the days ahead. For a moment, he regretted ever answering her summons. Why had he not departed the moment she appeared? Why had he stayed?
When had the woman become so important to consume his every thought? He wanted to carry her off to his townhouse and seduce her into submission. To make her his. Gillian Browning was a stranger. He knew nothing of her, but he did know she would not be a compliant little wife.
He was an experienced man who enjoyed women, but he’d always kept a practical perspective where his lovers were concerned. The gnawing need in his insides to have Gillian in his bed, wrapped in his arms, locked in their own world shocked him to his toes.
He had ordered the countess’ suite of rooms to be readied for her. His mother had vacated the rooms soon after his father’s death. She insisted he was the earl and only his wife should reside in the countess’ suite. Moreham decided his wife would never sleep in her own bed.
“Why are you grinning like a barn cat with a cup of cream?” Gillian whispered.
“I’ve decided this marriage business is not so
bad after all. I find I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”
Gillian turned her back to their guests. She stared over his shoulders. Never met his gaze with her own. “I find it humorous that I must be the one to remind you of your duty. We’re still at odds and will be until my uncle’s name is cleared. Should you prove his guilt, we both are aware this marriage will become an albatross bound around your neck.”
Gillian finally lowered her eyes and looked in the eye. “You see, Moreham, I’ve learned well at Aunt Isadora’s knee. A few words and I can wilt any man’s resolve to…well you know better than I what a man is thinking at his wedding breakfast.” She leaned forward, pressed her lips to his cheek and laughed.
His cheerful demeanor fizzled as quickly as the bubbles in his champagne glass. The lady had achieved her goal. Moments like this reminded him of Gillian’s connection to Whitney and Arnold. God’s truth, he may have married a traitor until death did them part.
“Moreham.”
He looked up to find Gillian watching him.
“James,” he said.
“Is that your Christian name?”
“Yes, no one has ever called me by that name. I’ve always been addressed by my title. Even as a child. For you to address me as James will provide my mother with incontrovertible truth that our marriage is a true love match.”
“James. I like it. I have never addressed anyone so informally. I’ll only do so when others are around.”
Moreham liked hearing his name on her lips. Was this what married couples did? Have quiet moments fraught with closeness and understanding, an intimacy unique to them alone.